

# The Position

### Vol. 1

## By Izzy Mason

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Izzy Mason

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

## Chapter One

My car has been parked on the alley side of an Albertson's for nearly three weeks, which is about as long as I've gone without getting run out by the cops. I should move it tonight before I jinx my luck. People don't like to see cars sitting in one place for too long, especially if they're filled with clothes and shoes and blankets and groceries. They assume it's some drifter up to no good. But sometimes it's just me, Michaela Clark; recent graduate from CU Boulder with a degree in architectural design. Yes, I am homeless and live in my car.

It's not even eight o'clock in the morning, and already it's been a shitty day. I got caught trying to sneak into the shower at the YMCA nearby and ended up resorting to a ho bath and a quick hair wash in a gas station bathroom. The clothes I'd laid out for today slipped from the back of the seat to the floor in the night and are now a rumpled mess. Not that it matters, since I just discovered an epic run in the only pair of stockings I own.

With a sigh, I dig around for something else to wear--a pair of baggy black trousers and a white button-up blouse--and wiggle into them quickly before some pervert comes along. I've been told that black and white suggests "professional," though I'm concerned the profession it suggests is caterer at a fancy party, not architect's assistant, which is the job I've applied for. Beggars can't be choosers. _Beggars can't be choosers. Beggars can't be choosers._ My mother's voice chides me inside my head until I angrily push it away.

I pull my damp hair into a ponytail and lean close to the little mirror I've propped up on the dashboard, carefully brushing mascara onto my lashes. It accentuates my green eyes, though they're hard to appreciate from behind the geeky, out-of-date glasses. As I dab on lipstick and blend it in with my finger, I try to picture myself sitting behind the desk of an elite architecture firm like Lazarus & Smith.

I can't do it. All I see is beggar, beggar, beggar.

It's a warm, muggy morning and I can smell rain on the way. As I unchain my bike, I notice the black clouds hanging over the mountains out west and the occasional strike of lightning across the horizon. Oh, great. I roll up the chain side of my pants, throw a leg over my bike, and haul ass toward downtown before I have to add "drowned rat" to my physical description.

My trousers are so baggy I feel them balloon out as I get some speed and I feel like a circus clown. I pedal fast down empty residential streets, through the oily alleys of the industrial section, and along the bike path through the park. I'm about to fly under the pedestrian overpass when I see a guy sprawled out on the grass beneath a tree. I stop the bike and wheel over to him. He's a pretty typical-looking street drunk: black grimy skin, wiry beard, filthy, torn-up clothes.

As a teenager, I spent my fair share of time in homeless shelters dodging do-gooders from Child Protective Services. I've also spent the occasional night on a park bench or in a sheltered doorway. It was guys like this who would come to my aid the most. They'd chase off rats and assholes with bad intentions. One guy even gave me his sleeping bag when he had nothing else in the world. That was Captain. Now he's the closest thing I have to family, and even though he still lives in the shelters and homeless encampments, I visit him as often as possible.

I lay my bike down and squat beside the guy. He reeks of piss and liquor. He's flat-out.

"Anybody home?" I put my hand on his shoulder and shake him. His clothes feel gummy and stiff. "Come on, my friend. You want to choke on your own barf? You know better than that."

He groans and twitches. His eyes flutter open a little but I can tell he doesn't see me. He's too blotto. I'm just going to have to do it on my own. I step over him and slip both hands under his back, then bend my knees for leverage. He goes over with a surprised grunt and then he's out again.

"Sleep it off, dude," I mutter. "You'll be okay."

I look at my cell phone and gasp at the time. Fuck. I grab my bike and get moving, pedaling as fast as I can. By the time I hit the gridlocked traffic of outer downtown, the rain begins to fall. I squint through my speckled glasses and weave in and out of the cars, feeling the surface turn slick under my tires.

I've only been in Denver for three months. It's the biggest city I've ever seen. My hometown is an ugly afterthought in the middle of the New Mexican desert, where the only nightlife is found outside the Circle K and drag racing is the most popular local sport.

But Denver is like the refined lady I fantasized I would become--dashing and cosmopolitan. It is the opposite of my hometown. And the opposite of me. I used to lose myself in daydreams while holed up in my bedroom listening to the overloud TV in the front room where my folks were drinking. I would imagine I was a high-powered professional with beautiful clothes and nice car. I'd carry my lunch box around like a briefcase and play that I was at a work lunch in a fancy restaurant.

In my town kids grow up and marry each other. Babies come early and dreams are as flat and dry as the wasteland around us. I only managed to get out because I had no choice. Leave and live, or stay and die. That's why I don't whine about my less than ideal circumstances. Still, as I pedal through the bustling streets, the skyscrapers loom over me like judgmental strangers who know I don't belong. _Hey you! The one with the clown pants! Get back to the Podunk town you came from! You're way out of your league here!_

The rain falls harder and I can feel the synthetic fabric of my blouse start to stick to my skin. I'm not the kind of girl you can easily break. My entire childhood was a string of insults and beatings. Now my calluses are thick and strong. There's nothing you can say to me that's worse than what my parents told me every day of my life. I put my head down and pedal faster, silently shaking a fist at the buildings _. Fuck you! I'm coming, and nothing can..._

My screed comes to a screeching halt. I don't even see the car door until my bike slams against it and I'm flying through the air. Everything is a blur of brake lights and metal and hard, black asphalt as I land on my back and slide several feet. Cars roll past inches from my head. There's a ringing in my ears and nausea swells in my stomach. I can't breathe. It takes me a minute to understand what just happened.

"Oh my God, are you alright?" At first the voice sounds far away. It's a man's voice; deep and strong. "Miss, can you hear me?"

Slowly, the breath comes back and the ringing subsides. My glasses have flown off and everything around me is a blob. But I can see there's a man kneeling on the wet pavement beside me. His hand is gently gripping my shoulder as I lie there like the drunk in the park.

"Here," he says gently. "I think these are yours."

He pushes the glasses into my hand. The lenses are scratched to shit but not broken. When I slide them on they feel lopsided. They're so wet and dirty I can't see a thing.

"Hang on," the voice says, and the glasses slip off my face again. Though the man is only a gray and black blur beside me, I can tell that he's cleaning the lenses with a handkerchief. Then he slides them carefully back on my face. "Is that better?"

I blink through the clean lenses and see him for the first time. Mother of God. Electricity jolts through me and I catch my breath. His eyes are intense, the color of amber, and they watch me with concern and curiosity. His hair is the color of dark sand, swept up and styled like an Italian model in a GQ magazine. His face is so beautiful, it's almost mythical, like a marble sculpture come to life. Chiseled cheekbones. Smooth, clean-shaven skin. And the sexiest lips I've ever seen in my life. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I'm literally speechless.

"Can you tell me your name?" he asks, frowning down at me with worried eyes. "Can you say your name?"

I try again. This time, the words are there. "Michaela Clark."

He nods, pleased. "Do you know where you are, Michaela?"

"Where I am?"

"What city is this?" he asks firmly.

The water is beading on the dark gray wool of his gorgeous pea coat and the knees of his trousers are getting soaked. But he doesn't seem to care.

"Denver," I say. Just then I notice the clock on a tower beyond his head. I'm already fifteen minutes late for the interview. I push myself up to a seated position and he puts a strong hand on my back to help me. "I'm fine," I say quickly. "And I have to go. I'm late."

He furrows his brow as I gingerly get to my feet. At first I'm dizzy and have to grab his arm to steady myself. I take a few deep breaths and find my balance again. My blouse is drenched and smeared with dirt and grime. The skin on my back feels hot, and I can tell it's all torn up. My pants are filthy and wet. I'm basically the biggest mess that's ever walked into a job interview. I look down at myself and sigh. Well, at least I'll be memorable.

"Are you sure you're okay?" the man says, quickly fishing a business card from his breast pocket. "It was all my fault. Go see a doctor and send me the bill." He walks back several feet and picks up my bike, which is like a fucking tank. Not a scratch. "That's a hell of a bike. But if it turns out to be damaged in some way, please let me pay for the repair. And the clothes, as well."

In spite of the pain and dizziness, I laugh loudly, distractedly brushing at the mud on my clown pants. "You've got to be kidding."

"And the glasses," he asserts, ignoring my sardonic laughter. "They're obviously scratched."

He reaches out and slides the business card into the breast pocket of my blouse.

"That's my card."

The gesture feels weirdly slow and I'm shockingly aware of the stiff cardboard sliding over my breast. In spite of the chill, my body tingles with heat. I stare at him, breathless. The last time I felt a caress on my breast it was a beer-goggled frat boy grabbing me from behind at the student center. The man gives me a friendly, almost paternalistic smile, and I realize he wasn't trying to be seductive. He was just being sincere. A nice guy. The rest was all fantasyland.

I nod stupidly. "Okay. Whatever. It's really not necessary."

"But I insist," he says.

As much as I want to, I don't wait to watch him walk back to his car. There's no time to spare. I jump back on my bike and set off yet again. By the time I find the address of the interview, I'm thirty minutes late. It's a tall, elegant glass tower; the kind you imagine important people in, working on important things.

I want to stop off in a bathroom to at least clean the dirt from my face and hands, but then I might lose the interview entirely. Feeling like a cockroach on a cupcake counter, I ride the elevator with a handful of beautifully dressed people carrying wet umbrellas. They exchange silent looks and stare at me. But I don't care. I've come this far. I might as well go all the way.

## Chapter Two

"I had an accident," I say to the woman, trying to sound confident. "On my bike. Got doored."

The woman touches a hand to her lips dramatically. "Oh no!" It's a kind of breathy exhalation. "Honey, you should be at the doctor's, not here!" She's very tall with a short, blond bob and a long neck. Her body looks like stretched clay, tapering so drastically at the waist that I think I may be able to get both my hands around it and still touch fingers. She's wearing a cream-colored dress with a matching short jacket, and it's so pristine and perfectly tailored, I can't imagine she ever sits down or eats lunch in it.

"I look a mess," I say with a shrug, "but I feel okay."

The woman's eyes are wide and she shakes her head. "It's just that..." she waves her hand in my direction, unable to put the words together.

"This opportunity is important to me." I force myself to take a step toward her to keep myself from retreating. I feel like an idiot. It was a stupid idea to come to an important interview looking like something that got caught in a car tire. I was afraid that if I rescheduled, someone else might get the job before I've had a chance. But now it's clear I've solidly blown my chances.

"Yes," the woman mutters. "I can see that."

The reception area of the office is stunning. One of the walls is made of brick; the others are gleaming white. A series of flat planks hangs in an artistic pattern from the vaulted ceilings and the white tile floor gleams. The reception desk is also white and shaped in undulating curves. Behind it, a shocking square of blood red has been painted on the wall. The place is so over-the-top stylish, I'm amazed they let me in at all. My heart sinks as I sense my rebellious side kicking in--the side that won't give up until the last shred of my dignity has been destroyed. I'm sure a shrink would have a lot to say about that.

"Just let me interview," I say. "I won't even sit on your furniture."

The woman stares at me for a long time with pity in her eyes. I hate her for that. Finally, she sighs deeply and turns on her remarkably pointy heel. "Follow me, then," she concedes, obviously just wanting to get it over with.

She saunters down a hushed hall of brick and white, and turns into an office. I follow her inside. It's not huge, but it's beautifully appointed and it has a window that looks down onto the bustling streets below. She sits primly at her desk and wrinkles her brow. There are two slim, white designer chairs arranged in front of her desk and I can tell she's worried that I'll sit on one. But I don't. Instead I hover just beside them, holding my hands in front of me like a schoolgirl summoned to the principal's office.

The tall woman opens a file on her desk and skims through it. "To be honest, this isn't the kind of place that hires recent graduates," she takes a moment to find my name on the header of my résumé, "Michaela. We like to get you when you're just a little more seasoned. Even in the entry-level positions. Perhaps you would consider an internship somewhere? Just to get a sense of things?"

Even though I try not to, I look down at the ground. "I really don't have the money to do that."

An older woman passes by the office and then stops. She pokes her head in. Her short hair is black with a stripe of gray in the front. She gestures at me with her head, curiosity in her eyes. "Seriously?" she whispers, as if I couldn't hear her at all. "Another one already?"

The woman behind the desk arches her eyebrows in response. I can't tell what's being communicated, but the older woman shakes her head in disbelief and continues down the hall. The tall woman turns her attention back to me.

"Perhaps you could find a position at a temp agency," she suggests condescendingly. "Squeeze in some internship hours on the side."

I meet her gaze and don't look away this time. "Another what?"

"Excuse me?" She tilts her head to the side and turns an ear toward me, as if straining to hear.

"What did that lady mean, 'Another one?' Another what?"

The tall woman sits up straight and clears her throat. This time she's the one who looks away. "Not your concern, Michaela," she says with exaggerated enunciation.

I have nothing to lose, so I don't care anymore. "Assistants? Do you go through a lot of assistants?"

The woman turns back to me, her eyes heavy-lidded with disdain. "Don't you even understand what this position is?"

"Assistant to an architect. That's what it said on Craigslist." I shift my weight, starting to feel a little dizzy again. For a moment I consider sitting down in her fancy chair, but I'm too chicken to go that far.

"My dear, I'm not an architect." The woman sounds amused. "I work in H.R." She pushes the folder with my résumé across the desk, giving it back to me. Thanks but no thanks, honey. "This is an extremely important position. You would be assisting Mr. Lazarus. He's the head of the firm. In fact, Mr. Lazarus is..."

"I know who he is," I blurt out. "I've studied his designs. They're amazing. That's why I want to work here."

I feel the bloom of disappointment starting to spread inside me. What a disaster. I've ruined my chance to work directly with one of the most famous architects in the world. There won't be another like it anywhere in Denver. There's not another American architect as prestigious as Lazarus outside of New York or San Francisco. The adrenaline from the accident begins to subside and the pain in my back is creeping in.

The woman nods curtly and gets to her feet. "Well, I'm afraid a lot of motivated young people do. Each time Mr. Lazarus needs a new assistant I'm bombarded with résumés. I have no reason not to be very selective."

She walks around the side of her desk and heads for the door. "Thank you for making such a heroic effort to get here," she calls over her shoulder. Taking the cue, I follow her out the door and down the hall. "I'm sure that tenacity will take you far." When we reach the reception area she stops so abruptly I nearly run right into her. She turns to look at me. "Can I give you a bit of friendly advice, Michaela?"

"Okay," I say, even though I can tell it won't be friendly at all.

"Take a little more pride in how you look." Her eyes flick up and down my sad, soiled outfit. "Try to make an attempt at fashion. You don't have to wear Prada to make an impression. But the more stylish you are, the most confident you'll feel. And other people will sense that."

That's awesome. As if I didn't feel ugly and pathetic enough. Now I also want to punch her in the face. Instead I nod and look down at my wet, worn-out shoes. It feels like forever that I stand there, my face on fire, waiting for some signal that I can go. Then I think, wait a minute. Why am I waiting? I don't work here and never will. Fuck her.

"Have a nice life, lady," I mutter and head for the elevator.

"Michaela," the woman says quickly.

In spite of myself I turn around. But before she can say another word, the elevator doors open behind me and her face completely changes. Her eyes are fixed on something that makes her stony expression soften. She stands a little straighter, clasps her hands together, and lets them hang before her, as if coming to attention.

"Mr. Lazarus," she says by way of a greeting.

My heart leaps in my chest, and I feel a mix of shame and excitement at the thought of meeting this famous man in these mortifying circumstances. I sigh, resigned to humiliation, and turn around. Immediately, the breath catches in my throat and I feel a spidery tingle all over my skin.

It's the guy who doored me.

## Chapter Three

I stare at the man, dumbstruck. The famous Jude Lazarus is young? I'd always assumed he was at least over forty. But this guy couldn't be past thirty. And yet he's already a legend in modern architecture and environmental design. He blew away both scholars and the press by perfectly restoring a few deteriorating buildings in Europe, while creating a breathtakingly modern interior. He's had projects in Brazil, Dubai, Taipei, Tokyo. Kids in my class wrote papers on his work. It's unbelievable. The famous Jude Lazarus doored me!

The rain has soaked his hair, which is now disheveled and gorgeous. His gray peacoat has darkened with the damp. But his face is so lovely it physically hurts to look at him. He raises his eyebrows and fixes his honey-amber eyes on me.

"We have to stop meeting like this," he scoffs in a low voice. "I hope you're not already seeking damages."

The tall woman steps between us, as if shielding him from my squalidness. "She was here for an interview. Now she's leaving." She hesitates a moment, looking back and forth between us. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lazarus," she says, her face twisted in confusion. "You've met before?"

Lazarus unbuttons his coat and shrugs out of it. I'm expecting to see an expensive suit. Instead he is wearing a casual button-up shirt, untucked, and jeans. Of course, both look super expensive and are perfectly tailored to his muscular chest, narrow waist, and athletic legs. Holy shit. What a body! I catch myself gaping at him like an idiot and force my eyes away.

"We have," he says matter-of-factly. "Though it was not by choice, especially for the young lady." He hangs his coat on a hook by the door and looks at the tall woman. "She was bicycling past when I opened my door. I'm afraid this..." he waves a hand up and down in the air, indicating my wrecked appearance, "is all my fault."

Then he looks straight at me. His expression is inscrutable. "So...you were on your way here? To interview for this position?" He shakes his head, though there's a glint in his eye. "What a depressing coincidence. The least I can do is offer you a coffee or a cup of tea."

I self-consciously brush at the stains on my blouse. I'm a mess, but it's the only chance I'll ever have to be in the presence of this famous man who I admire so much. Also, it's a chance to drink in his gorgeousness a little longer.

"I could use a cup of coffee, I guess."

Lazarus turns to the young man sitting quietly behind the reception desk. I hadn't even noticed him there, but now he leaps to his feet ready to serve. He's extremely well put together, with perfectly styled and lacquered hair, a pristine cream-colored shirt, purple tie, and expensive-looking trousers. When he swishes out from behind the desk and formally nods his head, it's clear to me. Gay. It seems men will only make an effort if they want to appeal to other men. Women usually get stuck with the slouchy sweatpants and ball caps.

"Coffee for the young lady," Lazarus says. He turns to the tall woman. "Eva, bring me her résumé, please."

The tall woman, Eva, goes ashen, as if he's asked her to slaughter her favorite pet cat. "I assure you, Mr. Lazarus, she doesn't yet have..."

"Eva..." An unsettling shadow darkens his expression, like a cloud passing over the sun. "I didn't ask you what she does or does not have. I asked you to bring me her résumé."

Eva's face splotches with red and she clenches her jaw. I can tell how much it kills her to be dressed down in front of me. She straightens primly and nods once.

"Of course."

She pads down the hall and disappears into her office. Lazarus approaches me and holds out an elbow like a gentleman in an old movie. With a shy smile, I take his arm. I feel the solid mass of his bicep beneath my fingers. The faint musk of his cologne sends tingles all through me.

It's weird. I don't usually flip for guys. Like, ever. My best friend, Travis, is a total hottie, but I've always seen him as a brother type. Okay, so that's not entirely true. I guess because I've never had the luxury of nice clothes or a stylish haircut, I've eliminated all hope and resigned myself to being alone. I've been hand-to-mouth since running away from home when I was sixteen. I know guys don't go for me, so I've gotten used to not wasting my energy on them.

But this isn't just an attraction. Since the moment I laid eyes on Lazarus, it's like a crazed entity has possessed my body and completely clouded my brain. As he leads me down the hall, I imagine what it would be like to run my hands over his chest, to feel the ripples of his abs through his shirt. Suddenly, I'm dizzy again and can't seem to catch my breath. So this is what it means to have your breath taken away.

He leads me all the way to the end of the hall and into an enormous corner office that is floor-to-ceiling glass. I stare in awe at the city sprawled out below us, and the blue mountains of the Front Range beyond. His desk is a strange, sensuously curved slab of smooth wood. Stretched before the window-wall in the middle of the room is a large drafting table. At the far end is a door to a smaller office, probably that of his assistant. What's the deal with his assistants, anyway? He seems like such a nice, normal guy. Maybe he's just a demanding pain in the ass.

Lazarus sweeps his free arm in the direction of the seating area, which consists of a Deco-inspired couch surrounded by equally exotic chairs.

"Have a seat."

I wistfully pull my hand from his bicep, knowing that I'll never have the chance to touch it again. I look at the outrageously expensive, custom-designed chairs.

"I can't sit there," I say quietly. "I'm all dirty."

But he just waves it away and casually drops onto the sofa. "Oh, I don't care. They're just chairs, for God's sake."

I grimace a little and lower myself onto the very edge of a fancy chair. The male receptionist appears with my coffee just as Eva enters the room. She hands the folder to Lazarus with a tight smile and leaves the room without a word.

"Cream and sugar?" the receptionist asks.

"Okay."

He smiles, sets the cup down on the coffee table, and prepares it for me. As Lazarus looks over my résumé, my stomach clenches into a fist. In a million years I wouldn't have expected Jude Lazarus to look at my lame little résumé. I hold the warm cup in my hand and take the moment to study him. There's a small mole just under his jawbone and his eyelashes are wickedly long. Then I catch myself and look away. What is the matter with you? You're not a moony-eyed teenager! What are you going to do? Print out a poster of the guy and put it up in your locker? Get a grip! I hate feeling under the sway of anyone. It makes me feel out of control, and out of control is very bad.

"Michaela Clark," he reads from the header. "You sound famous already."

I smile at the sound of him saying my name. He grins at me, sending beautiful laugh lines around his amber eyes. Oh, fuck control. I'm in love.

"You graduated magna cum laude?" he asks without looking up.

"Yes, sir," I say, realizing immediately how stupid I sound.

He smiles again and looks up at me; the glint is back in his eyes. "You make me feel like an old man."

"I'm sorry," I stammer. "I meant Mr. Lazarus."

"How about Jude?"

I smile. "Okay."

"You have a degree in architecture?" he arches his eyebrows, impressed.

"And environmental design."

He laughs and the gorgeous crinkles are around his eyes again. "Usually my assistants are just glorified secretaries. Are you familiar with my work?"

"Are you kidding?" I stammer. "It's why I want to work here!"

Lazarus looks at me for a moment, as if unsure whether I'm telling the truth. He leans back in his chair. "Anything in particular?"

My brain flies at a mile a minute as I flash on all of the incredible buildings and interiors Lazarus has designed. He watches me carefully. "Okay, that place in Marrakesh," I blurt out at last. "With the white marble interior? I love the upward curve of the ceiling that invites people into the public space. It's a culturally astute element that speaks to the local civic values of community and purity and social virtue. Also, it's an aesthetic work of art."

Lazarus stares at me for a long time. He closes the folder and tosses it onto his desk. "Why did Eva say you weren't qualified?"

I clear my throat. "Well, we could start with the obvious." I look down at my damp filthy clothes. "Plus, she says you don't hire new graduates. That I should go get an internship somewhere. Get a little experience."

"Oh, bullshit," he mutters. He studies me as I sit squirming in my chair. My heart is racing and I realize that I'm clenching my fists in anticipation. Jude Lazarus has the power to change my life. _Oh, please. Oh, please. Oh, please._

Finally, he nods to himself, decision made.

"Frankly, Michaela," he says getting to his feet. "I think you were made for this position."

## Chapter Four

I'm in too bad a state to clean up at the gas station or try to pay my way into the YMCA to take a shower. There's no choice but to go to Travis's place. It isn't too far from downtown, but the rain is falling harder than ever and by the time I arrive, I am a shivering, waterlogged wreck. And yet, I feel like I'm floating.

There haven't been a lot of truly good souls in my life. In fact, I seem to be a magnet for degenerates and assholes. But Travis has been a loyal friend since our freshman year at Boulder and I always know I can count on him.

Though he isn't exactly a trust fund baby, Travis's family has money. They paid for every cent of his college and gave him a generous stipend for living expenses. Even now that he's working as an accountant for a Denver nonprofit, he always knows they'll bail him out if he needs it. Though I'm far too proud to take the money he's offered me over the years, I often rely on him to keep me fed. I can only live so long eating baked beans out of a tin can in my car.

I stand on the porch of his cute rental house and ring the bell. He's wired it up to play a Justin Bieber song instead of a chime. Ah, Travis and his ironic sense of humor. _Baby_ gets through a whole verse and a couple of choruses by the time someone opens the door. It's a young woman I've never seen. She's got long blond hair, which is tangled and messy, a delicate, pretty face, and the kind of slender legs Travis goes for. She's wearing nothing but one of his white tee shirts, which she pulls down self-consciously over her thighs, trying to better cover herself.

"Hi?" I say with a _who are you_ question in my voice. Of course, I know who she is. One of Travis's many conquests. Another factory line beauty that he will go through faster than a package of Fig Newtons. I tend to feel even frumpier and uglier just by hanging out in the same room with them. But they're the ones who come and go, and I'm always the one who remains.

"Travis is in the shower," she says, as if we've known each other for years.

She seems nice and I give her a friendly smile. "Michaela," I say, holding out my hand.

"I figured," she says shaking it with a little squeeze at the end for emphasis. "Travis talks about you all the time. I'm Liz. Come on in." She stands to the side and nods at the front room. "I'll even put on some pants for the occasion."

I laugh. "Don't go out of your way for little old me."

This is the closest thing I have to a real home and I'm super comfortable here. Travis has tried to convince me to move in many times, saying he worries that someone is going to break into my car and rape me or worse. But there's something inside me that won't let him help. It's not just Travis. I won't take help from anyone. It's not that I'm too proud, exactly. It's more complicated than that. Years ago, when I left home in a major maelstrom, I swore to myself that I would make it without my parents; that I'd make it without anyone. And now I'm weirdly obsessive about living up to that promise. I feel a thrill tingle through me at the thought that I might be on my way at last.

Liz heads to the bedroom. I walk straight to the mirror over the dining room table and grimace at my reflection. So that's what I looked like at the interview. Except maybe a little less soggy. "Fuck me."

Liz returns to the living room wearing a pair of yoga pants as well. She comes around the table to where I'm standing and considers my reflection. She doesn't seem self-conscious or shy or stuck-up or jealous at all. Some of Travis's hook-ups can be kind of a nightmare. But I already like Liz.

"Looks like you've had a crappy day so far," she says.

Our eyes meet in the mirror. "Looks can be deceiving."

"Sit down and relax. I'll make you a hot cup of coffee." She heads to the kitchen, already knowing her way around.

"How long have you known Travis?" I ask, collapsing onto the thrift shop couch with the too-poofy cushions.

"Since the weekend," she calls out from the kitchen. "I hear he's a player." She comes out carrying a steaming mug with a mattress store logo, and then lingers in the doorway."Cream and sugar?" she asks.

"I'm good." I need the caffeine jolt more than the flavor anyway. "And I'm not going to throw poor Travis under the bus. But I'm not going to correct you, either."

Liz hands me the mug and sits down beside me. "That's okay. I'm not looking for anything serious. And he's ridiculously cute. Have you two ever...?"

I blow gently on the coffee and roll my eyes. "Honey, please. We're solidly in the friend zone. We were born in the friend zone."

"Yeah. That's more or less what Travis said."

I raise my eyebrows, curious. "Oh yeah? What did he say, exactly?"

"That you're a hot fucking mess who needs a shower!"

I turn, startled, to find Travis in the doorway, bare chested, with a towel around his waist. Liz's eyes light up at the sight of him, as if she just can't get enough. His longish black curls look crazy and wet. His chest is smooth and brown from playing hours of pickup soccer on the "skins" team. There's no doubt about it. He's a hell of a specimen. But I'm used to him now. We've been through so much together. Besides, he goes for stunning, leggy blonds with perfect boobs, not frumpy, glasses-wearing ugmos like me.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asks, rubbing at his hair with a hand towel. "You looked like you caught a ride on the underside of a bus."

I sigh and pull the tucked-in shirt from my waist. "I got doored on the way to my interview."

"Are you okay?" Liz asks with complete sincerity. "Did you hurt yourself?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I don't think so."

Travis heads to the kitchen and I can hear the fridge door open. I know he's just standing there, staring inside the way he does a hundred times a day, even though he's not hungry. "Did you reschedule the interview?" he calls.

"No, I went to the interview."

Liz's eyes go wide and she laughs. "Oh, shit!" She holds up a hand to high-five me. "You go, girl!"

But Travis doesn't think it's funny. I hear him close the fridge and he appears in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. "Mickey, this interview was serious. It was the best firm in the entire city. To have that on your résumé would be..."

I look down at my pathetic self again. "Bad idea?" I mumble.

"Uh...yeah!" Travis rubs his face as if he's thinking _I don't know what the fuck to do with a train wreck like you_. "Who's going to hire that?" He gestures at me as if I were an inanimate object.

I pull myself painfully to my feet. My muscles are starting to feel stiff and the skin on my back still feels raw as hell. "Well," I say, sauntering in the direction of the bathroom. "Apparently, Jude Lazarus."

Travis stares at me in disbelief. "What?"

Liz's smile disappears. "Jude Lazarus?"

I give Travis a smug smile. "I got the job is what."

Travis whoops and throws an exuberant fist punch at the air. "Hot damn, Mickey! You got a fucking job!"

He bounds toward me like a sheepdog and sweeps me into the air. His arms are strong and tight, and his bare chest feels hot against my body as he gives me one of his epic bear hugs.

"Listen," Liz says, leaning forward over her knees. She's suddenly very serious. "I'm not sure it's a good idea to work for Jude Lazarus."

Travis and I break the hug and turn to look at her. "Why not?" Travis asks. "He's huge. There's no better architect anywhere around here. He's one of the best in the fucking world, Liz."

"He's a great architect with a lot of personal problems," she says.

"What do you mean?" My stomach is suddenly tight and I feel strangely cold. "And how do you know?"

"Because I'm a legal aide at a law firm that has dealt with him before. Several times actually."

Travis leans against the sink and looks at Liz thoughtfully. "What kind of personal problems?"

Liz shrugs. "I'm not sure about the specifics. I don't have detailed information. All I know is that they involve women who've worked for him. And that he has a terrible reputation."

I think of what Eva, that bitch from HR, said about Lazarus going through a lot of assistants. Are those the women that sue him? He seems like such a nice guy. What could he possibly do that's so terrible? And if he just tried to sleep with them... Hell, why would you sue him for that? I'd think they'd pay for the chance. I know I would.

Travis looks at me and I can tell he's worried. He's always worried about me. But I just wave it all away. Whatever it is, I've been through worse.

"Well," I say, pushing the bathroom door open and feeling a waft of steam drift out. "All I can say is, he's never met the likes of me."

## Chapter Five

It's nearly dark by the time I reach the city's industrial zone. I bike through the puddled streets, past warehouses and junk yards, wishing I had a light. There are few functioning street lamps out here and you never know when you might run over a rat or hit a pothole. The air out here smells of smoke and rot.

Captain is sitting on an overturned bucket beside a camping fire, sipping from a steaming plastic mug. His face is so blackened with grime it's hard to see his true skin tone. The wiry whiskers of his beard are scraggly and specked with dirt.

"Mickey!" he shouts excitedly when he sees me pull up on my bike. I wheel over to where he's sitting, lay my bike on the ground, and pull the pack off my back.

"You look skinny," I observe with concern. "Are you getting enough to eat?"

He waves a hand at me. "Oh, don't start with me, little girl. If I recall, it was me who taught you how to keep your damn self alive."

I grin and sit down next to him, unzipping my backpack. "I got a job, Cap! A real job. Like, a grownup job. It's at an architecture firm."

"Oh, my darlin'!" he exclaims, throwing an arm around my shoulder and pulling me in for a bony, sideways hug. "Look at you! Straight out of college! I told you you'd be somebody, and soon." He shakes his head, beaming at me. "Goddamn, Mickey. You done good. You just done so goddamn good."

I blush and give him a shy smile. "Thanks, Captain." I pull out a bagged-up container of rotisserie chicken I bought at Safeway, along with a fresh baguette. Delicious smells fill the air. "I thought we could celebrate together." I cover the ground with the plastic bag and put the food down. Then I pull out plastic forks and knives. Captain's eyes light up.

"That chicken smells so good I could eat it bones and all!"

As we eat, Captain tells me about the latest troubles on the street. He says there's been a lot of crime, with thugs targeting the homeless, beating them, and stealing their paltry collection of things. He also complains that the police want to clear out the encampments so there will be nowhere left to sleep.

"Winter's coming anyway," he grumbles, his lips greasy with oil. "I'll have to suck it up at the shelters anyway." He gives me an affectionate smile. "The only thing that matters to me is that you've sorted yourself out and are safe. Streets ain't no place for a smart young girl like my Mickey."

"They're no place for you, either, old man," I insist. "Have you considered getting in touch with your son? He might help you."

Captain shrugs, focusing his attention on picking the chicken bone clean. "Ain't no son of mine. Just leave it be." He falls silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then he looks over at me. "I want you to listen to me, Mickey. The world don't owe you nuthin'. It don't owe anybody nuthin'. The world plain out don't care. If you let them break you, ain't nobody steppin' in for nuthin' but to take your place. You be the tough girl I know. You fight for your place. And don't never let the bastards get you down."

"I won't, bub," I smile tenderly. I know about how his own son turned his back when Captain had some mental troubles and went into financial ruin. He knows how much darker the darkness feels when it's close to home. Our pasts and our pains are different, but they're both brutal. And no one understands me better than Captain.

"And so I ask you this one favor," he says, holding a dirt-encrusted finger in the air. "I ain't asked you for nuthin' before so I hope you don't mind."

I fish a napkin from my backpack and reach over to wipe the grease from his beard. "Whatever you want, Captain."

He nods and gives me an earnest look. "All I ask, darlin', is that you go out there and knock their goddamned socks off."

## Chapter Six

I arrive at the office at exactly nine. My stomach is full of butterflies and I feel short of breath from nervousness. I tried to cobble together the most professional outfits I could from what I've been carrying around since high school, but it wasn't easy. This morning I settled on a pair of black cords, a loose, flowered blouse, and my brown Hush Puppies shoes. It would be the world's greatest understatement to say that I'm hardly a glamour queen.

The receptionist is already behind the desk fielding calls and primly sipping a cappuccino. When I walk through the door he looks up at me and frowns. I don't know what to do or where to go, so I just linger in the waiting area until he's off the phone. He speaks into his Madonna headset in a low voice and watches me walk around the room like an idiot, pretending to admire the innovative design and the ultramodern chairs.

"Can I help you?" he says at last, looking right at me.

"Yes," I say, "It's my first..."

But he shakes his head and shoos his hand at me. _Not you, stupid. I'm not talking to you._ It feels like forever before he finally clears his throat to get my attention.

"What do you need?" He raises his eyebrows and looks at me, but I don't want to fall for it again. His lips are tightly pursed as he waits for a response.

"Are you talking to me this time?" I ask.

He rolls his eyes. "Well, of course I'm talking to you. What do you need?"

The voice in my head shouts: _You see! I told you! A homeless loser like you doesn't belong in an uptown, globally renowned place like this!_ Miss Thing here confirms it. But I ignore it. I've heard that stupid voice ever since moving to Boulder for college, where everyone drives a nice car and has a big dog for their big yards. It's the home of rich people and super-rich people.

Unfortunately, wrangling with that inner voice tends to bring out the ornery smart aleck in me.

"Do you realize," I say, stepping up to the sleek reception desk, "that it's impossible to tell when you're on the phone or when you're talking to me?"

He stares at me and says nothing.

"Because I think you do realize it," I hate myself, but I can't stop. "In fact, I think you do it on purpose. Just to make people feel stupid. I also think you know perfectly well who I am and why I'm here."

"Are you finished?" he says with an exasperated sigh.

I shrug.

He pushes himself to his feet as if it were a great effort, and glides around the desk with a practiced, formal flair. "I'll show you to your office," he says as he whisks right past me. When I turn and follow him, the toe of my foot catches on the heel of the other, something I often do when I'm nervous. I stumble but, amazingly, I don't fall. The receptionist half turns his head.

"If you need some assistance getting there, please let me know," he says drily. "We're totally ADA compliant."

Asshole.

He leads me into Lazarus's office, which is empty. We cross the expansive space with its spectacular view and I follow Mr. Snippy into the adjoining small office. The walls are bare and there are no windows. There's only a desk with a computer and a phone. I feel a vague wave of claustrophobia.

"This is yours," he says. "If you want to bring in and display personal items, you have to run it by Mr. Lazarus first. He despises clutter."

"There's no door to the hall?" I ask quietly. "I have to walk through his office whenever I want to go to the bathroom or something?"

"Mr. Lazarus likes to keep track of you," he says without looking at me. "He doesn't like his assistant disappearing."

That's a little draconian, I think. I gaze around my sad little space. It seems strange to have this pathetic little hovel in such a beautiful, modern office. Get over it. It's a job. A job that a lot of people would jump to get. If you want a big office, you'll have to work your ass off for it like everybody else.

The receptionist turns to go without a word. I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to be doing. "When does Mr. Lazarus arrive?" I ask his backside.

He barely turns his head. "Why don't you ask his assistant?" he calls over his shoulder. "She's the one who keeps track of his calendar."

Prick. "Do you have a name?" I call back, feeling all my muscles tightening and the heat rising to my head. "Or should I just call you Jerkoff?"

The young man freezes. For a moment he stands completely still, as if composing himself. But when he turns around his face is beet red and there's fire in his eyes. He storms back to the little office and stands so close to me I can feel his breath on my face.

"You want an interesting factoid, smart ass?" he hisses. "About why you were chosen for this job even though I could do it with my eyes closed and still be better than all of his past assistants combined?"

I feel my guts clench but still I hold his gaze, unblinking.

"Mr. Lazarus is only happy working with female assistants, that's why. But in the past, all of them have been attractive, nubile young things, which Mr. Lazarus has a hard time resisting. And why shouldn't he? He's Jude fucking Lazarus. He's brilliant and worth millions. He can do what he wants. But it was agreed by all, including the firm's board, who are less than thrilled with our mounting lawsuits, that the next assistant would be rather...unlovely, if you get my drift. Even Mr. Lazarus seems relieved that he finds absolutely nothing attractive about you. I heard him say it with my own ears."

I stand swaying by the desk, stunned; blinking at him. I know I'm not Miss America or anything, but to get a job specifically because you're a total ugmo? That's depressing. The receptionist turns and swishes smugly away, triumphant. He's halfway through the spacious office when he calls over his shoulder again.

"The name is Christian, by the way."

## Chapter Seven

It takes me twenty minutes in the bathroom to pull myself back together. I know it was my own fault for being such a bitch to the guy; and right out of the gates. Me and my big mouth. _Of course_ the guy was a jerk to me when I arrived. He was hoping for my job and he probably deserved it, too.

I stand in front of the mirror for a long time, staring at my reflection. At that moment I look uglier than I've ever been. My ninth-grade glasses have never looked more horrendous--oversized and embarrassingly out of fashion. My hair, which hasn't been cut since I was a kid, hangs in a long, straggly black ponytail that almost reaches my waist. My clothes look like something a middle-aged lady would wear to church.

The truth is, I just don't pay attention to those things. It's like this Chinese dude I met at a shelter once said, "To desire is to suffer." He said that's why Buddhists don't get attached to things. It's been my mantra ever since. But it wasn't until now that I truly understood it, because suddenly I desire so much that I can't have. I desire a normal life with a roof over my head. I desire a kind, supportive mom and dad who check in with me and worry all the time. And though I hate myself for admitting it, I desire--oh, how I desire--to be beautiful.

"Don't let the bastards get you down," I say to my reflection. "Don't. Let. Them. Break. You."

When I get back to my empty desk, there's a croissant in a bag sitting on top, and it's still warm. I open the bag and take a long whiff.

"I was hoping you'd like it."

The voice startles me and I quickly put the bag down, embarrassed. I look up to find Jude Lazarus leaning against the doorframe, smiling at me. His hair looks runway ready and he's clean-shaven again. He's dressed in a black tee shirt under a dark sports coat with casual trousers. He's even more gorgeous than I remember.

"Thank you. This is really nice."

"Just wanted you to feel welcome on your first day."

He gives the doorjamb a little pat, then turns and walks back to his desk. I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to follow him or stay where I am. I linger in the doorway and wait. When Lazarus reaches his desk he turns around.

"Michaela?" he says, arching his eyebrows in an _are you coming or not?_ kind of way.

"Sorry," I mutter and rush across the office to where he's standing.

He picks up a thick folder packed with laminated pages and hands it to me. "Here is the assistant's manual. It holds everything you need to know. I have no time to train you and no one else around here has a clue what I need. So please read the manual. Memorize it."

He walks around his desk and sits down. "Turn on the computer in your office and you'll find my calendar. And answer the phone." He gives me a smile that's half friendly, half officious. "That doesn't sound like much to ask, does it?"

It doesn't, actually, and yet I feel overwhelmed. Sweat trickles beneath my loose blouse and I can feel the hot blood flushing my face _. Please don't fuck this up_. I give him my best poker face. "Not at all."

"Good. I don't expect you to know this stuff today, but I will expect it tomorrow. I only have the time for fast learners." He nods and lowers his head to read through a cluster of papers on his desk. I feel like an idiot again, not sure if that's my cue to go or if he's about to tell me something else. But he doesn't look up at me again. Finally, I turn around and head back to my office.

It's a relief to be alone again. I let out a long, quiet exhalation and turn on the computer. Immediately, a calendar pops up chock-full of events and meetings. I stare at it, understanding nothing. _Marquez Blot. Historical Society. Frank Laney. Galla H, blk tie_. How the hell am I supposed to know what this means? Panic surges inside me until I remember the manual.

With shaky hands, I open the folder and begin to flip through the pages. I'm relieved to find it all there; every detail of what is expected, what Lazarus prefers, what he hates, and what behavior he will not abide. He expects a rundown of the events on his calendar for the day, where he's expected to eat lunch and with whom, what the weather will be. He hates school presentations of any kind, whether high school, college, or grad school, and therefore does not consider them. He expects me to be prompt and on top of it. He hates personal phone calls or bringing outside drama into work. And he expects me to be available to him every hour of every day, if for some reason, he needs it.

I stare at the gleaming laminated page in disbelief. He's got to be kidding. Available to him all the time? I wonder if this is what has caused him all the legal trouble. After all, how could a guy like Lazarus piss off so many assistants? It doesn't make sense.

As if to confirm the intensity of this expectation, a chat window pops up on my computer screen. It's from J. Lazarus and it reads: _Your cell number, please._ I look up and watch him at his desk, amused that he'd send a chat message from across the room. He doesn't even glance my way. I dutifully reply, tapping out the digits of the precious cell phone that is my only constant connection with the civilized world--and is always on the verge of bankrupting me.

For the rest of the day I hit the ground running. Most calls are fielded by the receptionist; few make it all the way through to Lazarus's office. Mercifully, the phone doesn't ring until after I've read that section of the manual, so I know to take a message and compile it in a memo, which I will give him at the end of the day. The only calls I'm to put through immediately are those of his brother, someone named Mr. Marimoto, and a woman named Celestina Marquez. I read the last name with an irrational flash of jealousy. But I tell myself to get a grip. It would be against the laws of physics for this guy not to have some hot woman in his life.

By five o'clock I'm exhausted but almost entirely caught up to speed. Whoever put the manual together was so thorough and precise, they must've known Lazarus like the palm of their hand. It must've been hard to lose such a perfect assistant.

I'm just gathering my things when the phone rings. I consider letting it go through the voicemail, but I don't want to be seen as lazy on my first day. The woman's voice on the other end of the line is husky and confident, with an accent that sounds Spanish. She says only one word: "Lazarus."

I'm thrown by her sense of entitlement. "Who's calling?" I ask, looking forward to putting her in her place. _Mr. Lazarus doesn't take direct calls._

"Celestina," she says curtly, as if I should know better than to ask.

"Ah," I mutter. "Right. One moment." I get up and step out of my tiny office to find Lazarus standing at the window staring blankly into space. I hesitate for a moment, afraid to interrupt him. But what can I do? It's in the fucking manual. "Excuse me, Jude," I practically whisper.

He turns to me, his face strangely hard and dark. Then the shadow inside him seems to dissipate and he looks almost surprised to see me. "I'm sorry, Michaela. Did you say something?"

"Celestina is on the line," I say quietly.

Lazarus nods and heads to his desk. He looks very tired, as if something distressing were weighing him down. Still, he gives me a smile. "Good work today. I'll see you tomorrow."

I smile back. As I cross the office, jacket and purse in hand, I watch him kick up his feet on the desk and pick up the phone. His voice is low and seductive, and I can tell right away what the deal is with Celestina. As I slip out the door and head down the hall to the reception area, I can't help but imagine what it must be like to undress Jude Lazarus. Undress him completely. I happen to have a very visual imagination, and I shudder with pleasure at the thought.

"Everything good with the first day?" I turn to find Eva leaning against the reception desk flipping through the pages of a file. Christian is already gone. I expect her to follow up with a barbed comment but she doesn't. Whatever she might think of me personally, the woman obviously knows when she's lost a fight. She gives me a wide, insincere smile. "Figure it all out okay?"

"I did," I say, returning the phony smile. "Thanks to the brilliant manual. It's so detailed. Did you write it?"

Eva's smile disappears and her lips pucker with disgust. "Heavens no. That was someone who worked with us long ago. I'm glad she left one positive thing behind."

I nod as if I understand, but of course I don't. There's something about the way the manual is written that almost goes beyond the office. But I can't place my finger on what it is. I wonder to myself if Lazarus had an affair with her and that's why she knew him so well. I excuse myself and slip out the door. The elevator hasn't even reached the first floor when I hear my phone buzz in my purse. I pull it out. It's from J. Lazarus. I feel a rush of adrenaline at the sight of his name. When I read the message, my stomach does a summersault.

Meet me for dinner. 6pm, Il Vecino, 2345 16th Street.

## Chapter Eight

I've been sitting alone in the booth looking out the window for almost twenty minutes. Outside, people are gathering for after-work dinner or drinks, little gaggles of well-dressed professionals cutting loose. The women are wearing hip-hugging skirts that fall just above the knees and blouses cut to accentuate their waistlines and show off their boobs. That's probably what Celestina Marquez looks like, I think. What Lazarus goes for, I'm certain of it. Why wouldn't he? I smooth the fabric of my flower print blouse, wishing that it showed off a little more of my body, but it just hangs over me like a burlap sack.

The restaurant is exactly the kind I've walked past a hundred times, barely resisting the urge to press my nose against the window. It's all dim lights and dark wood, and it smells of firewood and roasting meat. The wait staff contrasts the formal setting by being vastly tatted up and wearing edgy, big city clothes. Each one of them, male and female, is gorgeous. I flash back to the Denny's restaurant where my father would take us when there was some "big occasion," like somebody's birthday, and the way it always smelled of grease and floor cleaner.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting."

Startled from my thoughts, I nearly knock over my water glass. It's Lazarus. He slips into the booth pulling off his jacket, sending a subtle waft of musky cologne through the air. The smell of him makes me unconsciously squeeze my thighs together.

"It's okay," I say. I take a self-conscious sip of water.

He holds up a finger and summons the waitress, who is wearing a ribbed wife beater and torn jeans. A tattooed rose vine twists and wraps around her right arm. She rushes over with a big smile and moony eyes. He must get that a lot.

"Bourbon," he says. "Neat." He points to me solicitously. "Something to drink? Take the edge off your day?"

That's exactly what I need, I think. Something to calm me the fuck down. "White wine," I say with a gracious smile. I push the loose strands of hair behind my ears, knowing the waitress is wondering what he's doing having dinner with me.

Since I'm not specific, Lazarus chooses some kind of Pinot Grigio, and then orders something called charcuterie. When the waitress leaves he leans back against the banquette with a loud sigh.

"I know it's been a long day for you, Michaela," he says. "And you're probably ready to get home and relax. Watch TV. Not see my mug for a while."

I smile, this time sincerely. "Actually, this is pretty nice. I don't go out to eat very often."

He nods. Our drinks arrive and he takes a healthy gulp of his bourbon that empties half the glass. "Good," he says. "I wanted to start things out right this time."

Even though I feel like glugging my wine like Mountain Dew, I force myself to take delicate sips. I know that if I drink too fast or too much, I'll come straight out and ask the guy why he goes through so many assistants...and why so many of them want to sue him. I'm surprised when he brings it up.

"I haven't been an easy boss," he says, holding his eyes steady on mine. "I've been a pain in the ass and I've lost some good assistants." He throws back the other half of his drink and gestures to the waitress to bring him another. "But I'm turning over a new leaf. Starting with you."

There's a half-smile on his face as he openly studies me. His eyes take in my straggly hair, geeky glasses, baggy clothes. For whatever reason, he seems happy about it. Maybe happy isn't the right word. I guess it's more like relieved. Thanks to prissy little Christian, I know exactly why.

"Lucky me," I exclaim, holding up my glass of wine in a toasting gesture. I take a sip.

His second bourbon arrives along with a platter full of different kinds of meat. I'm famished. I've never seen such fancy food in my life and before I think twice, I've sunk my fork into a slice of sausage and popped it into my mouth. Lazarus sips his second bourbon more slowly and holds it in his mouth to savor. He smiles to see me devour the food, though he doesn't take a bite.

"I'm glad you eat meat," he chortled. "It occurred to me after I ordered that you might be a vegetarian."

"No way," I say, spreading some kind of paté over a tiny sliver of bread. "I eat everything."

"Good." He leans his elbows on the table and gives me a frank look. "Tell me more about yourself."

I blink at him, caught off guard. "Like what?"

"Whatever. Where did you grow up? What were your parents like? Who inspired you? What do you think made you who you are today?"

I pat my lips with a napkin and take a long sip of wine. The cold feels good on my throat and the alcohol floats happily in my brain. "Nothing interesting, really," I lie, wondering how to avoid pretty much the entire story of my childhood. "I grew up in a little tiny town in the New Mexico desert. Gilbert, it's called. I don't know. My parents were just regular parents. In high school I had an awesome teacher who got me interested in architecture. I wanted to get out of Gilbert and got myself into CU Boulder. I love Colorado."

He listens attentively, running his thumb up and down the surface of his bourbon glass. It's a lame story, I know, full of evasion and ambiguity. But he doesn't press any further. Instead he leans forward again, his voice hushed.

"Listen, I'm not going to beat around the bush here. I'd like you to be more than just my assistant..."

I freeze, holding his amber eyes, wondering if I'm about to discover this mysterious dark side. It's like he wants to see into me; to really know me. Like he sees something special there. But why would an Adonis like Jude Lazarus want anything more from a slob like me? What about Celestina?

"What..." I stammer. "What do you mean?"

He puts his hand on mine. It's warm and big, and seems to swallow mine up completely. "I've never done it before. Not really. But Michaela..." he practically whispers. "I'd like to be your mentor."

I stare at him, waiting for my brain to catch up. "Excuse me?"

"I've seen your résumé. I mean, magna cum laude, and what sounds like an excellent thesis on the eccentric work of Gaudí in Barcelona. Even though it doesn't resemble my own work today, Gaudí was a huge influence on me. I'd be honored to be an influence on a person like you. And I think you have a lot of potential to grow into an excellent architect. Just tell me you have the ambition."

Disappointment floods through me but I refuse to let it show. Having a famous architect be my professional mentor is a dream come true. It's beyond anything I could've hoped for when applying for this job. Just because the guy is a total hottie doesn't mean you have to have the hots for him. It's pathetic. Yet even as I chastise my degenerate, lust-addled brain, I revel in the fact that this special position will allow me to spend even more time near him.

I give Lazarus a broad smile. "Ambition?" I practically sing. "Oh, you have no idea."

## Chapter Nine

I park the car at the curb just down the street from Travis's house and check to make sure nothing valuable is visible. Not that I own anything valuable, but some assholes will break your window for practically anything. The neighborhood is nice enough and I probably have a week or so before the dog walkers, joggers, and nosy Parkers start complaining.

I've been working at Lazarus & Smith for nearly a month, and am due to get my very first paycheck. Not having an actual address myself, I've given them Travis's, something I've been doing for years. I find Liz and Travis sitting on the porch drinking gin and tonics. I've never seen Travis stick with one girl for so long, and I'm glad. I think Liz is the best one yet. If fact, we've even become friends. She lives just a few houses down but doesn't like her roommates, so she spends as much time as she can at Travis's place. Just like me.

"Want a drink?" Liz asks. "We're out of lime but Travis found a lemon and it's actually pretty good."

"No thanks," I say. "I don't want to be hung over in the morning. Jude has an early Skype call with some earl in London. I'm supposed to take notes."

"Oh yes," Travis exclaims teasingly. "Good show, what what? Must be sharp for that old sock Jude!"

Liz crinkles her brow and looks at him. "What's that even supposed to be?"

"British...?" Travis gives her a faux-sheepish look. "No good?"

"No good."

They both crack up and clink their glasses together. There's nothing worse than being the only sober person in a group. I climb the steps of the porch and collapse into one of the wicker chairs.

"Did my check arrive?" I ask Travis.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" He playfully cups his hand over his ear. "You say you're taking us out to Pizza King for dinner?"

"Don't be a douche," I mumble, giving him a playful swat. I'm wiped out. I've never worked so much in my life. "So, is that a yes?"

"It's on the coffee table," Travis grumbles. "So, are you staying, Crankypants?"

I make a face at him. "I can't. Thanks, anyway."

"I haven't seen you home this early in ages," Liz says. "The hours for that job are mental!" She looks over at me with genuine, if slightly drunken, concern. "Seriously, Mickey. Is he still treating you right? There's nothing weird happening? You'd tell us if there was, right?"

I roll my eyes. Why is she so stuck on this? "Not only is he the perfect gentleman," I explain, "he's teaching me loads. I feel like the luckiest architecture grad in the world."

The truth was, having Lazarus as a mentor _was_ amazing. Though I spent most of the time in the office doing the mundane clerical jobs of an assistant, he would sometimes take me with him to meetings or have me take notes on Skype calls with clients around the world. One afternoon he even drove me into the mountains past Boulder to show me the futuristic-looking house they used in the movie _Sleeper_.

The good part was that he seemed to genuinely like me. We have a similar irreverent sense of humor and I'm well-read enough to keep up with the many literary references he sprinkles into conversations. He even mentioned at the end of one long conversation about the work of Frank Lloyd Wright that I was one of his favorite people to talk about architecture with. He says I have passion.

The problem is this: Lazarus respects me. He sees me as a talented young woman brimming with potential. But he doesn't see anything beyond that. Meanwhile I have flipped so far over the moon for him, it's making my life hell. He's not only gorgeous--he's kind, brilliant, funny, and insanely generous. He's my dream guy. My soul mate.

To desire is to suffer. And God knows I suffer every day.

I've spent countless hours in my little office just watching him. I've memorized him completely--the upward wave of his hair, the laugh lines, the way he works his jaw when he's tense. And all the while he sits at his desk or hunches over his drafting board, completely indifferent to me.

"Hello!" The voice breaks through the fog of my thoughts. It's Liz clinking her ring against the side of her glass to get my attention. "Earth to Mickey! Come in, Mickey!"

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "Just a little tired. What were you saying?"

"I was asking what you're going to do with your first paycheck."

It strikes me as a strange question. What was I going to do with a paycheck? Cash it and stash it. What else would I do? Spend it? "Nothing special," I say. "You know, feed myself. That kind of thing."

"What are you talking about?" Travis exclaims. "I thought that was my job!"

Liz takes a long drink, then looks over at me. "My friend Amy works for an optician." She raises her eyebrows suggestively. "She could get you a great deal on new glasses or even contact lenses. The eye exam is free."

"What's wrong with Mickey's glasses?" Travis asks, genuinely offended.

I give him an appreciative smile. "Come on, Travis. I can take it."

He frowns and looks into his drink. "I don't know. It's like, without them you wouldn't be Mickey."

"That's a dopey reason!" Liz blurts out. "Let the woman decide for herself."

I self-consciously push the glasses up the bridge of my nose. I'd never even considered spending the money on myself. "I need to save it," I say with a shrug. "I've got bigger fish to fry."

"Stop trying to make over my friend!" Travis hollers. "She's great the way she is!"

Good old Travis. If it hadn't been for him I never would've even finished college. I'd lived in my car on the outskirts of town through my entire senior year in high school. My parents never even tried to find me. With no one looking after me but me, I still managed to get straight A's and a full-ride scholarship to Boulder. But I was a difficult friend to make. I didn't trust anyone and I didn't want to get too attached. Although I never admitted it to anyone, it hurt me every single day that my own parents didn't care enough to look for me. After all of the insults and the horrible beatings, I still wanted them to care enough to drag me back to hell. Or at least to _try_.

At college, everyone thought I was weird and stuck-up. Travis was the only one who saw me for what I was--just a lonely, messed-up girl. He was the very first person in my life who actually looked after me. After graduation, when my housing grant expired, Travis found out I was living in my car again. He begged me to take some money. But I wouldn't do it. I was so stubborn he wanted to smack me himself sometimes.

Travis tips the last of his drink to his mouth and sucks an ice cube. "That's it," he sighs. "I'm dry." He gets to his feet and stretches, a little unsteady. "I'm going to walk down to that shop by the park and get some more tonic water. See you on the flip side, Mickey. Good luck tomorrow."

Liz and I watch Travis toddle off down the sidewalk in a weaving line. "Yeah, that's what he needs," I quip. "More drinks."

Liz laughs and shrugs. She gazes after him, her eyes full of affection. "I like him, Mickey," she says in a low voice. "I like him a lot."

I nod and smile. "He's a good egg, that one."

She looks at me, the smile gone from her face. "He's going to break my heart, isn't he?"

Yes, I think. Without a doubt. But I don't want to make her feel bad. "How should I know?"

Liz shakes her head and takes a drink. For a long time she stares out at the empty street, her eyes glassy with gin. She looks sad, as if she's mourning the end of her relationship before it even happens. "Dammit," she groans. "I didn't want to like him. I didn't want to like anybody. Guys are only fun if you have nothing invested. Once you start to fall for them, everything sucks."

I sit there quietly, not knowing what to say. It's not like I have a lot of experience to contribute to the conversation. All I know is that falling in love with someone who will never, ever love you back seriously sucks. Finally, I look at her and smile. "Then try to keep it light."

She nods and forces a smile. "Yeah. Light is good."

Liz shivers and squints up at the sky. "I'm cold. I'm going home to change. Are you taking off?"

"Yeah." I raise my arms to stretch and realize that I reek from riding my bike home from work in the heat. That'll be nice tomorrow morning. I can be ugly _and_ smell revolting. "Actually, I think I'll take a quick shower."

Liz puts down her glass and heads for the porch stairs. The alcohol seems to have made her plaintive rather than giddy. "Tell Travis I'll be back soon." She turns back with anxious eyes. "And Mickey...don't tell him I said anything, okay?"

Poor Liz. If it were up to me, I'd make Travis stay with her forever. But as they say, the heart wants what it wants, and you can't force someone to love you. I know that better than anyone.

I give her an encouraging smile. "No problem. And don't worry so much. Travis obviously likes you. A lot."

I go inside and take a long, hot shower. I think about Liz trying not to fall in love. The heart is such a traitor. I feel like I never even had a choice with Lazarus. Even after I found out that he hired me just to help keep his dick in his pants, I still went head over heels like an idiot.

I don't want to, but I imagine Lazarus in the shower with me. As I let the soap slide over my body, I imagine it's his warm hand. When I slide it between my legs I sigh and shudder. What would it be like to feel his naked body pressed against my backside? Is his chest smooth or hairy? I'm starting to think that I might spontaneously combust if I touched him like that. Or if he touched me.

Finally, I turn off the water and step out of the tub. Thick steam hangs in the air and the mirror has disappeared completely. I'm standing there naked, toweling off my long hair, when the door opens. There's no lock, but I've never had to worry about Travis barging in. He would never do that. Except that today he does.

"Hey, gorgeous," he calls. "You ready for round two?"

I gasp and hold the towel in front of me. "What the fuck!"

Travis sways slightly from the alcohol. When he realizes it's me, he nearly jumps out of his skin. "Oh, shit! Mickey! What are you...?"

Then his eyes fix on my body. He closes the door and leans against it for support. "Jesus, Mickey," he mumbles.

I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone or the Bizarro world or wherever the hell it is that my best friend has turned into a salivating maniac. "Get the fuck out!" I shout.

But he just stands there, running a hand through his thick black curls. I try to wrap the towel around my body but I'm so flustered it slips from my hands. My boobs seem heavy and full as I bend down to grab it. I pull the towel around me at last and look up at him.

"Why are you still here?" I shout.

"I had no idea," he says quietly, shaking his head as if he's just made the discovery of a lifetime. I can see the hard-on through his sweatpants. "You've been walking around with that body all this time?"

"Oh, my God!" I scream. "Will you stop being a complete lunatic and get the fuck out of here?"

Without another word, he turns the knob and opens the door, but he doesn't stop looking at me. It's like his eyes are stuck and he can't look away. Finally, he forces himself to blink. Then he turns and slips through the door, closing it behind him.

Once I'm dressed, I hurry out of the bathroom and head for the front door. I throw a quick glance at the living room and see my paycheck sitting on the coffee table, still in the envelope. I snatch it up without stopping, push open the screen door, and rush out of the house. Travis is sitting on the porch. He looks at me and I can see that he's ashamed.

"I'm sorry, Mickey," he mutters. He leans forward and rubs his hands on his face. "Shit. I'm so drunk, Mickey. I'm so fucking drunk. You know I didn't mean anything by it. I mean, come on. You're my Mickey, man. You're Mickey."

But I don't wait to hear any more. I hurry down the front steps and hightail it down the street toward my car.

"But you should know," he calls out from behind me. "You're smokin', girl!"

My face and neck go scarlet as I rush down the sidewalk away from Travis. And I don't look back.

## Chapter Ten

It rains hard that night. I lie in the front seat of my old Subaru and watch the drops slap at the windshield and streak frantically down the glass. I'm wrapped in my sleeping bag and I feel safe and cozy. This may be the only place in the world where I feel that I've got things under control. Still, I can feel the darkness all around me and inside of me, too. People suck. All of them. The second you start to think otherwise, they'll smack you on the back of the head.

I replay the moment in the bathroom over and over in my head. I'm angry at Travis. I feel totally let down. But it's not the only thing I feel. I keep thinking of myself standing there, breasts exposed, my flat stomach, curvy hips. All of the parts I've hidden since puberty. Out in the open for a real live boy to see. A gorgeous boy, at that. And he liked it. I shiver in my sleeping bag and pull my head inside where it's warm.

Hiding my body was the first thing I learned to do after puberty. Life was so chaotic at home. God knows I didn't need to add sex to the mix. Not that I didn't think about it. I thought about it a lot. But instead of joining my classmates at parties and football games, I hid behind my dorky glasses and loose clothes, burying my nose in a book and trying to disappear. Eventually, I forgot about my body completely.

I feel my own warm breath reflecting back against my skin in the sleeping bag. Something inside me feels different; it feels new. Travis saw me naked and he got a boner. I can give a guy a boner. The power in that is overwhelming. It fills me with a strange warmth and a confidence I've never known. That night I smolder quietly inside my sleeping bag until late in the night, when I fall asleep at last.

The next morning I dig through every stitch of clothing I own to discover what I already know: everything I have is frumpy. Still, I put something together and prop the mirror on the dashboard. When I sweep the mascara onto my lashes I let my eyes linger just a little longer than usual on my reflection. Maybe there's someone worthy in there after all. Maybe.

I arrive at the office early and launch into my morning routine. The coffee is made, the calendar is noted, lists are made. I prep for the important meeting with a very wealthy Englishman who wants Lazarus to design a modern interior for his sprawling countryside estate. I set up the Skype call and fill a carafe of water in case Lazarus gets thirsty. By the time he arrives, more harried and disheveled than usual, everything is ready to go.

"Mickey," he calls from his desk, running a hand through his weirdly messy hair. "Did you make the..."

I stride out of my office with the usual calendar printout and interject before he can finish. "Coffee is made, reports are ready, appointments noted and listed. I downloaded both your PowerPoint presentation and that video of the Tokyo thing. And the Skype call is set up and ready to go."

I'm even prepared with a hairbrush in hand. I approach Lazarus as he sits frazzled at his desk and do something shocking. Even as I'm doing it I can't believe it. I lean in close and brush his hair, carefully constructing his gorgeous up-wave to perfection. "You look like the disheveled Marlon Brando in _Streetcar_ ," I quip. "Minus the greasy tee shirt."

Lazarus breaks into one of his genuine laughs, the unselfconscious kind that crinkles his eyes and brightens his whole face. "'It was you, Charlie,'" he says in a hilarious, strangled Brando voice. "'I coulda been a contender. I could've been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am...'"

I crack up. Joking around has become a frequent part of our rapport. " _That's On the Waterfront_ , you knucklehead."

He laughs again. "You didn't seriously just call me a knucklehead."

"For such a worldly guy, you need a real film education, Jude Lazarus."

I put the finishing touches on his hair and step away to check him out. Hot as hell, of course. Then something happens that's hard to describe. Lazarus stares at me with a rare openness, as if he were looking through all the horrible geekiness and seeing something beyond it. That something worthy. Our eyes lock and I can't look away.

"Maybe I just need a film snob to educate me," he says. I know it's a joke, but it comes out in a soft, affectionate voice. Is it possible that he's flirting with me? No. That's unimaginable. But still... _something_ is going on behind his eyes.

"I don't know," I respond in an equally low voice. "You may be a lost cause."

He smiles and his eyes seem to shine. I suddenly feel dizzy, as if I were drunk. Now I understand how love used to make women literally swoon. Finally, Lazarus breaks the gaze. He glances at the clock on his desk and his relaxed face floods with anxiety.

"Damn. Let's get this stuff ready." He points to the drafting table. "Do you mind standing while you take notes?"

I cock my head, confused. "I thought you wanted me to sit next to you to help bring up the photos and that video..." My words fade away with my confidence.

"You can do that remotely," he mumbles as he clicks through several files on his computer. "I'd rather be the only one on screen. It's less distracting."

I nod and try to smile. Moving my computer to the drafting table, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the window. I'm wearing a loose sweater and a frumpy skirt, my shapeless, scraggly hair drooping over my shoulders, my stupid pink ears poking out through the strands. What an idiot. Jude Lazarus would never flirt with a woman who looked like that. No one would.

If, in fact, Travis is right and I actually do have a smoking body, I can't blame anyone for not noticing it. I tell myself I'm not that teenage girl struggling to survive anymore. I'm a legal adult. I have a job in a high-powered architecture firm that is known all around the world. Someday I'll even have a real home of my own. My life is moving forward.

In other words, it's time for a change.

After the call, Lazarus rushes out to a midday meeting and I slink into my depressing hovel to type up the notes. The hours pass and I don't even break for lunch. By quitting time, my back hurts from sitting hunched at a desk and my eyes burn from squinting into a computer screen for hours.

I've finally finished up the notes from the morning's Skype call, which I've cross-indexed in the database and integrated into a chart I know Lazarus will like, when I hear the husky peal of a woman's laughter. I look up to find a very tall, very slender woman with a dark bob sitting in Lazarus's desk chair. She's wearing a knee-length black dress that fits her like a glove, showing off her large breasts in a way that somehow manages to be more classy than slutty. Lazarus is leaning against his desk, arms folded over his chest, a goofy smile on his face.

Celestina. I just know it.

They speak in low tones so I can't hear what they're saying. But then I see Celestina lean back in the chair, slip out of one of her expensive-looking black pumps, and run her foot slowly up Lazarus's thigh. There's a smug smile on her face, the look of a woman who knows the vastness of her power. With a jolt of jealous electricity I watch her foot slip over his crotch. Lazarus grabs the sides of the desk as her dainty little toes move up and down, stroking his growing bulge. He leans his head back with pleasure and closes his eyes. I can't breathe. I've imagined it a million times. Lazarus caught up in a moment of ecstasy. Fingers of heat move up my thighs and into my own crotch. He's so beautiful. And I so despise her.

Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed with the urge to get out of there. Before I can even think, I bolt up so fast my chair tips over. Lazarus throws a quick glance my way and takes Celestina's foot in his hand, stopping her. My upper lip is damp with sweat. My head is spinning and I see bursts of bright lights behind my eyes. I don't know if I'm under the spell of jealousy or desire. Or both. I close the computer and grope clumsily for my purse. I would exchange twenty years of my life for a private way out of this stupid little office.

I stumble through Lazarus's chic office hoping against all hope that they ignore me. But I'm just not lucky that way.

"Mickey, I have someone I want you to meet." Lazarus is all smiles. I stop, trying desperately to hold it together. With a phony smile frozen on my face, I look at them both. Hot blood burns in my cheeks and I feel short of breath. "This is my girlfriend, Celestina."

Celestina shameless eyes me up and down, as if I were a sable coat she was considering buying. She gives Lazarus a look of approval, as if I were just the kind of assistant she forced him to get. The unthreatening kind.

"Celestina," Lazarus goes on. "This is my assistant, Michaela."

"Nice to meet you," I say a little too loudly, feeling a trickle of sweat beneath my sweater.

Celestina doesn't say anything. Instead she gives me a slight nod, as if it were all the energy she was willing to expend on someone as insignificant as me. Then she turns to Lazarus with a heavy-lidded, pouty face.

"You will make us miss our reservation," she says with her husky, Spanish accented voice. "And I am tired. I want a glass of wine."

Lazarus nods and offers Celestina his hand. They head for the door, the happy couple holding hands, ready for a night of fancy restaurants and fabulous sex. I feel a sour pit in my stomach as I linger by his desk, waiting for them to leave. At the last moment, Lazarus turns distractedly and calls back to me.

"Nice work today, Mickey."

I watch them disappear down the hall and hear Celestina's throaty laugh. It's almost as if she were laughing at me. Michaela Clark. Miss Unthreatening, smart, practical, here-for-the-kicking, idiot of the century. And I'm fed up. I've been shackled to this loser image long enough. There is power in me. There has to be. I felt it yesterday in the bathroom with Travis. It's one thing to be smart and tenacious and strong. But beauty and sex have a different allure. A power all their own.

I just need to set them free.

## Chapter Eleven

The sun is still hovering over the mountains and the sky is streaked with pink. My bike chain falls off before I even clear the downtown streets and it takes me ages to fix it. By the time I reach Liz's cute little rental house, the streetlights are kicking on. I know that Travis is in Boulder visiting a few of his college buddies this weekend and I'm hoping Liz is home.

A frizzy-haired redhead answers the door, releasing a waft of garlic and olive oil smells into the air. The girl appears to be surgically connected to her cell phone and she doesn't even stop yammering when she sees me waiting on the porch. In fact, she barely acknowledges me.

"I mean, I like him," she drones on, looking at me but not really seeing me. "But I'm not sure I like _like_ him, you know? I just don't know..."

"I'm looking for Liz," I say loudly, interrupting her.

She doesn't flinch. Her eyes are glazed over and a million miles away. She drifts away from the door without a word to me, leaving it standing open. I wait to see if she's gone to get Liz, but no one comes.

"Hello?" I call inside. I step into a little entryway with a secondhand Japanese stool and several pairs of women's shoes in a tidy row. "Liz?"

Finally, Liz appears with a wooden spoon in her hand. "Mickey! What the hell?" She looks surprised and very happy to see me. With a wide grin she throws her arms around me. "Come inside! Have you eaten?"

I follow her down a short hallway of polished hardwood and into an unexpectedly spacious kitchen. It's very neat and nicely decorated; the opposite of Travis's kitchen, which is always full of dirty dishes and pizza boxes. The garlic smell intensifies and my stomach grumbles. A pot of pasta sauce simmers on the stove and a colander of spaghetti sits steaming in the sink.

"Actually, I'm starving," I admit.

Liz drags me to the table and pulls out a chair. It's a cheap but attractive dining set that screams IKEA. "Sit, sit, sit!" she insists, patting the chair. "I hate eating alone and Travis is out of town until Monday."

"Why don't you eat with your roommates?" I ask, looking around for the annoying redhead.

"Screw that!" She waves a dismissive hand at me. "I don't like eating alone, but I do like to enjoy my food." She grins and heads for the cabinets to fish out a couple bowls. "You like pasta?"

I settle into the chair and smooth the frumpy skirt over my legs. "What's not to like?" When she sets a heavenly smelling bowl on the table in front of me, I give her a gracious smile. "Thanks, Liz. This is really awesome of you."

She glides around the kitchen, fetching napkins and a bottle of Merlot. Every time I look at her, I'm struck by how pretty she is. Her silky blond hair, the thin, athletic body. She's a classic Boulder girl.

"Is there something you needed?" she asks, pouring us each a glass of wine. "Or did you just come to hang out?"

"Kind of both," I say. I'm feeling weirdly embarrassed and Liz can tell. She settles into her chair at last and gives me a joking look of suspicion.

"What are you up to, Mickey?"

I'm quiet for a moment. I take a long drink of the wine; it's cheap and full of bitter tannins, but I like the wave of calm it sends through me. It's silly that I should be nervous about this. But there's something about embarking on a big change that makes me feel unsettled. Like I'm not going to be me anymore. Or even worse, what if it's a hopeless cause and I'm just irredeemably ugly? But I fight back the fears and take a deep breath.

"I'm tired of being ugly," I blurt out.

Liz puts down her glass and cocks her head. "You're not ugly, Mickey."

I let out an impatient sigh. "Come on, Liz. You know what I'm talking about. I mean, it was you who mentioned spending my money on a pair of contact lenses."

"Yeah," she says, "because you have a beautiful face. It's just that you hide it behind those horrible glasses."

The mention of them makes me self-consciously push the glasses up my nose. I grin, as much at myself as Liz. "I got them in the ninth grade."

Liz practically spits out her wine. "Get out of here! How can you even see with those things? Your prescription is probably miles worse by now!"

This isn't exactly a news flash. Seeing is kind of tough for me. But since there has never been enough money to deal with the problem, I just make do. Hell, you can adapt to anything.

"You said you have a friend...?"

Liz puts a hand over mine, like a reassuring old lady. "Just leave it up to me," she says. "I can get you a really good deal. When should we go?"

I'm heading for the cliff and ready to jump. I don't want to waste any time. "Tomorrow?"

"Great!" She takes a messy bite of spaghetti, slurping shamelessly, and then wipes her mouth. "Don't take this the wrong way, but, since we're changing it up a bit, how about you try some new clothes?"

I frown into my wine. "I can't afford it."

Liz shakes her head. "Well, you can't keep wearing those. You just can't. Why don't you borrow some of mine?"

My eyes flick to her shirt. It's pretty and form-fitting, with a funky, artsy pattern on it. I've never allowed myself to get too worked up over fashion, but I have noticed that Liz's clothes are always unique and beautiful.

"Seriously?" I stammer. "You would let me borrow your clothes?"

Liz's mouth is full of spaghetti but she nods enthusiastically. Then she takes a long sip of wine and gives me an earnest look.

"But listen to me, Mickey," she says, lowering her voice and leaning over the table. "Be careful of that guy, Jude Lazarus. Seriously. You're better off not catching his eye."

I bite my tongue and try not to let the infatuation show on my face. _Why else would I do all of this if not to catch the eye of Jude Lazarus?_ "Don't worry," I mumble into my glass. "I can handle him."

"Okay then!" she exclaims excitedly. "I'll drive us out to the mall tomorrow!" She picks up her glass and holds it in the air. "To my friend Mickey," she announces, "and her transformation into a swan!"

## Chapter Twelve

I'm in the bathroom longer than I expected. For some reason I'm riveted to the mirror, staring at my reflection. It's like I'm saying goodbye.

I study every detail of my physique that I've tried to ignore throughout my years of survival. It couldn't be a priority to think about the way the tops of my ears poke through the stringy, shapeless strands that fall to my waist. I was in denial about how the goofy, oversized glasses always slid down my nose so that I unconsciously tipped up my chin to look around me. And, until recently, I didn't mind the baggy, secondhand clothes I picked up at the Salvation Army. They weren't shabby or dirty or threadbare. In fact, they were good quality clothes. It's just that they were ugly as sin.

Finally, Liz pops her head in. "Let's go, Cinderella! Get a move on!"

I startle and tear my gaze from the mirror. Like all big decisions in life, I've discovered, you have to set your sights ahead and go full throttle. And God forbid you look back. I grab my bag and head out the door.

It's still early and the mall isn't crowded yet. Everyone is still lounging around, enjoying the Saturday morning. But Liz is a ball of energy. She stops at every shop window pointing out cute outfits she thinks would look good on me, prefacing everything with, "I know you can't afford it right now, but..."

When we reach the optician, she pulls me along row after row of attractive frames, grabbing a pair now and then and handing them to me to try on. But my eyes have gotten so bad that I can't really tell what any of them look like. I can only gage it by Liz's reaction, which is anywhere from excited to enthralled.

The doctor is an Asian woman with a thick bun who smells like Chanel. She's gentle and patient, and doesn't scold me too much for waiting so long to update my prescription.

"These kinds of things can get very expensive for a family," she says kindly. "I'm sure your parents were doing their best with what they had."

I think about the way my father would hiss at me whenever I asked him for money, even if it was just five dollars for a school field trip. His philosophy was that kids existed for years working in factories and in the fields. Since child labor is now outlawed in this country, he felt that children didn't contribute a thing to the world. And if he was going to give me a cent, I was sure as hell going to earn it. But I didn't tell the doctor about my father. No one knows about him or my mother. They're ghosts that no one can see but me, and I am forever haunted by them.

When I finally get my contact lenses, I can hardly believe it's real. The world comes into crisp focus, filled with the details I've been missing for years. I gaze around the office in wonder, pointing out pictures on the walls and the people milling about in the mall beyond the front doors. Liz laughs and hugs me.

"Welcome back to the world of the seeing!"

I decide to splurge on a pair of new glasses as well. I settle on a rimless pair that are feminine and classy. Liz is elated.

"I can see your face!" she exclaims, jumping up and down like a little kid. "My God! I never realized how sexy your lips are! You look like Angelina Jolie!"

I laugh in amazement. It's my face. And it's actually pretty.

Next, Liz drags me downstairs to a salon where we sit in the waiting chairs flipping through hairstyle magazines. Liz searches for pictures of women who have hair like mine, wavy and thick. Each time she points out a picture I stare at it as if it were part of some secret society of women who know how to work it. How am I ever going to become one of them?

The hair stylist is a stocky gay guy named Francis who has a short buzz cut. When he wraps the smock around me and studies my hair, he clicks his tongue with disdain. "Sweetie, what the fuck? Are you Sleeping Beauty or something? Snoozing for twenty years while your hair grows into waist-length split ends?"

I flush with embarrassment _. Who do you think you're kidding?_ my mother's voice chides inside my head. _You're not fooling anyone! There are the haves and the have-nots, and you will never have anything nice!_ Thankfully, Liz chimes in as well.

"What was she doing? Putting herself through college without a bit of help from anyone, is what. Not everyone gets to spend their time at fraternity mixers and rock concerts, you know. Some people are too busy busting their asses."

I didn't even know Liz was aware of that part of my life. Travis must really like her. The stylist tilts his head to the side and looks at me in the mirror, as if seeing me in a new light.

"Well, you go, girl!" he shouts, suddenly inspired. "Let's give you the style of the century! What are you thinking?"

Liz chimes in again. "I'm thinking just past the shoulders, layered, framing the face kind of thing?"

"Hell, yeah!"

The stylist chatters nonstop as he cuts, but my thoughts are miles away. I watch, speechless, as huge swaths of hair fall to the ground, piling up all around us. I watch it in a daze. That hair was on my head when my mother kicked me out of the car in the desert, five miles from home, and made me walk through the summer heat. It was there the night they got drunk and my mother passed out with a lit cigarette in her hand and nearly burned the place to the ground. And it was there the time my father whipped me with his belt until the blood was seeping through my shirt.

Good fucking riddance. I've been carrying that hair around long enough.

He blow-dries and styles my hair, pressing his lips together in deep concentration. When he's finally finished, the stylist spins the chair around to face the mirror, eyebrows raised in suspense. My hair falls in undulating waves just past my shoulders. Instead of hanging heavy over my skull, it's full of life and body. Long bangs are swept off to one side. I stare at my reflection in disbelief. How is it possible this is me?

"Do you like...?" he asks gleefully.

Unable to speak, I nod, dazed. Liz stands beside the stylist, gazing at me in the mirror. There are tears in her eyes.

"Girl," she whispers, "you're stunning."

The last thing Liz insists I do before leaving the mall is to buy myself a few sets of sexy underwear and bras. "I swear, just knowing it's under there makes you feel like Cleopatra," she says. "It reminds you that you're a sexy beast. And at the end of the day, you're the only one you need to convince."

I have absolutely no idea what bra size I am, since all of my bras have been ill-fitted and secondhand. So Liz has a woman who works in the lingerie department measure me. She comes up behind me and wraps a tailor's tape measure around my back and my boobs. Then she leads me around the store pulling out an armload of bras just my size.

Liz wants to come in while I try them on but I make her wait outside. I'm not girly in that way. But Liz is a good sport about it. She takes a seat just outside the changing room where bored husbands and boyfriends usually sit.

The first bra I try is black and it fits better than I thought possible. It pushes up my boobs and makes them look full and awesome. I stare at them, remembering Travis. The thought that I might actually be desirable sends a shiver through me. In that moment I realize how much I want to be touched. Touched all over my body. And I want to explore a body; to make a man groan with pleasure. I want to join the land of the living.

That evening, Liz goes through her closet and pulls out armload after armload of clothes for me to try on. She knows just what goes together and what doesn't, and she even writes a few notes down for me.

"You'll get the hang of it," she says, holding up a lovely blue dress. "In fact, once you get started in fashion, you'll never, ever go back."

I watch her with such intense gratitude it's almost painful. No one has ever gone through this much trouble for me. Everything feels different. I feel lighter. My hair is lighter. My body feels lighter. Like I've finally shed the tattered old me and now I am fresh and new.

Before leaving Liz's house, I fold everything very carefully, knowing how wrinkled clothes can get in my car, and put them in bags. The dresses and nicer blouses I leave on the hanger to drape over my arm. When she walks me to the door, chattering excitedly and raving about how beautiful I look, I feel the tightness in my throat. I turn to look at her, tears brimming in my eyes. She smiles warmly, and soon tears are filling her eyes as well.

"Your world is going to change," she says, her voice breaking.

I drop the bags and throw my arms around her.

## Chapter Thirteen

On Monday morning, I get up super early. My heart is running sprints in my chest and my hands are actually shaking with nerves. I pick out Liz's business casual blue dress, throw a hair dryer and toiletries into my duffel bag, and head to the YMCA. I don't even try to sneak in this time. I just pay the woman at the counter for access to the showers and locker rooms. After all, this is the new me.

After securing my things in a locker, I let myself take a long, hot shower. It's strange not feeling the heavy weight of my hair on my back, and I love it. I wash and condition my new hair and scrub my body with a wonderfully scented oatmeal soap that I picked up in a bath store in the mall. Then I stand at the mirror wrapped in a towel and blow-dry my hair. I'm amazed at how quickly it dries and how easy it is to style. Then I rub lotion over my arms and legs, enjoying the smooth texture of my skin, appreciating my body for the first time.

When I pull on the blue dress, I smile at how it fits to my every curve, showing off my hourglass figure rather than hiding it away. The hem falls just above my knees. My exposed legs shimmer from the milky lotion.

Pulling on a pair of pumps, I practice walking back and forth in the bathroom until I no longer wobble. The heels are relatively low, so it doesn't take long. Then I drop my bag off at my car, leave my bike chained up, and head for the bus stop. As I walk, a man in a passing car leans out of his window and whistles at me. I'm so shocked I stop and stare after him. At the bus stop, several businessmen gather to wait. They all throw glances my way, giving me broad smiles and nods. I feel like I'm in a dream.

It's still early when I arrive at the building and stride through the lobby. I can feel the eyes on me; the heads turning. When I reach the elevators I see a crush of people fighting their way on, and I hang back. I do this every morning. Elevators make me nervous enough without being smashed up against strangers, unable to move.

Finally, the doors to another elevator open. This one is empty. I step inside and press the button for the top floor. Just as the doors are nearly closed someone throws a hand into the gap, forcing them open again. I catch my breath. It's Lazarus.

I grasp for the handrail to steady myself. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it pulsing in my ears. He's in the middle of a conversation on his phone, but as he slips into the elevator, our eyes meet. My stomach leaps when I catch him glancing at my breasts, which are not exposed but very pronounced in the dress. There's a coy smile on his face and I realize that he's being flirtatious. He doesn't even know who I am.

"Because I can't be in two places at once, obviously," he says irritably to whoever is on the phone. "And I'd rather go to Paris than Perth."

I watch him, waiting to be recognized, but other than a few stolen glances at my legs, Lazarus is completely distracted. When the elevator opens on our floor, he heads briskly to his office without looking back. With a pit in my stomach I push through the doors and into the hushed reception area of Lazarus & Smith. Christian is standing at the reception desk arranging a series of folders and sipping coffee. He doesn't recognize me, either. I know this because he _actually_ _smiles_.

"Good morning! Can I help..." Then he freezes and gawks at me, incredulous. It takes him several moments to speak. "M-Michaela?" he stammers at last.

"Hi Christian." I act as casual as possible, but my whole face feels like it's on fire.

"What happened to you?" Christian drops into his chair and gapes at me. "I didn't even...whoa."

I shrug. "Just wanted to clean up my image a bit."

"A bit? Are you kidding?" he chokes out. Then he's quiet for a moment. He shakes his head and sighs. "Well, shit."

"Well shit, what?"

He rubs his face in frustration, but I have no idea why. "Here we go again."

When I step into Lazarus's office, he's at his desk, still on the phone. "If you can set up the meeting I'll talk to him," he grumbles, stooping over his computer and working the mouse with one hand, searching for something. But when I walk through the room to my little office at the back, I hear his voice falter with confusion.

"But his budget is way too low. I can tell...tell you...uh...excuse me! What are you...?"

I can't help but smile to myself. Then I take a breath and turn to face him. Doubt flickers in his eyes and he looks at me with curiosity. Slowly, he recognizes me, and I'm surprised to see his expression darken. His jaw steels as he stares at me.

"Yes, I'm here," he says into the phone, but his voice has lost its forcefulness. "That's fine but don't commit to anything."

With a little nod I head to my desk and turn on my computer, just like I do every day. I feel like I'm holding my breath as I make a careful list of Lazarus's appointments. Is he happy with the way I look? He seems almost angry about it. I take in a slow careful breath at last, and it quivers as I release it. I hope I haven't made a terrible mistake. But why would it be a mistake? How pathological could this guy be? Even though I try not to, I glance up at him briefly. My heart does a backflip. He's still staring right at me, unblinking.

I'm aware of my whole body. I feel my breasts filling the dress and my exposed legs visible to him beneath the desk. A thrill shoots through me and goose bumps break out on my skin. Whether it's a mistake or not, one thing is certain: he has noticed me. Jude Lazarus has noticed me.

When he's finally off his call I pick up the printout of his agenda and walk into his office, just like I do every morning. But today is unlike any other. Instead of shuffling through papers or scrolling through documents on his computer, Lazarus sits motionless, gazing at me, his eyes piercing.

My whole body goes cold with nerves and I feel my legs shaking. But I don't want to let it show. "I have your agenda for the day."

Lazarus raises his eyebrows. "Can I ask what all this is about?" he says in a low voice.

I smile and look self-consciously down at my dress. My sudden-sprung curves. "Eva told me I should pay more attention to the way I look. That I should be more fashionable."

Lazarus wipes at his upper lip and I realize, with shock, that _he's_ nervous. His eyes move slowly over my body, shamelessly taking in every square inch. The sensation of being looked at--admired--is so new to me that I can't get the stupid smile off my face. It's a giddy sensation and I'm drunk with it.

"Is that what Eva told you?" he says flatly. "That's just brilliant."

He forces himself to look away, rubbing his face and swiveling his chair a half turn toward his desk. He rests his elbows on the desk and runs both hands through his hair. I've never seen him so unnerved.

"Are you okay?" I ask hesitantly. "Did I do something wrong?"

Lazarus sighs and shakes his head, but he doesn't look up. "No, Michaela. I just liked you the way you were, that's all."

"You could've fooled me," I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Lazarus lifts his head now and looks at me. He narrows his eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

I feel the red flush on my cheeks and shift my gaze to the window. The sun is ridiculously bright and the glass tower across the street twinkles blindingly.

"Nothing," I say. "I didn't mean anything. I really didn't."

But Lazarus continues to study me, as if he's just discovered something interesting. Finally, he leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers under his chin. "Michaela," he says slowly, drawing out the sound of my name. I can't bring myself to look at him. "Tell me you didn't do all this for me..."

I'm paralyzed. I want to say no but nothing comes out of my mouth.

"Because," he goes on, "you know this position is purely professional."

I force myself to meet his beautiful, amber eyes. But I don't say a word. Disappointment rushes over me. What's wrong with me? If he has a kink for all of his other assistants, why doesn't he want me? All this work. All the hope. For nothing. The mantra circles through my brain. _To desire is to suffer. To desire is to suffer. To desire is to motherfucking suffer._

Finally, Lazarus clears his throat. He swivels the chair away from me completely, so that all I can see is the back of his head. "Are you going to read me the agenda?" he asks, his voice going flat again.

I stare down at the trembling paper in my hands and try to concentrate. "Of course," I mutter. Fighting back tears, I proceed to read him the complete lineup for the day. Then I go back to my office and sit down at my desk, wishing I could close the door. What kind of office has no independent exit and no door? Who does Lazarus think he is?

I busy myself with small projects all morning, trying desperately to hate him. I purge unused icons from my computer desktop, update his calendar event archives, and download a series of maps and local information for every city he will be traveling to in the next six months. All the while, I feel my heart pounding overloud in my chest and finally admit to myself that this rejection has done nothing to change how I feel about Lazarus. I'm a lost cause.

The next time I look up, Lazarus is gone, and he doesn't return for the rest of the afternoon. All day I squirm in my tight-fitting dress and watch the clock, dying to go home. Tomorrow I'll put on my old glasses and the frump-wear again. If he wants his ugly assistant back, fine. I'll go back to ugly. Anything to make him like me again. _What is wrong with you?_ I think. _Seriously, what are you turning into? This isn't love. It's a sick obsession that you have to shake off before it fucks you up any further._

At ten minutes to five, I head to the bathroom to call Liz.

"Do you have any more of that red wine?" I ask. "I think I need, like, ten glasses."

As usual, Liz is all laughter and light. "Then I better make something hearty to eat," she says. "Travis is coming over, too. I'll be sure there are plenty of bottles on the table."

I try to push away the discomfort at seeing Travis again. Shit happens. He's still my best friend. But when I get back to my desk I find a paper taped to my computer. _Michaela, before you go home, please pull up these files, print them out (including the color pictures), and create hard copy folders for each. I need them ASAP. Thanks. Lazarus._

I stare at the list in shock. This will take hours. Why does he need it now? And where the hell did he come from? I go out to the reception area and look around. There's no sign of Lazarus.

"I don't know what to tell you, sweetheart," Christian mumbles when I show him the list. He throws on his jacket and slips his computer bag over his shoulder. "If you want a life of your own, don't be an assistant for Jude Lazarus. That's just how he is."

I go back to my office but there's still no trace of him. With an aggravated sigh, I collapse into my chair and call Liz to cancel. Then I get to work. It takes over an hour just to pull the files from the first project on the list. The hours crawl by and the light fades in the window until it is dark and the whole place has gone silent. Everything is very quiet and I can tell that everyone in the office has gone home. By the time I finish the fourth project my eyes are stinging and exhausted, and I'm seething with resentment. This is cruel and insane. Is he punishing me for something?

I'm just about to get up for a cup of coffee when the lights go out. I startle and suck in a breath. But I shake it off. They're probably on a timer, I think. Carefully, I stand up and make my way through the office, groping for the light switch. It's nowhere to be found. The city lights twinkle through the glass and the office looks strangely serene in the dark. And then I hear it. The sound of ice tinkling in a glass. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I scan the darkness, searching.

"Hello?" I call out. "Who's there?"

At first it's silent. Then one of the dim lamps in the sitting area turns on, illuminating a figure who had been concealed in the dark. It's Lazarus. He's sitting on the couch and sipping brandy. He looks at me, his eyes dark and serious. I stifle a shiver.

"What are you doing here?" I stammer. "Why are you sitting in the dark?" He doesn't say anything.

"I've been here a while." I can tell he's a little drunk. "You just didn't notice me."

"Did you turn out the lights?" The confident, playful Michaela has vanished. Now my voice sounds uncertain and afraid.

Lazarus holds up a small remote control, but says nothing. For a long time he just stares at me. Finally, he takes a sip of brandy and holds it in his mouth to savor. Then he swallows. "Come over here."

My whole body goes cold and I begin to shiver. "Why?"

"Come here." His voice is stern and quiet.

I make my way closer and stop on the far side of the coffee table. Lazarus gazes at me, his eyes taking in every part of my body. They stop on my legs.

"Lift the skirt above your thighs," he commands, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

My breathing is loud in the silence. I don't question him. I don't think about it. I just reach down to the hem of my skirt and slowly pull it up until my thighs are completely exposed. As Lazarus solemnly takes them in, I feel a fire growing inside me. My body begins to shake so much I can't hide it. A part of me wants to stand there forever under the lusty gaze of Jude Lazarus.

"Do you want me to..." I begin in a faint voice. But he cuts me off.

"Stop talking."

He tosses back what's left in his glass and sets it on the table. Half of his smooth, sculpted face is in the light. The other half is completely in shadow. Still, I can see something behind his eyes. He looks conflicted, as if there were a tug of war going on inside his head.

"Okay. Put it down," he snaps, looking away.

But instead of dropping the skirt, I raise the hem up a little further until he can see my lacy black panties. The gesture alone sends a shiver through me. _Who are you?_ I think. _Have you lost your mind?_ But I don't care. I don't care that what he's doing is clearly fucked up. I don't care that _he_ is clearly fucked up. I don't care that I'm afraid. All I care about is holding on to the lust in his eyes. And boy, do I.

Lazarus looks at the skimpy panties and lets out a quiet, controlled exhalation. Then he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the cushions. I watch him carefully, wondering if he's going to fall asleep. Then he opens his eyes and looks sharply at me, as if he's suddenly made up his mind about something.

"Michaela," he says very slowly, savoring my name like the brandy. "Close the door."

## The Position Series

### The Position unfolds over the course of multiple short novels following the exploits of Michaela Clark and Jude Lazarus. There are five books in all.

### For more information and to sign up for email announcements about The Position series, go to http://www.sexynewadultromancestories.com.

## About the Author

### Izzy Mason is a city girl who writes fun, sexy, entertaining novellas meant to take your mind off your troubles for a while. She has an adorable husband, a fish named Frank, and a fat black cat with codependency issues.

### Connect with Izzy Mason

### Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/izzymasonauthor/>

### Twitter: @izzyitiz

### Goodreads: <https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/10790793.Izzy_Mason>

### Smashwords Author Page: <http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/izzyisme>

### Website: <http://sexynewadultromancestories.com/>

### Turn the page to check out a free sample of Izzy Mason's free-standing novella, _Plata_.

# Plata

#####

## By Izzy Mason

## Chapter 1

The club was dark and lined with mirrors. Colored lights flashed on a long, narrow stage, where a chubby woman with thick, black hair was grinding against a pole. The air was thick with cologne. Mexican strippers in short dresses were scattered throughout the crowded room, draped flirtatiously over men's laps, skirts hitched to mid-thigh, fishing for cash. Along a velvet covered bench at the back of the room, a fleshy bleach blond in a tiny red thong was sitting on a mustached man's lap, riding him like a rodeo horse as he squeezed her breasts and nodded his head to the thumping bass of the music.

Madison had never been in a strip club before. And why would she? They were places that existed in the exclusive netherworld of men, along with brothels and pornography. She was only nineteen, after all, and sex was still relatively new to her. Still she had to admit, it was something she found deliriously thrilling. But there was sex, and then there was _this_ : a sordid display of desperate libidos, so drunk with lust that they didn't care who saw them doing what, which embarrassed her immediately.

She looked at Enzo and furrowed her brow. "You're serious?" she said in Spanish, which was the only language they ever spoke to each other. After all, Enzo's English was terrible, and Madison's Spanish was flawless.

Enzo was wearing one of his casual-chic tee shirts tailored to flatter his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and she could see a lot of the dancers watching him hopefully. He put an arm around her shoulders and gazed slowly around the room, an amused half-smile on his face.

"Just for a week," he assured her. "Para quitarte la pena. To get rid of the shame."

Madison coming to Mexico City was Enzo's idea. He knew what it was like to be desperate for money, and he had no patience for preciousness. Life is about sacrifice, he always told her. The world is indifferent, and no one owes you a thing. If there's one thing you need to remember, he'd say, it's that you make your own luck.

Madison looked around the room at the Mexican cowboys grabbing the strippers and licking their breasts, sometimes even biting them. Her hands went unconsciously to her own breasts in sympathy. She wondered how they would taste after being sampled by every slobbering, peanut-flecked mouth in the place. Howdy, stranger! Suck this lollipop and pass it on down! She stifled a shiver of disgust. This was not the kind of place where shame was taken away. Here shame shacked up in your bones and hung out for the rest of your life.

The woman on the stage called down to Enzo with a flirtatious wave. She pushed her tongue against her teeth and made porn star lips, the way most girls do privately in the bathroom mirror. Enzo blew the woman an effete kiss, and winked. It was stifling and airless, and Madison could feel her glasses sliding down her nose. She leaned into Enzo so that their shoulders pressed together. His body felt cool through his jacket, as if the suffocating heat of the place couldn't reach him. Enzo was absolutely at home anywhere, from an embassy party to a seedy strip club. The world was his oyster.

Enzo was Madison's best friend. He was a gay dancer from Cuba she'd met while spending a year in Mexico. She'd been studying Spanish at a private Mexico City high school that did a foreign exchange with her public school in Denver, and Enzo's dance troupe once came to their auditorium to perform. Even though Enzo was two years older than Madison, they'd hit it off immediately. And because he'd already been in Mexico for two years, he drove her around to all the social hot spots where even minors could get a drink. Since then, his career had taken off, and he was now frequently cast in music videos, commercials, and as backup for famous Mexican pop stars.

He turned to look at Madison, his eyebrows raised expectantly. "Well?"

The stripper knelt down on the stage to let an old drunk man lick her thigh. Madison cringed and shook her head.

"I think I'd rather die."

He just shrugged and laughed, though she knew he thought it was a mistake. How was a girl like Madison supposed to transform into a glamorous Gentleman's Club dancer overnight? She couldn't even turn a head in the street. Besides, everyone had to pay their dues. Start at the bottom, even if only for a week or two. After all, that's what Enzo had done. But he didn't chastise her. Instead he hooked his arm through hers and led her toward the exit.

"Okay, doll. I guess we'll just go straight to the top."

## Chapter 2

Money was something Madison had never really thought about. She wasn't like some of the other girls in her high school who dreamed of marrying a millionaire, swooning over magazines of haute couture and jewelry. Madison was a bookworm. She spent her days reading in cafés, or meeting with equally brainy girls to talk about books. She was a diamond-in-the-rough type: tall and awkward, with wide blue eyes hidden behind oversized, unfashionable glasses. Her thick blond hair was shapeless and uncombed, and she always slouched about in tee shirts and baggy jeans. Madison didn't ask for much, and she was more than happy with what she had. Until the day she woke up and discovered that she had nothing at all.

No one had ever expected her father, William, to be a good businessman. Money just wasn't his strong suit. He was an English teacher, the girls' volleyball coach, and Madison's kitchen table tutor, helping her with everything from algebra to Shakespeare. In the summer he would take Madison and her mom, Virginia, camping in the Rockies, where he knew the best mountain lakes and pristine wilderness areas in the state of Colorado. He was a loving husband and a great dad, and that was enough for Madison and Virginia. No one could understand why he'd secretly gambled away their lives.

Without a word to his wife, William embarked on a high-risk venture that turned out to be a complicated scam. Since they didn't own their house, he'd been convinced to double mortgage Virginia's beloved family restaurant to bring extra cash into the deal. It was one of the oldest establishments in Denver; a storied place that had been in Virginia's family for generations. It felt like a fourth member of their family. William had been hoodwinked into believing it was a sure thing; that his ship had finally come in. But overnight, the restaurant, their retirement savings, and Madison's college fund had vanished. And the shock went straight to his heart.

When the dust cleared, there was barely enough to cover William's funeral and a subpar burial plot at the Goldhill Cemetery far across town. The only asset they had any hope of saving was Virginia's restaurant, but it was still far out of their reach. The bank offered to return the title if Virginia could come up with a hundred thousand dollars in four months. She tried desperately to get a loan, but her credit had been destroyed along with William's. Their friends and family were struggling to get by as it was, and no one had that kind of money to spare. It was inevitable. The family business that had managed to survive since World War I would die in Virginia's hands.

Madison felt as if the world had swallowed her whole. She'd given up all hope of finishing college and came home to look after her mother. Virginia was Madison's hero, and the strongest person she knew. And so it was all the more painful to watch her unravel. Shortly after William's funeral, once she'd exhausted every possible source of money to save her restaurant, Virginia collapsed. Early one morning, Madison found her mother in the backyard still wearing her nightgown, her feet bare, despite the freezing temperature. She sat on the stiff, dead grass rocking back and forth, muttering nonsensically. The doctor assured Madison that her mother would likely recover, but for now she was taken to a psych ward in Aurora for treatment. And for the first time in her life, Madison found herself alone.

Even worse, there was no one waiting in the wings to save any of them.

## Chapter 3

The first time Enzo suggested she come to Mexico to work at The Gentlemen's Club, she assumed he was joking, since it was beyond incredulity. Whenever Madison looked in the mirror, all she saw was a homely introvert. Only Enzo could see past it. Even through her baggy clothes, Enzo could see the tall, svelte body, the bulge of her round breasts, the long legs. He knew that men would love her wide, blue eyes and plump lips. All she needed was a bit of a makeover.

Fortunately, in the two years Enzo had been living in Mexico City, he'd gotten to know so many people that he was only a degree of separation away from anything they needed. One of Enzo's close friends was a Cuban ophthalmologist who was happy to squeeze Madison in without an appointment. On her second day in town, he checked her terribly myopic eyes, confirmed the prescription, and found a pack of disposable contact lenses in stock, which he gave her for next to nothing. Madison had never considered wearing contacts before; they seemed like more trouble than they were worth. But once she got the hang of putting them in, she loved being able to see without her glasses.

Next, Enzo brought her to see his friend Pati, a famous transvestite hair stylist who worked for the glitterati in the entertainment industry. Together they fussed over Madison's hair, giving her a rinse that brought out the blondest highlights, and cutting it into a Scarlett Johansson bob.

When Enzo took her shopping, he wouldn't let her pick out a thing.

"If you're going to pull this off, you can't go around dressed like a boy!" he'd hissed when she pointed to a cute tee shirt in the active wear section. Instead, he dressed her in fitted pants with an ankle flare, a sexy scoop-necked top, which accentuated her boobs, a tan leather jacket, and brown heeled boots.

"I knew there was a smoking body somewhere under there," Enzo exclaimed when the makeover was complete.

Madison stared at herself in the mirror, dumbstruck. She was completely transformed.

"Jesus, Enzo," she managed, the panic rising in her voice. It felt like he was stripping out her soul and turning her into a Barbie doll. She'd never envied the women whose only purpose in life was to be beautiful. They seemed empty and dull. Their very existence had a shelf life, and once they expired, there was nothing left for them in the world.

"I'm not making over your brain, sweetheart," Enzo said, wrapping his muscular arms around her. "You can read books with contact lenses, too, you know," he said. Then he turned her around, holding her shoulders and looking earnestly into her. eyes. "Get money for your mother, Madison. You go out there and get the money."

## Chapter 4

Madison was exhausted after a long day of being primped and prodded, but she decided to take a walk alone to clear her head. She made her way to the Condesa, her favorite neighborhood in all of Mexico City. It was only across the Parque Mexico from Enzo's house, and she still knew the route like the back of her hand.

The city grumbled, just as it had back then. Madison always felt that walking through a city of twenty million people was like being in the middle of a concrete ocean. She could feel the expanse of it all around. Even on quiet, tree-lined streets she could hear the urban din. The sidewalk cafés were full, reminding her of the many afternoons she'd spent drinking coffee with friends, discussing literature and philosophy. It all felt far away now.

She headed for El Pendulo, which had been her favorite café during her year abroad. Madison was amazed at how much attention she drew just walking down the street. Men called out amorous things, hissing from car windows, and turning their heads to watch her pass. She'd never experienced anything like it in her life, and she wasn't yet sure she liked it. It made her self-conscious to suddenly have so many eyes on her. She didn't want to scratch her nose or adjust her bra strap, because she knew someone would be watching.

El Pendulo, thankfully, hadn't changed at all. The bookstore still displayed Spanish translations of American and European new releases, art books, and classic literature. Across the bookstore, the restaurant hummed with life, and the café upstairs looked crowded. Madison browsed the books, trying to fend off the darkness that had circled her constantly since her dad died. She'd once made the mistake of letting it in, and it had wrecked her completely, ravaging her body like a flu, settling into her with a black weight that left her bedbound for days.

She sought refuge in an anthology of Spain's Romantic poets, searching out her favorite poems to raise her spirits. When she glanced up, she noticed a tall, very handsome man staring at her from across the room. He was at least ten years older than Madison; dressed in a beautifully tailored suit. Best of all, he held a copy of Jose Saramago's _Blindness_ in his hands. He didn't look Mexican. Though she'd met Mexican men who were just as tall and fair, but this man's features looked European. When she met his gaze, he smiled. At first she looked around, certain that there was a beautiful woman standing just behind her. But there was no one there. He was smiling at her.

Madison had always found something sexy about a man with a book in his hands. It suggested complexity and refinement. Whenever she indulged in the occasional schoolgirl fantasy about finding her soul mate, she always imagined him carrying books. At night he would read aloud in bed, her head resting on his chest, the pages dog-eared from when they got too sleepy. They'd sit together in cafés reading separate books, but every now and then they'd stop and tell the other about it.

When Madison looked up again, it was just in time to see the man leaving, his newly purchased book in a small brown bag tucked under his arm. Just before he stepped through the heavy glass door, he turned, his eyes searching her out one last time. This time it was Madison who was caught staring. The man gave her a demure, parting smile, and a wink that confirmed what she had been struggling to accept. She wasn't the old Madison anymore. And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

## Chapter 5

The next afternoon was cool and gray, and smelled of acid rain. Enzo escorted Madison along the upscale pedestrian street in the Zona Rosa, passing sushi restaurants, patio bistros, clothing boutiques, and hip bars. Enzo had phoned ahead to arrange the audition. Madison held tight to his arm. She was so nervous, she kept forgetting to breathe until finally her lungs burned and her head began to swim. Even worse, her whole body trembled, as if there were a humming machine inside her. Enzo could feel it, too.

"I know, sweetie," he said, patting her hand. "But you'll be great."

The entrance to The Gentlemen's Club had grand white columns, and a foyer with expensive floral arrangements, and a huge crystal chandelier. Outside, two serious men in navy blue suits stood guard. Enzo led Madison to an unmarked metal door on the side of the building and knocked. Madison felt as if all of her blood had gone cold until the tips of her fingers and toes were numb. She took in a deep, deliberate breath, as a short man with a wispy moustache opened the door and gestured for Madison to come inside. Enzo gave her a kiss on the cheek and a little pat on the butt.

"I'll be in the café across the street," he whispered. "Now go knock 'em dead!"

With a pit in her stomach, Madison followed the little man down a clean, tiled hallway and up a back staircase to a large room he called the camarino. There were rows of lockers toward the back. A vanity counter ran along the width of each end of the room, with long mirrors and plush stools tucked beneath.

"Do you have a tanga?" the little man asked Madison.

She crinkled her brow. There were few Spanish words she didn't know, and this was definitely one of them. "What's a tanga?"

"A thong," answered a flat, nasally voice in English from somewhere behind her.

Madison turned to find a middle-aged woman with a bouffant hairdo and a gaudy mask of makeup sitting in an elevated, glass-encased kiosk in the middle of the room. Festooned around the windows were velvety dresses, fake rhinestone chokers, and a rainbow assortment of thongs.

The woman gazed out with a sour face, lids heavy under fake lashes. Her eyebrows were wide, arcing pencil marks that gave her a look of surprised disgust.

"If not, I sell you one for a hundred pesos."

"That's Beba," the short man explained. "She's the house mother."

Madison gave Beba a sheepish smile. "I don't have a tanga."

Beba didn't smile back. Instead she took down the thong of her choice, stepped through the door, and tossed it at Madison.

"One hundred pesos."

The little man told Madison to take off everything except the thong, and to wait there. Madison stared at him. She looked back at Beba, who'd returned to the kiosk and was shuffling through a mound of paperwork. This was really happening. She was down the rabbit hole. Convinced this whole scheme was a bad idea from the start, Madison turned toward the exit, ready to flee. Then an image flashed in her mind: her mother curled up on the frozen lawn, out of her mind. Madison closed her eyes and took a breath. I can do this, she told herself. I _have_ to do this.

As soon as the little man left, Madison self-consciously disrobed under Beba's relentless glare. She tried to move slowly and confidently, as if she'd done it a hundred times, carefully folding her clothes and placing them in a little stack on a love seat. She slipped on the thong, realizing with horror that her pubic hair grew well outside the bikini line. This was one detail Enzo had forgotten. Embarrassed, Madison sat down on the love seat and crossed her legs.

She waited for a long time. The room was drafty, which made her all the more aware that she was practically naked. Occasionally, a glamorous looking woman would wander in to freshen up her makeup, or get a piece of gum from her locker. A pale young man with orange-dyed hair arrived with a makeup box, and set up at the end of one of the mirrored counters. One woman rolled into work late. She was beautiful and dark-skinned, with strange wide eyes. She settled onto the stool next to the man. Both of them stared at Madison in the mirror.

Madison had never been naked in front of strangers before, and she couldn't help feeling that she was having one of those childhood dreams where she'd forgotten to get dressed before going to school. But she tried not to let it show. She leaned into the sofa cushions, constantly crossing and uncrossing her legs. She studied her fingernails and tried to look bored. Occasionally, she even forced a yawn. But she found it was hard to look nonchalant while wearing nothing but a red thong.

Finally, a very poised, middle-aged man whisked into the room. He had dark, receding hair, and wore an expensive suit. Her first instinct was to cover her breasts, but she stopped herself. He approached her with his hand extended, so she stood up.

"Simon," he said, shaking her hand as if they were in a corporate boardroom. "Manager of operations."

"Madison." She felt her cheeks burning. Be confident, she told herself. Confident, confident, confident.

Simon nodded brusquely and took several steps back. He looked Madison up and down. "Turn around," he commanded.

She turned in a perky little circle, holding her arms out like a bird. He walked around her, studying her body as if it were a used car he was thinking of buying. With another quick nod, he strode out of the room. Madison stood there blinking, unsure of what had just happened.

"Put your clothes on, _madre_ ," Beba's disdainful voice piped in from the kiosk.

Madison quickly pulled on her clothes right over the uncomfortable thong, desperate to be covered again. Just as she was pulling on her shirt, the short man returned.

"Simon said you looked good. Come at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. You'll need at least three dresses. Elegant. Nothing trashy. Be ready to go onto the floor by two thirty.

He turned and bustled toward the door, then remembered something and stopped.

"Oh," he called across the room. "And he said you need to shave."

There were titters from the woman and the makeup guy, and Madison went scarlet.

"Do you have a bag?" Beba asked, stepping out of her kiosk with a small black purse dangling from her hand. "One hundred fifty pesos for this."

"A bag?" Madison asked, dazed.

Beba rolled her eyes. "For the _plata_ , _madre_ ," she said. "For the money."

### Plata is on sale now!

