Just Dare Me.... Stephanie Bond

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      Gabrielle expelled a frustrated sigh. “Tori, I didn’t do it on purpose!”

      “That’s not the way I’m going to tell it,” Tori said with a grin.

      Gabrielle swung her purse strap to her shoulder. “I’m going home.”

      “But it’s Friday,” Tori pouted. “We’re supposed to volunteer usher at the Fox Theater.”

      Them and every senior citizen in midtown—God, this was her social life. “Not tonight. I’ll call you sometime this weekend.”

      Tori clasped her arm. “Are you okay? I mean, it’s not like you haven’t made a fool out of yourself before—” Then she stopped, her eyes wide. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

      Gabrielle blinked back moisture and looked down at her stained, outdated suit, replaying the mortifying incident in the conference room and, worse, her stuttering and sputtering around Dell, who always made her feel inept and unattractive. A few months from turning thirty, and in the face of pressure, she regressed to the gawky teenager who had been the punch line of every joke in high school. Lying on the floor with potting soil up her skirt and all her coworkers laughing, she had seen her career pass before her eyes. She would never be in the league of Dell Kingston or Courtney Rodgers. Once a dweeb, always a dweeb.

      “Have fun at the Fox, Tori.”

      She headed toward the elevator, her shoulders hunched, her hands in her pockets.

      “Gabrielle!” Tori called behind her. “Don’t be like that!”

      She stared straight ahead as she rode down in the elevator, then walked outside into the summer heat shimmering off the sidewalks in downtown Atlanta. But her friend’s words looped in her head as she waited at the Marta stop for the bus that would take her to the station a few blocks from her cramped midtown apartment. Don’t be like that…don’t dream big…don’t be offended when people overlook you…underestimate you…ignore you.

      In the muggy July temperatures, she was miserable in her dirty, wooly suit. When the bus lurched to a halt, she climbed on with other work-weary passengers. Predictably, within a few minutes, the bus was trapped in Friday gridlock traffic.

      The traffic, she thought wryly, was symbolic of her career—at a complete standstill.

      She loved the field of work she’d chosen, and believed that Noble was one of the industry’s best firms, but she’d had higher hopes for her career. Noble had always been a firm she could see herself retiring from…but she had horrible visions of herself thirty years from now, still a junior account exec, still standing behind the plants at staff gatherings.

      As the relatively short drive extended longer and longer, she looked for something to take her mind off the troublesome thoughts about herself. On the seat next to her lay a copy of U.S. Weekly Review. She picked it up and leafed through the bent pages, stopping on an article titled Adrenaline Rush—Change Your Mind, Change Your Life. Intrigued, she started reading the article that asserted most people encountered some sort of plateau in their life, and the only way to get things moving was to harness the mind’s energy and take a risk.

      In your mind’s eye, picture what it is that you want, then ask yourself, if you go for it, what’s the worst thing that could happen? You can recover from anything short of death, and if you fail, you probably won’t be worse off. But if you rally your talents and your inner strength, chances are you won’t fail; in fact, you are likely to succeed beyond your wildest dreams.

      Gabrielle sat up straighter in her seat, her chest suffused with the strange, prickly feeling that the magazine article was written especially for her. Change your mind, change your life, take a risk.

      When was the last time she’d experienced an adrenaline rush? In the evenings, she either worked late or brought work home, which had ceased to be exciting years ago. On weekends she did her volunteer stint at the Fox Theater, which required wearing a red-and-black outfit and showing people to their seats in exchange for sitting in an empty seat or on the stairs to watch the shows for free. She hadn’t dated since…a long time ago. The only special people in her life were Tori, who could be a bit of a downer, and McGee, who wasn’t even a person, but her pet bulldog.

      She sighed, conceding that the only adrenal activity she’d experienced lately was when she passed Dell Kingston in the hallway, or the times he had saved her from some bumbling mess she’d gotten herself into.

      God, how pathetic that the most exciting thing in her life was a reaction to someone else—someone who barely acknowledged her existence. Other women her age, like Courtney, were creating excitement in their lives by proactively stepping out of their comfort zone and trying something new.

      It was time she took control of her life, she decided, lifting her chin.

      Then she bit into her lip—but how?

      She scanned the article again. In your mind’s eye, picture what it is that you want, then ask yourself, if you go for it, what’s the worst thing that could happen?

      What did she want? she asked herself. What would make her happy? To be noticed…to be recognized…to be given the opportunity to showcase her brains and her talents…

      She wanted the CEG account.

      The bus stopped and the doors opened at the midtown station. Gabrielle stuffed the magazine in her bag and disembarked, her mind clicking. “I want the CEG account,” she said aloud, testing the words on her tongue.

      But you heard Dell…he has designs on the CEG account…of course Bruce Noble will give it to him, her subconscious whispered. It was crazy to think that the boss would hand over one of the firm’s most lucrative accounts to her, especially after witnessing her spectacle today.

      On the other hand, with Courtney leaving, she was the person who was most acquainted with CEG and its products—she had worked with the product engineers to understand the specs of each piece of outdoor equipment and helped to create brochures to highlight the premium features that CEG wanted to stress to consumers.

      She climbed the stairs to her fourth-floor one-bedroom apartment. Hadn’t she walked up and down these very stairs for hours to test CEG hiking boots so she could better understand how they functioned?

      She unlocked the door to her apartment, smiling and crouching down to hug McGee and rub his little, flat face. After promising him a walk as soon as she changed, she glanced around her crowded apartment with a frown.

      And hadn’t she dedicated much of her and McGee’s living space to CEG products—tents, backpacks, rappelling equipment and camping gear?

      With McGee at her heels, she raised her hands and grabbed onto a metal T-bar, then lifted her feet to ride a cabled zip line down the hall—another CEG product—to her bedroom. She put her feet down and set her purse and briefcase on the end of the cluttered bed, unused for the past three months because she’d been testing the comfort of a CEG tent pitched in the living room.

      A sigh escaped her as she glanced at the clothes piled on the bed. And hadn’t she given up most of her closet space to CEG workout clothes and running gear?

      She didn’t spend the weekends defying death, like Dell Kingston was purported to have done with his rock climbing and acrobatic rappelling and triathlons. But she’d analyzed the СКАЧАТЬ