C2 Book 1 The Wanted Ad

Being a candle is not easy; in order to give light, one must first burn. ~ Rumi

Underwater, the world doesn't feel like itself anymore. It becomes more like a gateway to another reality. It's an in-between place, water. Same with air. And dreams. They are all in-between places where so much possibility lives.

I often get my best flashes in the water. Some would call them premonitions, but they aren't nearly that defined. They're more impulses with a slight tingle to them. The kind I've learned to listen to.

A flash is what led me to turn right instead of left on my way home yesterday, which took me past a homeless person I gave change to, who then gave me their newspaper as a thank you, which had a strange advertisement for a job, which resulted in an interview today.

It read:

Assistant needed for unique firm.

Must be willing to work at night, travel, and live on-site.

Strong stomach a perk.

Compensation generous. Will train.

If you're reading this, you're the person we're looking for.

It listed a number but no name. When I called, a woman answered the phone with a chipper, "The Night Firm, how may I direct your call?"

I told her I was calling about an ad in the newspaper for a job. She paused. Became very quiet for a moment, and then said, "Please hold," with less chipperness than before.

When she returned, her voice was nearly robotic. "Be at 333 Alley Lane at 10 p.m. tomorrow," she said, before promptly and unceremoniously hanging up on me!

I sat staring at my phone for several minutes, unsure of what had just happened or what I should do.

A quick Google search for The Night Firm revealed only skin care creams and a questionable website that showed women bent over with minimal clothing. I instantly decided I wasn't going to go. It was stupid, possibly dangerous, and surely not worth it.

But then I set my phone down and wandered my two-bedroom apartment with the secondhand, mismatched furniture that smelled like cigarettes and body odor, the carpet that hailed from another epoch, and the couple above I'm certain are professional dancers who also like to breathe loudly during sex, and I changed my mind. Rather, my flash changed my mind. I got the tingly feeling, and I knew I had to go.

So here I am, applying one more coat of mascara before heading out the door in a suit I can't afford and will be returning first thing tomorrow, in hopes of landing the most mysterious job ever.

How do you dress when you have no idea what the job is that you're applying for and don’t know anything about the company? I figured it would be better to be professionally overdressed than under, thus the blue Prada suit. The woman at the store insisted I wear it, despite my objection that the feather cuffs were a bit much. She assured me it was all the rage, and I must confess I do look rather striking in it. My dark hair is pulled into a French twist, and I accented my blue eyes with a charcoal powder. Red lips provide the finishing touch.

They can't possibly judge me for my choice of presentation when they didn't give me any hints as to what they are about.

With one last glance in the mirror and a fake smile that I hope looks sincere, confident and competent, I turn off the light in the bathroom and grab my well-worn leather bag as I head to the front door.

I don't open his door this time as I pass it, though I do run my hand over the knob briefly, even as my mind unpacks the memories stored there. Memories of before. Memories of us. Always us. "It's us against the world, Evie," he'd always say, his blue eyes, so alike to mine, peering straight into my soul in a way no one else could. My hand lingers a moment longer, then slips off, and I tuck the memories back into their mental box and shove them away.

I'm clearly not over it. Not ready to entirely move on. Still, there's some progress. I think even Jerry--my former therapist--would agree.

Former because we ended up sleeping together and it took me longer than it should to realize how unhealthy that was. He took advantage of me during a low point in my life, and I let him, because I was in too much pain to say no to something that looked enough like love.

His true colors bled into our relationship slowly, and by then it was too late. I was already under his thumb.

I don't even cry every night anymore. Not about my brother and not about my therapist/love/ex/asshole.

But when my phone bings, the familiar panic sends a surge of unneeded adrenaline through my bloodstream and my heart quickens as I swallow back bile.

Because I know it's Jerry.

And I'm not wrong.

I'd love to be wrong. Just once.

Please, babe. Give me another chance. We're perfect together. I love you. Isn't that enough?

I squeeze away the tears forming in my eyes as I look around for something to anchor me to the present moment. The silver door knob. The Ansel Adams print hanging in the hall. The spider crawling in the corner of the ceiling. I breathe in. Breathe out. In through the nose two counts, out through the mouth four counts. I am safe. Whole. One with all. I am safe. Whole. One with all.

As my body settles and my mind calms, I continue my breathing until the panic abates.

It's getting easier to recover from these unexpected contacts. I screenshot the exchange, put it in the file I created specifically for this, and block the number. Again.

The gesture is beginning to feel pointless. He just finds a new number. I think he's got a year's worth of burner phones for the sole purpose of harassing me daily. I've already deleted all my social media and gone dark in every way that I can. My phone number is unlisted and I change it every three months. I would move if I could, but I haven't been able to afford it since Adam died. The authorities are fairly useless. Which leaves me on my own to deal with my ex.

So here we are.

I drop the phone into my bag and let myself out of my apartment, which involves unlocking four separate deadbolts I insisted my landlord install for me. I take a few moments to lock up, suck in my breath, and turn to face my future.

* * *

The subway this time of night is shockingly less crowded than I would have expected, much to my relief. Rush hour is long past, but still, New York is overcrowded at any time, day or night. Yet our train is only moderately full, mostly of people who look to be heading out for a good time or coming home from one.

I find a seat as far from everyone else as I can, pull out my sketchbook and pencils, and look around for the perfect subject.

I'm about to settle on a beautiful older male couple holding hands and talking quietly with their heads close together when I see him.

My body's response to him is physical, visceral and immediate. It takes me a moment to remember how to breathe. It's as if all the oxygen has been sucked from me, and when it returns, I gasp, then cough to cover up the sound.

He hasn't noticed me--the god-like specimen across the train--and I'd like to keep it that way.

Never have I seen someone so perfect, so symmetrical, so angular in all the right ways, so handsome but also devilishly sexy at the same time. I feel a tightening in my gut as I study him, an awakening of something dormant within, something I haven't felt in a very long time. I shove that feeling aside and focus on the art as my fingers work quickly to sketch his form.

He's tall, maybe 6'4" or 6'5", broad shoulders, tapered waist, all wrapped in a suit that looks custom-tailored just for his body. His dark hair is wild, falls past his collar, and compliments his forest green eyes, and I have to look away quickly before he catches me staring. A viral energy emanates from him and he fills the train with a kind of magic that belies his expensive suit.

The woman to his left can't take her eyes off of him and is practically straining to get closer even as the man she's with wraps his arms around her possessively while he shoots dark looks at the stranger. Two college girls give up their seats to stand closer to him. Even the men respond, some with anger and fear, their bodies betraying their desire to get as far away from him as possible.

It's not just his attractiveness or the wealth he oozes with every detail of his bearing and clothing. He doesn't look as if he belongs on a New York subway. In fact, he doesn't look as if he belongs in the beautiful but grungy city of New York at all. He looks like a photoshopped magazine cover come to life, but whether that magazine is GQ or National Geographic is hard to say.

I watch, amazed, as some people scoot away from him, even as I fight every instinct inside me to move closer, as if he has a force field around him, repelling and attracting, pushing and pulling. He's drawing me in without even knowing it. I could be invisible to him, but suddenly he's become the only thing I can focus on.

I work almost mindlessly, letting the art and inspiration flow through me. This has always been my release, my way of connecting to the creative movements of life. I minored in art after my college boyfriend convinced me an art major wouldn't be worth the paper my degree was printed on.

I chose a more practical route and kept my art a side hobby, a passion, a secret obsession at times.

I don't completely regret the choice. It turns out I'm damn good at what I do. Sometimes, I even like it. Though finding joy in anything for the last few years has been hard. Even my art has been more therapy than pleasure.

My fingers are smudged black by the time I complete the portrait. I stare at it for a moment, happy to discover I caught that undefinable energy he has, even while standing still. It's like he's always in motion. A hunger driving him. Almost imperceptible, but still there. I normally like to put stories to the people I draw on the subway, but he seems to defy my silly storytelling. He's telling his own story with every breath, every movement of his head, every glance at his overpriced watch.

I'm completely lost in my drawing when a baritone voice with a British accent shocks me back to the present.

"That's an incredible likeness."

I look up and into his forest eyes--and I feel suddenly lost in sensations of the wind and earth and tall trees and wilderness. My flashes are buzzing like a trapped bee in my gut. I'm flustered, which isn't like me. "Thanks," I manage to mutter, though I can't seem to pull my gaze from his.

"You just drew this? In the last few minutes?" he asks, pushing the reluctant conversation forward as he takes the seat beside me. I move my bag to give him more room, and now our thighs are touching, and I suck in air like I'll never have the option again.

I nod in answer to his question, my jaw locked stubbornly in place. Come on, get your shit together. Stop acting like a tongue-tied teenager.

"Yes. It's a hobby of mine while on the subway. To draw people I find interesting in some way." There. A complete sentence. We're making progress.

His lips form a smirky little smile. "And what did you find interesting about me?"

I manage to pull my gaze away from his to glance down at my drawing as I consider his question. Obviously he's smoking hot, but I actually see a lot of sexy men in New York, and yet they generally bore me as subjects for my work. It's not his incredible good looks that drew me in. "You seem juxtaposed against life," I say, as if that makes sense to anyone but me.

He raises an eyebrow. "Do tell," he says.

Great. Okay, how to explain. "You stand out. Most people fade into the fabric of life. They are colors blended into the whole, washed out by the pulse around them. You...you don't blend in. You stand out in sharp contrast, like you don't entirely belong, or maybe you're the only one who truly does belong and everyone else is just faking it. If...if that makes any sense." My mouth is dry now and I reach desperately into my bag for my water.

I pull out the bottle and suck down half the contents just as our train lurches to a halt. My hands, sweaty from stress, can't maintain purchase on the plastic, and it slips from my grasp. For a split second I'm aware that my entire sketchbook--and my lap--is going to to take a bath it won't recover from.

I'm about to decide that this fiasco will end any chance of me attending my job interview when the stranger next to me reaches out and catches the water bottle before it spills even a single drop.

The movement is so fast I don't even see it. I only see the aftereffect of him holding the bottle that a fraction of a moment ago slipped from my hands.

My eyes widen. "You have quite the reflexes," I say, taking the water back from him and slipping it into my purse after making sure the lid is secured. "Thanks."

He nods but says nothing, just continues staring at me. "You're an unusual woman."

I shrug. "I get that a lot."

"Where are you headed?"

"A job interview," I say.

"Something in art, I hope?" he says.

I chuckle. "No. Haven't you heard? There's no money in art."

He frowns but doesn't say anything, so I continue. "Business," I say. "I chose business, and that's what the interview is for. Though it's far from what I really want to be doing, to be honest."

I have no idea why I'm telling a total stranger this, but again, here we are.

"Don't settle," he says, "Trust me when I say you don't want to get stuck in a life you hate." His gaze settles on me, his eyes searching mine for secrets. "Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams die, Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly."

"Hold fast to dreams," I say, finishing the poem, "For when dreams go, Life is a barren field Frozen with snow."

He raises an eyebrow. "You know your poetry. Are you a fan of Langston Hughes?"

"I actually don't read much poetry anymore," I say. "But I took a class in college and I have a good memory."

"Better than good, I would say."

The train slows, and I realize we're at my stop. I stand, regretting the break of contact with his thigh, and he stands with me.

"Looks like we're both getting off here," he says.

I nod and grab my bag, then walk through the doors with him just a step behind me. I can feel him with every movement. My own body actually seems to be orienting itself to his movements, which annoys me, so I take an extra-large step to the left and let him catch up to me as we walk up the stairs and into the chill night air.

It's an awkward moment. I don't want to leave him, but I can't be late to my interview.

He nods. "Good luck," he says, turning away from me.

I can't help myself. I call out before he walks too far, "Wait!"

I run up to him as I tear the portrait out of my sketchbook. "For you. I usually give my subjects their portraits when I'm done."

He takes it from my hand, studying it and then studying me. "You always give your art away? Without compensation or recognition?"

I cock my head. "I don't do it for money or recognition," I say. "I do it because it drives my soul in a way nothing else does. And I give it away because it brings joy to people. It brightens their day to know someone has truly seen them, even if just for fifteen or twenty minutes during a subway commute. Everyone has a light to give to the world, and that's mine. In lumen et lumen ."

"What did you just say?" he asks.

"In lumen et lumen. It's Latin for ‘In the light, of the light .’ Something my dad used to say to me and my brother, that we should always strive to live in the light and be of the light. It's always been a kind of guiding mantra for me."

I cock my head and smile. "You never told me your name," I say, holding out a hand. "I'm Eve."

"Sebastian," he says automatically, bringing his hand to mine.

When our palms touch, a shock of electricity shoots through my arm and into me, and my eyes widen. So do his, or maybe I'm imagining it.

"Well, Sebastian, it was a pleasure meeting you tonight. I just have one more question for you before we part ways."

"And what's that, Eve?"

"What's your light? Do you know?"

* * *

He might still be back there, pondering my question, or watching me walk away. I don't know, because I refuse to look. Back straight, chest up, I am confident and smart and I am not blowing a potential job for a cute face. Besides, no way am I ready to date after my last shitfest of a relationship. I'm happy enough single.

I stick to my resolve. I don't look back.

But I won't lie, my fingers are itching to draw him again.

And to touch him.

But I shove that inappropriate thought aside and continue on.

On the way to the office, a meow interrupts my thoughts, and I pause and kneel to give an orange tabby some love. The cat pushes against my hand, purring and demanding affection, which I'm happy to accommodate. I always have time for cats, and they always seem to have time for me.

I arrive at my destination after a five-minute walk, the tabby following me until I reach the front door. It's a tall glass and steel office building with blacked out windows and no sign other than the address. Very mysterious.

When I walk in, the mystery only deepens. The front lobby is a blend of modern and zen. Clean lines, minimalistic d'e9cor, everything in beige and white. The wall behind the receptionist's desk draws my eye--an indoor waterfall flowing over stone. A man and woman, both unnaturally beautiful, both dressed in black, sit behind the desk typing on sleek computers. They look up simultaneously when I walk over, and I'm struck by their matching hazel eyes set against their dark amber skin. Even their bone structure is similar, and before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "Are you twins?"

They each nod once, briefly, and then the woman asks, "How can I help you?"

I recognize her voice from the phone call. "I'm Eve Oliver. I have an interview right now."

I don't give more details because I don't have more details to give.

She frowns, then taps a small silver device on her ear. "She's here." She nods. "Have a seat. They will be with you shortly."

I pick a spot close to the front desk so I can do some sleuthing and see if I can find out more about this company. It occurs to me I should try asking. "Excuse me?"

The two look up in unison and my heart lurches at the familiarity of that synchronized connection one can only have with a twin.

"What does this company do exactly? What position am I applying for?" I feel stupid asking, but I'll feel even more stupid going into the meeting knowing nothing.

"They will tell you what you need to know during the interview," the woman says. I still haven't heard the guy speak.

"You can't give me any info?" I ask, perplexed. "A brochure, maybe? Website URL? Anything?"

She gives one curt shake of her head and then returns to her computer.

I sigh, give up, and pull out my sketchbook. I take a deep breath and quiet my mind, closing my eyes, letting stress and worry flow off of me like water. It doesn't take long for my attention to return to Sebastian. I envision every detail that I can recall. The different shades of green in his eyes. The aristocratic slope of his nose. His smooth brow and sharp cheekbones. I don't open my eyes as I sketch. Sometimes drawing blind helps me hold the vision.

I don't know how long it takes me to finish, but when I open my eyes, I'm staring into his. Well, not really his, but his likeness on my paper. Even in charcoal and pencil he's breathtaking, and I'm ridiculous, lusting after my own drawing. I close my sketchbook and check the time, shocked to see I've already been here over an hour.

"Excuse me," I say, drawing the attention of two sets of impatient hazel eyes. "My interview was some time ago. Do you know how much longer I'll be waiting?"

"Until they call you up," she says, unhelpfully.

"Great. Thanks."

It's after midnight, and I've played more Candy Crush on my phone than I'm willing to admit, when the woman finally leaves her desk and gestures for me to follow.

She says nothing as we walk through marbled halls featuring modern paintings and I'm led to a boardroom. "Sit. They will join you shortly."

Lovely, more waiting. I take a seat at the long, mahogany table and stare out the window overlooking the New York harbor.

When I hear the click of the door, I stand, straightening my skirt and wiping my sweaty palm against my jacket. Taking a deep breath, I put on my best professional smile as the door opens.

My smile falters when I see the man standing there. The man whose eyes have haunted me since the subway.

"Sebastian?"

My pulse quickens and I feel a sinking in my stomach. I wanted to see him again, it's true. But not here. Not like this.

Not after I just confessed that I don't really want the job I am here applying for.

A job...apparently...with his company.