Out of Reach Read online

  While I may share a lab, I do not share an office, and right now the quiet atmosphere is very inviting. I hang my coat on the hook behind the door, cross the carpet, and set my notebooks neatly on my desk. After kicking my ugly clogs under the desk, I rest my head in my hands for a moment and close my eyes. Over and over I remind myself, You are near a break-through; you are near a break-through.

  Halfway through my mental pep talk, Melanie bursts through the office door, disrupting the peace. I slit one eye open and peek up at her from my chair. She has a huge grin on her face. In my frustrated and exhausted state, I hadn’t completely forgotten what day it was, but I was having trouble channeling enough energy to put on my fun face for the evening’s festivities. On the second Monday of every month, the gang from work heads over to McClaren’s after clocking out. It’s a sports bar and I love it because it’s loud and there’s always a game of some kind playing for people to focus their attention. The noise helps me to fly under the radar on days I don’t feel like talking.

  “You don’t look ready to go,” Melanie chirps, still smiling. I rise from my desk and head toward my private bathroom.

  “I just need five minutes. Can you grab my shoes? They’re in the bottom left desk drawer. I’ve got a pair of jeans stashed in the bathroom,” I explain. I halfway close the door then slip out of my slacks and wiggle into my jeans. Nudging the door open, Melanie leans in and hands me a pair of black sling backs.

  “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” I say, grabbing the shoes and sliding into them. Instantly I feel better. There is just something about heels: cute in their own right, yes, but they also give you a daring edge. I love how heels turn bleh and frumpy into glamorous and sexy.

  I open my make-up bag just as Melanie begins to monologue, describing her day. “I had two presentations for that new blood pressure med today, and wouldn’t ya know ...”

  I tune her out and quickly begin to refresh my make-up. In my peripheral vision, I can make her out perched on the corner of my desk gesturing wildly with her hands as she talks. It’s unlikely she’s going to stop anytime soon. Melanie is like dynamite: small but packs a big punch. At five-feet four-inches tall, she is slim and athletic. I tease her about being small all the time, but even I wouldn’t cross her when she’s angry. Blonde curls bounce just below her shoulders; they always seem to have that perfectly tousled look. Her aqua eyes gleam under the lights in the office as she rambles on about a coffee order gone awry. They are truly striking with her pale ivory complexion.

  I focus on my own appearance in the mirror. I pull my favorite eye pencil from my bag (Engraved by M.A.C.) and quickly outline my top and bottom lids. Without a proper brush, I’m forced to rely on my fingers to go back over the line, smudging and softening it. Next I recoat my long pale lashes with mascara so you can see they actually exist, and then finish off with a dusting of bronze, shimmery shadow across my upper lids. The result is simple and dynamic. The mascara and the eyeliner make my eyes pop while the neutral shimmer keeps the focus on the hazel color of my eyes and not my shadow. Hazel … what a pretty way of saying my eyes are a muddled mess. Not green, not blue, and certainly not brown. I’ve wished on more than one occasion that my eyes had committed to a color. A vibrant, intense color, instead of a soft, subdued melding of so many.

  I sweep a little blush across my cheekbones, which boast an abundance of freckles, trying to add a little life to my weary face. I love my freckles and would never dream of covering them up. Stepping back, I appraise myself in the mirror. Not too shabby for a five-minute makeover, I think to myself. I adore makeup, but I rarely use much, preferring a classically pretty picture to a wealth of fancy colors.

  Reaching up, I pull out the band holding my hair in its pony tail. A river of red falls down my shoulders, coming to rest just below my bra line. Now, when I say my hair is red I don’t mean it’s bright like a copper penny, or dark like a sultry auburn. I mean it is red, a fierce bonfire encircling me and threatening to consume everything around it. Grabbing my brush, I do a quick run-through, getting the worst of the snarls out of it and silently thanking God again for the blessing of straight hair.

  “Are we waiting for Kade?” I ask as the thought strikes me that I haven’t seen our third wheel all day.

  Chapter 4

  Kade

  It’s about a six-hour drive from Phoenix to San Diego. I’ve managed to shave about an hour off of that time. It still might not be enough, though.

  “Where’s the fire?” Z asks me.

  “It’s Monday. Once I drop you off, I have to make it to work before five.”

  “Taking the job seriously, huh?” Z replies sarcastically.

  “The job, no. Just keeping up appearances. The second Monday of the month Gwen and her pals go to McClaren’s after work.”

  “And if you’re not there she’ll, what, commit suicide?”

  Unperturbed I stare at Zafir. “No, of course not, but everyone believes I’ve been at work. It’s expected that I’ll be there.”

  Tightening my grip on the steering wheel in frustration, I hope the dueling semis ahead of us will end their stalemate quickly.

  “I hate it when they try to pass one another. They’re going the exact same speed.” Smacking a palm against the steering column, I switch lanes swiftly, guessing the semi in the right lane will be the victorious turtle. Over a thousand years of intuition proves true and the white semi ahead of us slowly outdistances his orange opponent. As soon as a car’s length of room develops between the two vehicles, I slip though the gap and we continue the journey home at breakneck speed.

  Pulling to the curb in front of a nondescript apartment building about an hour later, I put the vehicle into park and leave the engine idling. Z and I step out of the SUV. I open the trunk and remove his duffel bag while he retrieves his t-shirt from the backseat. He leaves me literally holding the bag while he shrugs into the now dry shirt, pulling it into place over his massive shoulders.

  “Thanks,” he says, taking the thing from my hand.

  “Think you can bring the bike by work later and take the Yukon off my hands?” I ask him.

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks, Z,” I tell him before jumping back into the cab. I watch through the passenger’s window as he ambles into the building heading for his penthouse apartment. He looks tired, I think to myself as I pull away from the curb and head for Preston-Ward. We’re all tired. I rub a hand over my face. Unfortunately the mounting fatigue cannot be swiped away as easily as sweat.

  Everything will turn around by next year, it has to, I tell myself optimistically.

  Thanks to speeding, it’s only 4:30p.m. when I arrive at work. Smoothly I slide the Yukon into an open parking space, take a deep breath, and disengage my seatbelt. Hurrying into the building I grab a white lab coat off the hook in my office and stow my duffle bag before rushing over to Lab 2A.

  I slip the coat over my street clothes, enter the lab, and pause on the landing. My co-workers are cleaning up for the day and already some of them are headed my direction, attempting to cut out a few minutes early. Quickly I implant a false memory into the background of their minds that I have been here at work all last week.

  You might think pretending I’d been gone on vacation would be easier but those stories require multiple lies that I have to keep track of and affect a much larger population of people. This lie only affects the few I work with and, even if they can’t recall exactly what I did all week, they’d swear under oath I was here. Since normally I’m a superb employee, past precedence will lead my co-workers to assume whatever I did was of significant importance to the current project.

  First rule of thought manipulation: The simplest change that affects the smallest number of individuals as possible is the easiest for the human mind to accept and results in the fewest complications.

  Ducking out of the lab I return to my office, hang my lab coat behind the door, and grab the toiletries bag out of the duffel I took to Phoenix.
Next I head across the hallway and into the men’s room to freshen up. Unbuttoning my shirt with haste I slide the garment from my broad shoulders and lay it on the counter next to the washbasin. I run some water over my face, finger comb my hair, and do a quick shave. When I’m finished I dart across the empty hallway, lock the door to my office, and don a clean shirt from my bag. Glancing at the clock on the wall I see it’s 4:55p.m.—almost out of time. I repack my things and store the duffle neatly underneath my desk where it won’t be noticed. Stuffing wallet and keys into my jean’s pocket, I head down the hallway to collect the girls and escort them to dinner.

  A delightful melody of familiar voices reaches my ears as I round the corner leading to Gwen’s office. Melanie appears to be dominating the conversation, ranting about some sort of disaster. Leaning my bulk against the open door frame, I cross my arms over my chest. Gwen’s regal profile is visible in the bathroom doorway. The arch of her brow and delicate line of her jaw become accentuated as she tilts her head, brushing out her fierce red hair. That radiant smile, the one she reserves only for me, spreads across her face as our eyes meet in the mirror. Holding her gaze I ask, “Do you like what you see?”

  From her perch on Gwen’s desk, Melanie jumps down, rushing to her friend’s defense, the double innuendo behind my words going completely over her head.

  “Give her a minute. You know she probably locked herself in the lab all day, too consumed by work to eat or use the bathroom,” she says, a sarcastic grin turning up the corners of her mouth.

  “Hey! You’re supposed to be on my side,” Gwen reminds her good naturedly.

  Before their mock bickering escalates, I interject. “Amazons may not need to eat, but regular guys do, and this one is famished.”

  Casting an unabashed look my direction, Gwen fires off, “Please, I’m six-foot in these shoes, tops. Besides how else do you expect me to look you in the eye?”

  Completely caught off guard by her assertion, the laughter comes rolling out of my chest. Between breaths, I manage to blurt out, “I don’t!” before another fit of hysterics consumes me. A few seconds of this is all I can take before I force myself to head back down the hallway to regain my composure. The dynamic duo catches up with me at the elevator and we enjoy the short ride to the main lobby together in companionable silence.

  Chapter 5

  Gwen

  “I’ll have a burger, medium-well, and some French fries,” I tell the waitress. “Oh, and we’ll need separate checks please,” I quickly add, barely remembering to ask before she heads off to put our order in. Sipping on my Coke and finally starting to relax, I take everything in. The boisterous noise of the TV commercials, sports announcers, fans cheering on their teams, and music around the room is soothing. Probably because I can blend into the background—no one seems to notice I haven’t really said anything since we got here. I was initiated into the Monday night group my very first week at Preston-Ward, although I have a hunch it had more to do with Mark and Dan thinking I was pretty and available than it did with my sparkling personality. I am very outgoing outside of work, but at work I’m all business.

  The Gang consists of Mark and Dan, both drug reps like Melanie; Kade and Christine, both chemists working in Lab 2A; Jerry and Javier from the finance department; and Joe, Charlie, and me from Lab 4B. Occasionally a few others from various departments will join us, but we are the die-hards. We can be found here at McClaren’s on the second Monday of every month, without fail.

  “Can I refill your Coke, miss?” the waitress asks.

  “Yes, please,” is outta my mouth before I even think about it.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Melanie exclaims. “I just got a pitcher, and it’s your duty to help me finish it,” she says, slamming a glass down in front of me so hard that a third of the beer sloshes out onto the table.

  “You’re wasting it, you silly bitch. Now top me off, please.”

  She does so while I clean up the spill that is slowing spreading across our table. Thankfully the waitress chooses this moment to reappear with my Coke and a towel. After wiping down the table, Melanie and I settle back into our chairs. Catching her eye, I arch my eyebrow and tilt my head in the direction of the bar. At the end of the bar, perched on his usual stool with his back to us watching the Padres game, is Kade. Melanie giggles and, in unison, we raise our glasses, holding them out toward Kade and shout, “To our designated driver!” before taking a long swig.

  Turning a fierce glare on us, he warns, “Behave,” before turning back to the game. We both break down laughing and I wipe away the moisture leaking from my eyes as the giggles fade.

  Our waitress returns with food and I wave Kade over to join us as she expertly doles out everyone’s dinner. “If everything looks okay, I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on refills,” she announces before heading back to the kitchen.

  We dig in and I sit enjoying the companionable silence. Well, I’m silent at least. Mark and Dan are regaling us with stories of their trip to Las Vegas last week for some pharmacy convention. Geez, I think, only three beers in and I can’t even remember the name ... and it had a simple acronym. Inhaling a few more fries to help offset the effects of the alcohol, I try to refocus on the story. Apparently, in the pharmacy world, the fact that drug reps can’t give away free pens and other random crap anymore is a big deal.

  About halfway through our pitcher Melanie gets up and heads off towards the bar.

  “Hey grab me a ...” Dan starts to yell before I effectively kick him under the table.

  “Shush! Dan, leave her be,” I chastise him. Rolling his eyes, he returns to his conversation while trying to flag down the waitress. Shifting my chair slightly for a better view, I watch Melanie. She was wearing her man-eater look when she left the table, so I’m pretty sure I know what she’s about. I watch as she slowly winds her way toward the bar. Scanning the crowd I try to locate her intended target.

  “Care to make a wager?” Kade whispers next to my ear.

  “You’re on,” I say. “Stakes?”

  He leans back in his chair, silent for a moment before answering. “Loser pays for lunch sometime in the foreseeable future.”

  “Deal,” I say. “Do we need to shake on it?”

  Laughing, he barks out, “No, now pick your mark.”

  Quickly I scan the crowd again, just to be sure I haven’t missed anyone. “There, across the bar. The blonde with the great smile, in the blue shirt. Do you see him?” I ask Kade.

  “I see him,” he says. “And you couldn’t be more wrong; you’re making this too easy. Are you sure you don’t want to try again?”

  “No,” I say. “And don’t insult me. I think I know my best friend a little better than you do. Who’s your bet?”

  Kade takes my biting remark in stride. “You see the table just behind your blonde?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “She’s headed for Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome on the left.” Kade grins down at me and I just glare at him, more than a little testy from his earlier comment.

  “We’ll see about that,” I say as confidently as I can. He chuckles and we return to our drinks in companionable silence to watch the drama unfold. Sure enough, after a few minutes of circling the area until she’s sure everyone is aware of her, and then flirting with the bartender who is an old friend, she heads for the table in the back. We can’t make out what’s being said but we can see in just a moment’s time she has become quite chummy with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome. Speechless, my mouth falls open and I turn to gape at Kade.

  Standing up smiling he says, “Better luck next time,” and strides back to the bar to finish the Padres game.

  Grabbing the pitcher, I begin to refill my glass, more than a little shaken about what had just happened. How did I miss the mark by such a wide margin? The whole thing has me baffled I know everything about Melanie; there is no way I should have guessed wrong. We have been inseparable since we were five years old. In elementary school we started a perfume
business together. She manned the distribution and marketing department, while I worked on production and packaging. There have been endless summers of camping trips, bike rides, and lemonade stands. Melanie was the one I cried to in junior high when my first crush at summer camp turned me down after I’d asked him to go on the midnight hike with me. Her mother was the one who gave us the sex talk, for crying out loud, when I was too embarrassed to ask my own mother about it. She’s like my sister. I’ve attended every graduation or awards ceremony she’s ever had. We’ve been on countless double dates. I held her hair when she was puking her guts out the first time she’d gotten really drunk. We still have annual shopping trips, inside jokes, and special days with historical significance known only to us.

  I remember how she cried when I got accepted to the doctoral program at BU, and how she tried to put on a brave face when she was helping me get packed up to leave. It was good she had just gotten the drug sales rep job at Preston-Ward I’d thought; it would keep her busy and her mind off my move to the East Coast. When I’d accepted my job at Preston-Ward, she was the first person I had called to share the news.

  Damn it, I think to myself, how could I have guessed so poorly? And how had Kade managed to figure it out so effortlessly? Apparently my two friends are enigmas and I am just figuring it out now. Note to self: Melanie isn’t as into tall, blonde, surfer-looking guys as I remember, and Kade can read minds. Okay, well maybe Kade can’t read minds. I’ve always known he is the king of observation and has a keen intuition. Today it had just paid off. Plus he has that guy thing working for him; since guys are ruled by their stupid hormones, the laws of natural attraction just make more sense to them.