Fear of Heights

by Mara White

  Janey comes in with my coffee. She is sweaty and her blouse is clinging to her, as are the wet, golden strands of hair around her face.

  “I put a ton of that caramel creamer shit in it. I figured it was one of those days.”

  “I thank you, but my diet just punched you in the kidneys.”

  “Whatever, Lana. You’re ninety pounds with heels on. Can I send him in? You’ve got a line forming. The lobby is full already.”

  “Whatever happened to the good kids, Janey? The ones that came home in time for dinner and did their homework at the dining-room table? Does anybody grow up and go to college and start a nice little family anymore?”

  “Well, then we wouldn’t have jobs, would we? Hello? Besides, they still exist. We just don’t see any of them in here. You want your first, or should I still hold them off?”

  “Send them in. I’ll take the last one at 11:45, and then that’s all we’ll have room for today.”

  “Corrections already brought their load, so the rest should just be walk-ins.”

  I open his folder again and go over his stats. Six years old when he came to the States. No alien resident status, practically off the books until this arrest. Some foster-care placement. Faced deportation twice but went underground both times. I sip my coffee—it’s sweeter than fuck—and close the folder when there’s a knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  The door pushes open and in walks my first client of the day. He’s surprisingly big, probably close to six feet, and has the shoulder spread of a wrestler. He’s wearing dark green loose-fit cargo pants and a black T-shirt. He’s got a black beanie on that completely obscures his hair. What strikes me the most about him is the jewelry. He has piercings—those are sort of standard fare, an eyebrow and a lip—but beyond that, this kid is adorned. Large, masculine, silver rings decorate both hands, multiple bracelets on his wrists and pendants, everything in black leather or silver. His aesthetic is very bohemian. He looks like a gypsy, not a thug, which is what I’m most accustomed to, especially on my clients coming in from Juvie.

  “Come on in, have a seat, Moisés,” I say, glancing down at his file to make sure I’ve got his name right.

  He moves across the room and places a well-worn backpack by the chair. He’s got on heavy combat boots. He plops down in the chair and cracks his knuckles, staring blankly at me.

  I can’t quite put my finger on what it is about him, but he seems different than the hundreds of kids that tromp through here on a daily basis. It’s not just his style. He’s seems confident but not cocky. He has an almost distinguished vibe. He looks intelligent. I realize I’m staring.

  “Is that what you go by—Moisés? I’m Lana Finch, but most of the kids call me Doc.”

  He nods and rubs the stubble on his jaw with his thumb, as he looks at me thoughtfully. He’s taking me in, sizing me up, probably wondering if he can trust me or if he should be on the offensive. They all do, it’s a defense mechanism; these are kids who have been through a whole hell of a lot.

  “What do I have to do?”

  His voice is deep and melodious. Everything about him is surprising. I expected something more light, maybe a tenor, definitely not baritone.

  “Oh!” This kid is throwing me off my game, and it’s because I can’t read him. I’m good at reading kids—delinquents. I’m great at it. It’s what I do.

  “You have to get accepted first, and sign a contract. At that point, we’ll discuss what your assignment would be. Success with one assignment determines the likelihood of being granted another, and so on and so forth until you graduate. It’s a goal-oriented feedback loop all the way through until completion and certification, most likely gaining applicable credit, assuming that’s what the judge asks of you.”

  “Who accepts me?”

  “I do.” I swallow hard. He just made it sound so personal. I don’t accept participants based on anything personal. They have to meet very specific criteria and demonstrate promise in their first group activity. I don’t pick and choose candidates because I either like or dislike them.

  “Okay, so what do you want me to do?”

  “Just answer a few questions.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, I’m a social worker. I’m the project director at Pathways. I came in as a group leader initially.”

  “Do you like it here?”

  “I do like it. Most days.” I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions here, kid. “So is it Moisés that you go by? I have to fill out your intake form; we do honor nicknames here, as long as they’re not gang-affiliated.”

  “Why is your nickname Doc?” he asks, and pulls off his hat. His hair falls nearly to his shoulders. It’s shaved close around the sides but the center is long enough to be pulled into a ponytail and it’s the blackest, thickest, shiniest head of hair I’ve ever seen. This kid missed his calling as a Pantene model. He runs his hands through it and his bracelets clank together. His whole appearance would read decidedly feminine if not for his broad chest and muscular physique, along with the shadow of stubble across his strong jaw.

  “Did you ever apply for citizenship before, Moisés?”

  “Why don’t you put any pictures up in here? It seems kind of sad—not having anything on the wall. You aren’t into art?”

  He hasn’t answered a single question or even acknowledged that I’m asking them. I arch my brow at him and hold eye contact, trying to figure out what kind of game he’s playing. Kids like these always want to play hardball with you. They don’t have the experience to realize that fucking with you means fucking with their own future. But he should know how many others are in the lobby, and that one signature from me could blow his chances. I can play hardball too.

  “The next time you’re arrested, you will be tried as an adult. Have you ever been inside a federal penitentiary?”

  “They’d deport me first. I don’t have any resident standing. You know, I have some canvases that I could lend you, really colorful stuff. Bright. The subject matter is mostly dark but the colors are—well, I could bring them in for you to see.”

  Aha! He responded. I win. Not exactly the answer I was looking for, but he acknowledged my statement. I glance at my watch and see we’ve already gone over the fifteen minutes I allow each candidate. We have nothing filled out. Not even the name preference.

  A soft knock sounds on the window of my office door and Janey steps in with another coffee, this one in a disposable paper cup. I can smell the sweetened creamer as soon as she takes a step in the door.

  “Time’s up,” she mouths to me and smiles sweetly. Janey is my right hand at Pathways—the world’s best assistant and Friday night cocktail partner.

  Moisés’ eyes are on me and his stare is intense and smoky for such a young guy. His eyes are dark and almond-shaped; they seem relay an intelligence that exceeds his years.

  “So, do you want me?”

  I think I have decided to accept him and we didn’t even get started on the goddamned questionnaire. I hope this one doesn’t come back and kick me in the butt. He’s an artist—hopefully not a moody one, and by moody, I mean violent. But he definitely doesn’t belong in jail.

  Jennifer, one of the team leaders, the blonde that all the boys go crazy for, has a mural project going in Silver Lake today. We get asked to do a ton of murals. Most are commissioned by artists, and my kids just paint by numbers, but every once in a while we get a freestyle one, and we could use this guy for those. Pathways can paint the fuck out of some murals—they’re one of our most loved and most successful team projects.

  “I’ll give you one project. We’ll see how you do.”

  Moisés smiles, and it’s a beautiful thing. It’s his only display of emotion since he walked through the door. His face goes from sultry to spritely, and he seems so incredibly pleased.

  “Okay, Mr. Cruz,” Janey interrupts as she sets the coffee down on my desk. “Just sign the consent form and come back out to the fr
ont desk where Billy will escort you upstairs to Jennifer’s group. They’ve already started laying out the mural design on paper.”

  I lean forward and slide the form over to Moisés, and he pulls a pen out of the front pocket of his backpack. He signs and then pulls his hair back from his face and replaces the beanie.

  He stands to leave, and throws his backpack over his shoulder. It clunks as he beelines for the door.

  “What do you have with you? If it’s contraband, you’d better leave it at the desk with Janey, or you’re out before you even start.”

  He turns when he reaches the door and smiles again. He reaches one arm up behind him and grips the frame of the door as if to stretch out his back. His T-shirt rides up and a distinct line of little hairs lead down from his belly button to the waist of his pants. My eyes inadvertently stick to it and he immediately notices me looking. His smile widens. A million cascading thoughts fall through my mind.

  He fucking caught me! Looking there. Am I attracted to him? Am I blushing? Belly button. Worst intake interview ever! Treasure trail. Cock. Swollen cock. Fuck. I’d lose my license. Seven years. I’d pull his hair. God, I want to touch that hair! He’s lying about his age. He’s a grown man. Look at the muscle in his arms alone. Christ! I’m seven years older than him. I’m a pervert. I would totally fuck him. Under any other circumstances, I’d stick my tongue in his belly button and follow that path. Finch, you’re disgusting! And his dick is probably small. Probably a lousy fuck. I need a relationship, not a headache. Look at how his shirt stretches across his pecs. He must wrestle. He should wrestle me! I better fucking say something here before he thinks I’m totally off my rocker and reports me.

  “What is it?”

  “What’s what?” he asks, still smiling.

  “In your bag?” God! This kid will drive me nuts.

  Moisés bends the elbow of the arm that’s holding onto the top of the doorframe and pulls his goddamn feet off the floor in a one-armed pull-up. He’s strong. As fuck. Like a gymnast. He’s showing off for me—and I’m impressed.

  “Spray paint.” His face cracks into an even wider grin. Well, look at him! He’s absolutely delighted with his rebellious young self.

  “Check it. Even if it’s legit and not for graffiti—you don’t need another arrest.” I’ve got to pull my head out of his pants.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Get out of here! But come back after your project, before you sign out, so we can fill out this form,” I say, shaking it at him.

  He puts the other arm up and pulls. Both his feet come off the floor again. The door swings lightly with the weight of his body.

  “It’s Mozey. On the street they call me Cruz but my friends mostly call me Mozey.”

  “Do me a solid, would you, and send in the next kid on your way out.”

  The more nervous I get the more stupid I tend to act. If I’m super casual, it’s means my foundation is seconds away from collapse.

  “I could use a shot of whiskey in this coffee!” I accidentally say as I take a sip. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I apologize. I really only drink on Fridays.”

  Get out of my office and take your belly hair with you! Stop being so damn delicious and only eighteen!

  “Your coffee smells like flan.”

  “Time’s up.”

  “Do you want it?”

  “My coffee? I don’t want anything besides my next client.” Oh God, not like that. Failing. I gulp down more of my flan coffee. It’s really hot in here.

  “I could bring in a canvas for you. I’ve got one in mind. You wouldn’t have to hang it if you didn’t like it.”

  “Out, Mozey Cruz! Get out! Go paint and make me not regret my decision to let you participate.”

  “You won’t regret it,” he says and drags his tongue across his full upper lip. Stop with the double speak. My head is swimming. You are making me crazy.

  The second he steps out the door, I breathe an audible sigh of relief. I gulp the last sip of coffee and bring my forehead down to touch my desk. I need to get laid. Now my stupid shirt is stuck to me with sweat. It’s a goddamned jungle in here.

  “Hey Finch!” Oh God. He’s back. Go the fuck away, please!

  “What?” I ask without raising my head. I don’t care if I look insane. My forehead is staying right here stuck to this paper. I’m not making eye contact with him. I refuse to let him make me sweat. Or blush. Or smile.

  “Friday’s good for me. I’ll bring you your painting on Friday.”

  Ha. It is going to be one of those days.

  The Token

  Marata Eros

  The Token

  Volume One

  Copyright © 2013 Marata Eros

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication:

  Autumn Tackett- Davis

  Thank you so much~

  “Love sears the heart immortal

  The embers burnt down to the token which remains ....”

  Prologue

  “You’re dying,” Dr. Matthews says.

  Two words.

  Final.

  Complete.

  Desolate.

  I feel my fingers clench the armrests of the chair underneath me, but the rest of my body remains numb.

  If his words aren’t enough to convince me, I see my silence is a prevailing annoyance in his day.

  Dr. Matthews walks stiffly, making his way to the softly glowing X-ray reader.

  I flinch when he slaps the photo of the soft tissue of my brain against the magnetic tabs of the lit surface.

  The light glows around the tumor, immortalizing the end of my life like an emblazoned tool of disregard.

  Just the facts, ma’am.

  I sway as I stand, gripping the solid oak of his desk. It’s very large, an anchor in the middle of his prestigious office full of the affectations of his career.

  I walk toward Matthews. His hard face is edged by what might be sympathy. After all, it’s not every day he tells a twenty-two-year-old woman she’s got moments to live.

  Actually, I do have time—months.

  It’s just not enough.

  I look at the mess that’s my brain, at the damning half a golf ball buried in a spot that will make me a vegetable if they operate. My eyes slide to the name at the bottom. For a split second, I hope to see another name there. But my own greets me.

  Mitchell, Faren.

  I back up and Matthews reaches to steady me.

  But it’s too late.

  I spin and run out of his office as his voice calls after me. The corners of my coat sail behind me as I slap the metal hospital door open and take the cement steps two at a time.

  I see my car parked across the street and race to it. My escape, my despair, is a thundering initiative I can’t deny.

  I miss the hit as if it happens to someone else. Only the noise permeates my senses as light flashes in my peripheral vision, mirrors against sunlight. I tumble in a slow spin of limbs. My body heaves and rolls, hitting the asphalt with a breath-stealing slap.

  I lie against the rough black road. My lungs beg for air, burning for oxygen, and finally I take a sucking inhale that tears through my lungs.

  The wet road feels cool against my face as I watch someone come into my line of sight. My body burns and my head ac
hes. My arm is a slim exclamation point from my body, my fingers twitching. I can’t make them stop. I can’t make anything stop.

  Powerless.

  The doctor is too late with his condemning words. I’ve already died. I know this because the man who approaches is an angel. A helmet comes off hair so deep auburn it’s a low-burning lick of flame. He swims toward me like a mirage, walking in a surreal slow motion. I blink, and my vision blurs. I try to raise my arm to wipe my eyes and whimper when it disobeys my command.

  My angel crouches down, his eyes a deep brown, belying the dark bronze of his hair. “Shhh... I got you.” His voice is a deep melody.

  I sigh. Safe.

  I try to focus on him but the helmet he parks next to his boots becomes three as my vision triples.

  There’s a scuffle and I try to move to see what all the commotion’s about. The angel wraps his warm large hand around my smaller one and smiles. “It’s going to be okay.”

  That’s when I know I’m not in heaven.

  That’s what people say when nothing is okay.

  1

  One month prior

  I flex my hand, grab my isometric handgrip, and do my hundred reps. So fun—a little like flossing my teeth. I put on the kettle with my good hand and turn the burner on high.

  Flex, squeeze, release, flex again.

  I get to a hundred and switch hands. As I go through my daily ritual, I flip open my Mac and browse my emails.

  Faren, can you cover my shift? Faren, can you come in a half hour early? Faren, can you bring the main dish for the office pot luck?

  Delete, delete, delete.

  I’ll say yes because it’s hard for me to say no. Tough lessons in life have taught me that.