Love in Transit

by Jana Aston

  “I hope so, Mr. Edmonds.” Seraphina slings her backpack over her shoulder. “I really have to run.”

  “Okay.” Turning her back to me, she walks toward the door, and I follow. As we reach the door, I open it for her. “See you on Friday. Say, about three?”

  “Perfect.” Her weak smile carries the weight of the world.

  I pull a few twenties out of my pocket. “Open your hand.”

  She extends her arm, and I place the bills in her palm, then slide my fingers across her wrist and forearm—a brazen touch that sends a visible shiver through her.

  “Take care of yourself, Sera,” I whisper as she stands on her tiptoes and gives me a chaste kiss on my cheek.

  “Thanks, Mr. Edmonds.”

  “Please, call me Seth.”

  “I can’t, Mr. Edmonds. Not yet.”

  With a teasing smile, she walks past my assistant, who likely overheard everything, but pretends to be busy on her computer. Seraphina walks down the hall, and my eyes lock on her toned legs.

  Not yet. Her words come back to me right before she disappears from my view.

  I have three days until I see her again. If I can’t have her as mine, I can at least torture myself with seeing her as often as possible. Maybe when she is on the other side of the hell from her father’s estate it will happen, but at twenty-one, she has her entire life ahead of her. There’s no denying one fact: I’ve fallen hard for this beautiful, helpless waif of a girl.

  Chapter 2

  Seraphina

  I run down the subway steps to catch the train to Wall Street. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for work. My backpack bounces on my back, and I hold on tight to the straps. As I near the last step, I pull my Metro pass out of my trench coat pocket, run the card through the one free turnstile, turn the bars until I’m on the other side, then bound down the stairs to the platform. Hearing the squeal of metal against metal as a train brakes, I sigh. Made it just in time.

  The train doors open with a loud swoosh as I near them. Walking inside the car, I locate a set of empty seats against the wall, which isn’t hard this time of day. Lunch hour traffic is nothing like the early commuter’s rush. I drop down on the hard seat, toss my backpack beside me, and take a couple breaths to calm my heart. Leaning back against the subway glass, I close my eyes and grab ahold of my backpack. I can’t wait for this day to be over. It’s been one clusterfuck after another.

  First, I overslept. Then, after slipping on a sock, I stubbed my toe. On the way out of our building, the stupid elevator decided to quit working, leaving me no choice but to run down six flights of stairs.

  Needing my normal jolt of caffeine, I headed straight for my favorite coffee shop. When I pulled on the door handle, it didn’t budge. I peered through the glass, and didn’t see a soul inside. Stepping away from the shop, I spotted a big, blaring sign that read, Closed for Health Code Violations. My stomach churned knowing I bought a latte from there yesterday afternoon.

  The life I once knew is so far from where I find myself today. We used to live in a townhouse with a distinct Upper East Side address, and now, gone is the closet full of designer clothes, paintings worthy of a museum, and refrigerator stocked with food.

  My mother and I live in a cramped one-bedroom apartment we can barely afford. The windows are streaked with the city’s black grime, and the neighbors fight at all hours of the night.

  The one bright spot in my pathetic life is Mr. Edmonds. He’s is the most beautiful man I’ve ever met. It’s not just his handsome face with the Hollywood-worthy jawline and striking blue eyes that distract me like no other. It’s the size of his heart. His smile and caring eyes wrap around me like a warm hug, reassuring me.

  Every time I visit his office, I leave with a small sliver of hope. Maybe he’ll discover a miraculous way out of this dark hole for my mother and me. The pressure to keep things together while my mother spends her day high on mind-numbing pills wears me down. I don’t know how much longer I can take it.

  Some days, I want to join her medicated bliss and forget the last few months ever happened. Then I remember the mound of bills and creditor letters piled high on the secondhand table by the front door, and know I can’t ignore the truth.

  My new reality leaves me nowhere to run. Either I lie down beside my mother and await a homeless fate or find a way to save us both. I’m her only child—the last hope she has in the world. My father chose the easy way out, and I fear my mother may be close behind him. I shudder at the thought.

  Sweet and beautiful Mr. Edmonds is my refuge, but something about him today was different. I’ve noticed flashes of it before, but today, he didn’t have the look of pity in his eyes at all. It was more desperation, like he carried a weight on his shoulders.

  He had been my father’s attorney for three years, and has tried to get my trust fund unfrozen, but has had no success so far. Maybe my fear of the unknown has rubbed off on him too.

  The cash he handed me is stuffed inside my coat pocket. He usually gives me a hundred dollars each time I see him. Today, the wad of twenties seems thicker. I shouldn’t take his money. Instead, I should be paying him for his services, but when I refused the money the first time, he insisted I take it as a gift, and reluctantly, I did—and continue to do so.

  I’ve never felt any strings attached to his help or money. Though I have no clue why, I feel he actually cares for me. I’ve never known a man to give so much of himself for nothing. Things like that don’t happen in this concrete jungle.

  My lips still tingle from the kiss I gave him on the cheek before I left him, and I swear he gasped at the soft touch. I was so close to him, I could smell his cologne. It was masculine, yet crisp and clean—a scent I’ll never forget.

  Gorgeous, rich, and powerful, a man like Mr. Edmonds would never want someone like me: poor with no future. The thought makes me sad, because deep down inside, I wish he wanted me.

  After the train progresses farther into the underground tunnel, heat radiates inside the car. It’s too hot and humid for my coat, so I open the collar and unbutton it down to the tight belt.

  At this point, I don’t care if anyone sees what’s underneath. I never wear my uniform in public, but I had no choice today. My appointment with Mr. Edmonds gave me no time to change before my shift. This way, all I need to do is slip on my five-inch heels, pull my lace mask out of my backpack, and hit the stage.

  I glance at my phone to check the time. Chances of me making it by noon are slim since it’s fifteen till. My stomach rumbles in protest, having not eaten a morsel yet, and I dig in my backpack, finding my flattened peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My first bite is way too big, and drops of jelly fall from my lips onto my clothes.

  “Crap,” I say out loud at the small stains on my white lace.

  Opening my trench coat all the way, I reach for the napkin I packed with my sandwich. Thankfully, I’m quick enough to get the spots removed before they set in. My customers will never see any remnants in the dark, so I should be okay—if I make it on time. I tap my feet against the floor, hoping the train hurries.

  “Headed to your wedding?” a woman asks. I turn my head in the direction of where the question came from, and see an elderly lady across from me, smiling.

  “Excuse me?” I scrunch my brows and tilt my head.

  “Your dress.” She points to me while peering at my midsection.

  “Oh,” I gasp, realizing I forgot to button my jacket back up. Even in this crazy city, it’s not every day a person rides the subway in a wedding gown. “It’s for work.”

  The train comes to a stop, and the doors open for people to leave or jump inside. The elderly woman gets up, and I breathe in relief, thinking this must be her station. Instead, she breaks the cardinal rule on subways, and comes to sit down beside me. Strangers never talk to each other. Ever.

  Her wool suit looks expensive, perhaps a Chanel. Her thin, aged hands are adorned with jeweled rings. My mother could’ve been her in thirty years, but
all her jewelry worth any value is long gone to pay for things like electricity and food. I glance up at the woman’s face, finding her smiling at me. She seems sane and sweet—likely harmless.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m curious to know where you work. I’ve never heard of anyone wearing a wedding dress for a job. I find it rather fascinating.” She giggles as if I’m going to spill the details of a worldly secret, but I can’t tell her the truth—at least, not the exacts.

  “I work at The Exchange,” I say in a breezy way, like the sky is blue, because everyone thinks I mean the stock market. The terms are interchangeable.

  “Really?” She nods her head with wide eyes, expecting the answer from me to be yes. I don’t want to disappoint her, so I nod along. “But the dress?”

  “Just a silly costume for the lunch crowd to liven up the place from time to time.”

  “Have you always wanted to work on Wall Street?”

  “I wanted to be a dancer.” My voice fades away.

  She takes my hand, sensing my heart breaking in two. How can a stranger on a train know me so well?

  “What’s your name, dear? I’m Emily Goodman. My friends call me Goodie.” I let out a little giggle. It suits her disposition and smile. It’s one of the first laughs I’ve had in days. If this lady’s mission was to make me smile, she nailed it.

  “Seraphina. My friends call me Sera.” I don’t tell her they know me as poor Sera now, and have stopped calling me altogether.

  “What a perfect name for a dancer. You’re young with your entire life ahead of you. Have you thought of leaving Wall Street and pursuing dance?”

  “I attended Juilliard, but had to quit.”

  “Why, child?” The sweet woman squeezes my hand to show her concern.

  “Finances.”

  “There are loans and scholarships.”

  How can I tell her the truth? There are no scholarships or loans for penniless rich girls. Even if my trust fund is released to me, I don’t think the school will allow me past their front doors. No one wants a tainted student whose family’s misfortunes are blasted all over the New York Post’s gossip page.

  “Maybe someday,” I say with as much hope as I can muster.

  “That’s the spirit. Don’t give up on your dreams, my dear. When you’re old like me, you won’t regret what you did in life. You’ll regret what you were afraid to do or try.” The corners of her eyes crease as she smiles at me, and I feel mine well up with tears.

  “Thanks for the advice.” I force a smile, trying to mask the sadness over my dreams being lost forever.

  An announcement over the speaker system calls out the next train station. I have three more stops until I get off at Wall Street.

  “This is me,” Goodie says as she gathers her bag on her lap. “It was lovely to meet you, Sera. You have a beautiful spirit that draws people to you. Have faith in yourself.” She releases my hand as the train comes to a stop and the doors open.

  “Thanks, Goodie.”

  “Bye, dear.” Rising from her seat, she walks to the door.

  After she exits and the doors close, I can’t help but feel some glimmer of hope or possibility that maybe my life can improve.

  Chapter 3

  Seth

  I try calling Seraphina for the fifth time this morning. Her appointment is today, and I’ve been anxious all week to see her. My call goes straight to her voicemail again, and I leave a message for the first time.

  “Sera, it’s Seth. Um, Mr. Edmonds. I just wanted to confirm our date—appointment today at three p.m. I have news to share with you. See you at three. I look forward to it.” My voice sounds nothing like a polished attorney at the city’s most prestigious law firm. Instead, I resemble a lovesick teenager trying to win a poor girl’s heart.

  I end the call and close my eyes. How have I let this beautiful woman get under my skin? Thoughts of her consume me like she’s a drug my body needs to survive. If days go by without contact, I feel antsy and unsettled. My need for her is twisted, but I have no idea how to stop these desires—and I don’t want to. I’ve become addicted to the high she gives when I can gaze at her porcelain skin and captivating eyes. My palms begin to sweat, and a knock at my door draws me back.

  “Come in,” I say in response.

  The door opens, and my colleague and fellow law partner, Jonathan Moore, walks inside.

  “What the hell? Everyone’s already left. I stayed behind to find out what was keeping you.” He shakes his head and throws his hands up in the air. “It’s Greg’s last hurrah before his wedding tomorrow. Or did you forget?”

  “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as I push my chair back from my desk and stand. “Yeah. Too much going on this week.” It’s a lie, but one that will likely pass for the truth.

  “What’s gotten into you lately?” Moving forward, he appraises me, eyes full of concern. The anger I sensed from before isn’t present.

  I run my fingers through my hair and shrug. “Just busy with a couple cases.”

  “It’s the Andrew Bishop case, and his daughter,” Jonathan says in an accusatory tone. “And you’re doing the fucking work pro bono.”

  “Let me shut down my computer and I’ll be right with you.” I brush off his comments and look away from his pointed stare, but he’s spot on.

  My distraction has everything to do with the Bishops’ beautiful daughter. I feel her burden like it’s my own, because her father left her behind to wrap up pieces of his decimated life.

  With a few clicks, I save my work on Seraphina’s case, close out my social media sites, and shut down my computer.

  The firm’s chauffeur battles the crowded streets of Manhattan while driving Greg and I down to Wall Street where we’re meeting our colleagues at The Exchange.

  Membership at the exclusive club requires twenty thousand dollars and an extensive background check. The price of admittance is steep at this sex-laced establishment where men pretend the classy surroundings hide their base desires.

  But in the end, it’s nothing more than a strip club with Baccarat chandeliers and mahogany paneled walls serving a decent steak while topless woman spin around poles. It’s the champagne rooms upstairs where things turn seedy, though. Anything can be bought for a price.

  In our firm, it’s a rite of passage to be a member, so I joined three years ago after making partner. Since then, I’ve considered canceling my membership. I hardly walk through the doors, but there are times I need the place for an escape or a five-thousand-dollar private room experience. The women know how to take the edge off—or get me off, depending on my mood.

  It’s been months since my last visit. Around the time Andrew Bishop killed himself. The highest priced stripper doesn’t come close to matching Seraphina’s beauty and innocence. I fear my obsession with her will only grow if I don’t figure out a way to tame it.

  If she were a few years older, then maybe I would cross the line and pursue her. There’s nothing more I want than to make her mine and protect her from the cruel world. Maybe then she would smile and laugh, like the carefree young woman she once was when I met her three years ago.

  “We’re here.” Jonathan hits me in the arm and shakes his head with an added laugh. “Damn, Seth. I’ve never seen you this distracted. You need a private party today.”

  I don’t answer him. An expensive, dirty fuck has no appeal to me. Seraphina’s the only one who can take away this fucked up need, and in three hours, she’ll be in my office. The thought calms me for two seconds, until I reach the door of The Exchange.

  The seductive music hits me like a harsh wind, waking me up to reality. Regret fills me as I scan the dark interior. In the distance, a woman removes her top, seducing the patrons. A long-legged redhead leads a man up the stairs to a private room. He has his hands on her hips by the second step.

  The concierge smiles as we approach her stand. She functions as the gatekeeper. Jonathan gives her our names and the reason we are here: to celebrate Greg’s
get-one-last-fuck-in before his trip down the aisle tomorrow. Shaking my head, I scoff, knowing he’ll probably be right back here after his honeymoon. A wedding ring on his finger won’t keep it in his pants.

  “For fuck’s sake. Loosen up and try to have a good time,” Jonathan says with a nudge to my shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” I fire back, a noticeable bite to my tone.

  “Private. You won’t regret it. Shit, I’ll even treat you if it will wash that sour look off your face.”

  I don’t reply as we follow another woman to an area near the front of the club. The woman’s skirt is so short, I can see the bottom of her ass. Her top consists of lace black ribbons over her nipples that tie in the back. Her toned curves should arouse and tempt me, but her olive skin and dark brown hair isn’t what my fingers crave.

  We arrive at a front table, the guys from our group facing a clear glass stage. A red velvet skirting hugs the platform where a topless dancer twirls around a pole. All eyes are on her—even mine. Her talent can’t be denied, and my heart picks up a beat or two, but nothing more.

  “Where’s Greg?” Jonathan asks as we settle in. I grab the seat near the middle next to an open chair.

  Champagne chills in pure silver containers across the table, and a few empty bottles are scattered about, which is uncommon. Looks like the guys are drinking faster than the topnotch service.

  “Greg is upstairs with the virgin stripper. You know, the one with moves that make me want to pop her fucking cherry,” Michael Stanford, another partner with a Harvard pedigree, replies.

  “Isn’t she like five thousand for twenty minutes?” Jonathan asks.

  I wonder more about the virgin part versus her private fee. There’s no fucking way anyone stripping here is untouched. Seems a sucker is born every minute.

  “Yeah, but she has a waiting list out the door. Greg had to book her a month ago. He’s been jacking off about it ever since.” Michael forms his hand into a fist and gives the universal jerk-off motion.

  The guys at the table erupt in laughter, and I turn toward Michael, wanting to know more. This so-called virgin wasn’t around when I last visited.