I looked over at Carson again and he was still staring at me, unmoving, just watching me with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Don't just stand there! We're trapped! Do something!" My breath hitched in my throat and I could feel my heart beating harshly in my chest. I lifted my fingers to my throat and felt my pulse racing wildly. I attempted to take a deep breath, but my throat suddenly felt as if it was swelling shut. I couldn't breathe. Oh God, I couldn't breathe.

I stumbled back against the wall, making eye contact with Carson who now had his brow furrowed as he moved toward me. I gripped the bar on the wall behind me, knowing I was about to die of asphyxiation, here in this elevator, the last eyes I saw those of Carson Stinger, Straight Male Performer. Oh no, no, no, no. Not like this.

"Hey, calm down, Buttercup," he said calmly, gripping both my arms just like he did when we collided in the hotel lobby. "Deep breath, take a deep breath. You're okay. They're going to get us out of here, all right? Just take a deep breath. Keep your eyes on me."

My eyes blinked rapidly as his face swam in front of me, my breath now coming out in raspy exhales as I fought to take in oxygen.

"Shit, Buttercup, come on, you're not going to pass out on me in this elevator. Deep breath."

For several minutes we both stared into each other's eyes, the worry in his deepening as he watched me struggle.

Oh God, Oh God, air, air!

He stepped away from me and started looking around the elevator, eyes wide, panicked now, searching for what, I didn't know. He flew over to the phone and picked it up and listened for a second, and then slammed it back in its small box and kicked the door shut. "Shit!"

I'm dying. Oh God, please, air.

He turned back to me, and my eyes were tearing up in my effort to take in what little oxygen was making it down the tiny passageway that was now the inside of my throat. I was sure I was turning blue.

"Sister Christian, oh the time has come!" Carson suddenly belted out.

Even in the midst of my panic attack, I startled. What the–

"And you know that you're the only one to say, okay."

He took a step back as my eyes followed him, my breath still sticking in my swollen throat as I struggled to draw in air

He pointed at me. "Where you going, what you looking for?"

What the hell is he doing? What the HELL is he doing? Oh! A little air. That's good, that's good, Grace.

"You know those boys don't want to play no more with you. It's true." At the last two words of the stanza, he lowered his chin and gazed into my eyes.

Better, better. More air, better. Okay, okay. I'm okay. Why is he singing while I'm almost dying here? He actually has a really nice voice–deep and slightly throaty. Figures he'd have a really nice voice. Figures he'd have a SEXY voice. Ah, air. Okay, I'm okay.

My breathing slowed marginally and I realized that the instrumental of "Sister Christian" was playing over the sound system. Carson was singing along to the elevator music. And doing it well. To distract me from my panic attack. And it was working.

I took in a large inhale of air, my vision clearing as I now watched him. He was in the middle of the elevator and as what would have been the drum solo came up, he started playing the air drums furiously, closing his eyes and bobbing his head to the beat, biting his lower lip.

"You're motoring! What's your price for flight? In finding Mister Right? You'll be all right, tonight."

I couldn't help it, I let out a very small laugh. When he heard it, his eyes snapped open and he looked up at me, and relief washed over his features before he grinned. It was the same grin that had almost knocked me on my ass when he gave it to the old lady. It was real. And something inside of me knew that that was rare.

His smile turned serious and he walked toward me singing slowly, "Babe you know you're growing up so fast. And mama's worrying that you won't last to say, let's play."

As he finished the last few words, he held his fist up to his lips, pretending it was a microphone and then he thrust it in front of my mouth.

I blinked at him for a minute, but now adrenaline was racing through my body at the sweet relief of air flowing freely into my lungs, and so I did something I'd never, under ordinary circumstances do–I grabbed his fist and sang into it, "Sister Christian, there's so much in life. Don't you give it up before your time is due, it's true." Then he leaned in and we were both singing together, "It's true, yeah!" He jumped back and played more air drums before jumping forward again and singing into his fist with me. "Motoring! What's your price for flight? You've got him in your sight. And driving through the night."

Our faces were mere inches apart now and I could smell his minty breath as he sang with me, "Motoring! What's your price for flight? In finding Mister Right? You'll be all right tonight."

He stepped away from me again and this time, mimicked the electric guitar solo, moving his h*ps forward with every pretend riff, swiveling them to the chords as I watched, laughing out loud now at his ridiculous antics.

He grinned back at me as he continued singing the chorus, a couple times over. Then as the song slowed, he started walking slowly to me again singing, "Sister Christian, oh the time has come. And you know that you're the only one to say, okay. But you're motoring. You're motoring, yeah." He trailed off as we both stood staring at each other, his breathing harsher than mine now from all the furious air playing. I was breathing steady and even as his chest quickly rose and fell. The bizarre nature of the situation hit me and I burst out laughing, and then so did he. As our laughter faded, he tilted his head to the side and said, "If you wanted to hear me sing, Buttercup, you could have just asked."

I smiled and nodded and then looked at him seriously. "Thank you for that. Who knew Night Ranger could cure a panic attack? But it worked. Thank you." I took a big, deep breath.

He nodded at me, smiling too.

Then both of our heads swiveled to the phone as it started ringing.

**********

Carson grabbed the phone. "Hello!"

I stared at him, eyes wide, as he spoke into the receiver.

After listening for a minute, he groaned. "That long? Isn't there anything that can be done to get that part here more quickly?" He listened for another minute. "Yeah, okay. Keep us updated, all right?" Then he hung up.

"What'd they say?" I demanded.

"Well, the good news is that they know we're in here, they know the problem, and the part to fix it is on its way. The bad news is that it's two hours away."

"Two hours?" I screeched. I took a deep breath. "Two hours?" I said, more calmly. "We have to sit in here together for two hours?"

"Afraid so," he said, walking to the wall and sliding down it to sit on the floor with his feet drawn up and his forearms resting on his knees.

I stared at him for a minute and then walked to my side of the elevator. I sat down on the floor as well, bending my knees to the side, glancing over at him and pulling my sundress down over my legs, all the way to my ankles. I looked back up at Carson and his eyes lifted from my legs to my eyes. I saw the small frown on his face right before his expression went blank and he raised his eyebrows, smiling suggestively. "A lot of things to do in two hours, Buttercup. Any ideas?"

And he was back. Carson Stinger, Straight Male Performer. I cocked my head to the side, looking at him through narrowed eyes. "Why do you do that?" I asked.

He pulled his teeth over his lower lip, looking bored. "Do what exactly?"

"Pull that 'sex in your face'… mask on?"

He stared at me thoughtfully for a minute. "Mask? A mask would imply that I'm hiding something beneath it. What would that be exactly?"

I looked to the side and shrugged. "The guy who just made a crazy fool of himself singing 'Sister Christian' to me to help me cope with a bad situation?"

He chuckled. "I just did what was necessary so that you didn't die on me. If I'm gonna be stuck in an elevator, better that it's not with a corpse. I'm into a lot of crazy shit, but necrophilia isn't one of them."

I made a gagging sound. "God, you're really…" I bit my lip for a minute, thinking. "No, you know what? I'm not buying it. I call your bluff, Carson Stinger. You're a phony." I studied my nails.

He laughed, looking truly amused. "Well, who exactly do you think you are, Buttercup? You know me so well after being with me for what," he looked down at the watch on his wrist, "fifteen minutes?"

I sighed. "You're right. I don't know anything about you. Just that you're a phony, that's all. Call it a gut feeling."

He stared at me for a minute, narrowing his eyes again and tensing his jaw. He slid his long, muscular legs down, and crossed them at the ankles as he continued to stare at me. "What I think, is that you're into me. And you're trying to make me the good, sensitive guy that I'm not, so that when you slide across this elevator and climb onto my lap, you'll be able to justify it in your mind."

I choked on my own laugh and sat up on my knees to glare at him. "You arrogant asshole! The only way I would crawl anywhere for you is if my very life depended on it." I glared at him for a minute and then fell back onto my haunches. I pointed at him. "Wait. You did it to me again. See, that's the mask. You made me angry so that I'd forget my point. Which is… you're a phony."

He laughed. "Still on that, Dr. Phil? Okay, then, what about you, Miss Perfect Princess? What are you hiding behind that hair pulled back so tightly it's about to strangle you and that high and mighty attitude?"

"High and mighty?" I scoffed. "I'm hardly high and mighty. And I'm hardly perfect either."

"Oh, I don't know. I think that's exactly what you are–perfect. Why? Why do you need to be so damn perfect? What has you strung so tight that as soon as you lost control, you couldn't even breathe? What's under your mask?"

I laughed out loud, over-doing it to show him how ridiculous he was. "My mask? Please. Now you're just making stuff up to distract me. What you see is what you get here, Carson. I hardly wear a mask. Now you…"

He looked at me for a minute, eyes both thoughtful and wary. "All right, Buttercup. I've got a proposition for you. How'd you like to play a little game? It's called, 'Sink one for a Secret.' It's not like we've got much else to do. Especially if you planting yourself on my lap is off the table."

I groaned. "It was never on the table. What exactly does this 'Sink one for a Secret' game entail?"

He sat up. "Do you have anything in your purse like a cup, or a bowl or something?"

I laughed and raised one eyebrow. "No. That's not exactly stuff I carry around in my purse." I opened my large bag and looked inside. "Wait–what about the top of my hairspray?" I pulled it off. It was plastic and roughly the size of a Dixie cup. I held it out to Carson.

"That'll work," he said, snatching it out of my hand. He reached his hand in his back pocket and pulled out a dime and held it up to me. Then he placed the hairspray cap in one corner of the elevator and went and stood in the opposite corner. "The rules are, if one person sinks the dime into the cap, the other person has to reveal a secret about themselves. No lying. No making something up. A genuine, true secret–something they've never told anyone else before."

I crossed my arms over my chest, biting my lip. I looked from the cap in one corner, to Carson in the other. "That's an impossible shot. The distance, and the size of the cap. It can't be done."

He raised one brow. "Are you in, or not?"

I exhaled. "Fine. Whatever. Go."

He paused. "Wait. Do you agree to the rules?"

"Yes, yes, a 'basket' for a secret. I'm in." I knew it was impossible, and so why not? I'd play his game.

He held the dime up, lining up his shot, moving to the right slightly, a look of pure concentration on his face as he tossed the dime overhand. It went straight in the cup, didn't even bounce. A solid dunk. What. The. Hell?

I gasped. "You cheated! That's not even possible!"

Carson laughed. "I cheated? How in the hell did I cheat? No way. Don’t try to get out of this. You owe me a secret, Buttercup. Let's hear it." He leaned his shoulder against the elevator wall, crossed his arms and tilted his chin down, looking expectantly at me.

I glared at him. "I mean, it's not as easy as that! I don't have any secrets." I raised both arms up and let them drop.

He kept looking at me, not saying a word, expressionless now. "Tell me why you're so perfect, Buttercup."

I made a disgusted gurgle in the back of my throat and crossed my arms again, looking away from him. I thought about what he was asking me. Did I really come across like that? Perfect? I felt the furthest away from perfect as a person could get. I was always trying not to rock the boat… trying to be enough… trying to make up for…

"My dad has had enough disappointment in his life. I'm just trying not to disappoint him," I blurted out.

Carson tilted his head, his eyes filling with… something. I looked away. "Anyway, that's all. My dad's had a hard time of it. I just want him to be proud of me. Is that so weird?"

"What disappointment has your dad had?" he asked quietly.

I stared at the wall for a minute, suddenly, inexplicably, wanting to say what came next. "When I was eleven, my little brother died of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. He was the only boy. I have two sisters." I looked down at my nails, studying them. "My dad is a cop… a real guy's guy. I guess me and my sisters always felt like maybe… like maybe…"