One

Exactly two hours had passed since I started checking the windows and Mistoffelees’ litter box, and I had looked at the clock precisely eleven times. This made twelve. I was running late for work again, but that was nothing new to me – I was always late. I took my time sliding my fingers across the latches on every window, moving counter-clockwise around the apartment with even, measured steps, and I even lingered to give Mistoffelees an affectionate scratch underneath his chin while I looked over his litter box. Satisfied, I grabbed my messenger bag and slung it securely over my shoulder, indulging myself in one last glance around the room. Everything was fresh, everything was locked, and everything was in place. In a word, perfect.

The only obstacle left was the door.

The door was perhaps my greatest enemy. I twisted my arm, somehow stretching the sleeve of my pressed, slate-colored blazer over my knuckles, and seized the doorknob in a nervous grip. Standing there for a moment, I allowed myself a brief instant to breathe deeply and relax before I opened the door and shuffled outside. Once there, I only had to shut it twenty-six times, just to make sure it closed properly, and I could finally leave for work. I was being transferred today – Mr. Wheaton was tired of me being late all the time, so he’d moved me to a closer building – and I wanted to make a good impression. The very best impression. I wanted to leave my new boss staring at his office door thoughtfully, saying to himself, Now there goes the finest damn editor I’ll ever have.

Of course, this was simply not to be. I was only on slam number eighteen when I heard the creak of a door somewhere behind me, and I turned to see my neighbor leaning languidly against the wall, his legs casually crossed at the ankles as he watched me through his dark eyelashes. I knew him only as Nicolas, neighbor and occasional annoyance, who blasted swing music in the middle of the night until Mrs. Norton had to smack the ceiling with a broom from downstairs.

His hair was bedraggled; some of it fell in the dark waves as intended, but the rest of it was divided between twisting away in haphazard directions and matting itself to his head. He was still in a stained blue T-shirt and jogging pants, and, after my initial reaction of fear and distaste at the state of his clothes, I had an awful rush of guilt when I realized I must have woken him up. Dammit.

Of course, I couldn’t let myself be distracted. If I paused too long between slams, I’d lose my confidence, and I’d have to start all over again. So I grabbed the knob with my sleeve and pulled, almost growling when I didn’t hear the satisfying click I was looking for, and aggressively continued with door slam number twenty-two.

His voice was smooth when he spoke. “Having some problems there, Em?”

My left eyelid twitched in a little muscle spasm that spoke volumes of my agitation. I glared at him from the blurry corner of eye, where my glasses didn’t quite cover my vision, and furrowed my eyebrows irritably. “My name’s Emerson,” I stressed, unable to resist the urge to slam the door a little harder this time. Twenty-four.

“Yeah, I remember,” he said, chuckling. He bumped his shoulder against the wall, pushing off, and dragged himself across the grungy hallway carpet to hover near my shoulder. He laughed again, bubbling warm and dark from the back of his throat, but the sound of it did nothing to comfort me. Discreetly, I inched away from him and kept my attention focused on my current task. He asked softly, “Do you need someone to close it for you?”

“No,” I growled a little louder than necessary, mostly to drown out the sound of his voice. I mentally stumbled for a moment, wondering whether I was on twenty-five or twenty-six, and eventually decided that it hadn’t sounded right. With a strangled, almost outraged noise, I balled my hand into a fist and started the entire process again.

Leaning forward on the balls of his feet and humming softly, he pretended to curiously inspect the door hinges. “What’s wrong with it?” he wondered.

“It isn’t shutting right,” I snapped, desperately trying to avoid being distracted again. I definitely didn’t want to have to do this a third time. “It’s supposed to—” There was a brief pause as I slammed it for the fifty-second time and allowed myself an unguarded smile at the rewarding creak it made. My head tipped sideways to face Nicolas. “It’s supposed to do that,” I finished, a bit breathlessly.

His eyebrows jumped up almost to his hairline. “I can’t tell the difference.”

“You wouldn’t,” I muttered and swiveled my head to focus on the door again, locking it before I allowed my hand fall away with a sigh of relief. I tucked the key in my pocket and finally set about wrestling my hand properly through my sleeve again.

Nicolas’ eyebrows bent inwards, furrowing, and he tilted his head to indicate my arm. His voice sounded indisputably bewildered when he asked, “Why do you do that?”

“Because it’s disease-ridden,” I responded automatically, flinching as soon as the words left my mouth. I hated having this conversation.

His expression turned decidedly dubious at that. “Your sleeve?”

I sighed wearily. “No, the door handle.”

“Oh.” He glanced between my face and the doorknob and scuffed his toe somewhat awkwardly against the carpet. “Sorry, kid.”

“It’s not your problem,” I murmured, suddenly more uncomfortable than before. The palms of my hands itched, so I quickly unzipped my bag and began fumbling through it for the bottle of Purell I always kept there. I quickly squeezed a generous portion onto my hands and dropped the container back into the proper compartment, muttering to myself as I vigorously rubbed my hands together. I noticed Nicolas giving me a strange look and subtly shrank back against the wall, embarrassed. “It’s not your problem,” I repeated, catching his stare. “It’s mine.”

He nodded and flicked his eyes briefly up and down my frame, lingering on the messenger bag slung across my shoulder and the charcoal, striped tie that rested primly against my pressed shirt. He slanted his head to the side and lifted his gaze to meet mine to change the subject. “Going somewhere special?”

The corners of my mouth tipped down in a slight frown, and I gave him a stern look as I finished with the Purell and fussily began to rearrange the white cuffs of my sleeves. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m being transferred to a new building.”

He shifted to rest his shoulder against the wall space next to me. “What exactly do you do?”

“I’m an editor.” I paused at his blank stare. “A journalist,” I elaborated in a moderately annoyed tone.

“Hmmm…” His lips curled in a slow, lazy smile. “It suits you.”

I forced myself not to glare. “I’m honored, I’m sure.”

Unfazed, Nicolas’ smile never faded as he glanced at the watch on his wrist. In fact, it grew a little. “You’re also late,” he informed me with a chuckle.

“What?” I followed his gaze to the ticking hands of his watch and my eyes widened, nearly doubling in size. “I need to leave now!” I gasped, and I nearly tripped over my own feet as I stumbled, sidestepping to avoid any contact as I raced down the stairs. I would have taken the elevator, but elevators involved pushing buttons, and God only knew how many diseased hands had touched those numbers today. I would have rather died.

I was almost to the bottom of the stairs when I glanced up and saw Nicolas’ head peering at me over the ledge of the top of the stairs, still grinning. “Good luck, kid,” I heard him call, and I spared him a glare before I pushed through the revolving glass doors of our building with my shoulder.

When I finally arrived at the office, I was flushed and out of breath. My hair was a mess, so I hurriedly tried to arrange the dark blond strands as best I could and approached the front desk with a wary expression. There was a short, stocky man seated at a computer, sporting ungodly amounts of hair gel and the thickest moustache I’d ever seen in my life. His intense eyes snapped to meet mine and narrowed at my somewhat disheveled appearance.

“Name, please?” he demanded in a mildly bored tone.

“Emerson Lyre,” I answered, swallowing roughly as I glanced sideways at my surroundings. It was bright and almost harshly lit, with white lights on all sides, and I wondered briefly whether or not they were fluorescent. “I was just transferred here by—”

“By Mr. Wheaton, I know,” he cut me off with a vague, fake sort of smile and seized a black phone from its cradle. He tucked it between his ear and shoulder and dialed with quick, efficient stabs of his fingertip. “We’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Lyre,” he told me while the phone was ringing.

I gave him a tight, nervous smile and fiddled uncertainly with the strap of my bag. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He suddenly spun in his chair to face the wall opposite me, speaking rapidly into the receiver, and I blocked him out as best I could. I could see a few baskets hanging past the doors outside, overflowing with tiny pink and red flowers, and there was a healthy-looking fern in the corner. I was debating whether or not to take a closer look when I heard the slam of a phone, and I jumped in surprise. The man was staring at me with that same intense, faux friendly expression, and his smile widened to bare his white teeth.

“Mr. Kincade will see you now,” he said.

I nodded and backed away from the desk. I was just about to turn and leave when a thought struck me, and I twisted and opened my mouth to ask a question, but he beat me to it.

“There’s an elevator at the end of the hallway,” he said quickly, pointing down the hall with the tip of his pen. I cringed inwardly.

“Aren’t there any stairs?”

His expression faltered for a moment, nearly falling into hesitation. “Next to the elevators.”

“Excellent,” I said, breathing a relieved sigh. “Where’s his office?”

His shoulders twitched a little and his face hastily reclaimed its former mask. “Go to the fifth floor. Mr. Kincade’s office is at the end of the hallway on the right.”

“Thanks,” I said with a tense smile and nodded. My feet couldn’t carry me away fast enough, and I was even insecure enough to break into a jog on my way up the stairs. And that was how I made my second bad impression of the day, wandering into Mr. Kincade’s office with red cheeks as I struggled to get my arm back through my sleeve. I’d had to pull it over my hand again to open the door.

His secretary spared me a disinterested glance, her red lips forming a thin line across her face. She made it seem like a burden when she tilted her chin back, curly hair falling carelessly untucked from behind her ears, and addressed me with a lazy snap of her gum. “Can I help you?”

I narrowed my eyes and adjusted my glasses, noting the dirty gum wrappers and lipstick-stained diet soda cans cluttering her desk with extreme distaste, and cleared my throat a little apprehensively. I stood with my feet politely together and steadied the strap of my bag with one hand, somehow suppressing the urge to throw my bottle of Purell all over her polluted desk. This was definitely not the place.

“My name’s Emerson Lyre,” I introduced myself, careful to keep the tightly stretched smile in place. When all she gave me was a dull, blank gray stare, I felt compelled to elaborate. “I’m here to see Mr. Kincade.”

She gave the appointment book in front of her a lazy glance. “You’re not on his schedule…”

I heaved an annoyed sigh, cold air pushing angrily through my nose, and snapped, “The man at the front desk downstairs just called.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, he didn’t call me.”

My hands crept into fists and my fingernails dug little crescent marks into my skin. “Look, can’t you call down there and ask him or something? I was just there—”

“I’m busy,” she said, giving me a pointed look as she poised her painted crimson nails over the keyboard and began typing. After a few moments, she paused long enough to say, “If you’d like, you can call back later and I’ll set up an appointment for you.”

I stared at her, unable to comprehend how this situation could have possibly gone so wrong, and practically growled, “I don’t need to call back and set up an appointment, because I’m here, and he knows I’m supposed to be here, so I don’t really see why—” I trailed off at the abrupt creak of a door opening. I turned my head to find a man in a black suit walking into the room, brushing self-consciously at the gray streaks in his chestnut hair, and he flicked his gaze between the secretary and me while a weary expression grew on his face.

He approached the secretary with a sigh. “Michelle, do we have to go through this every time?” Head tilted to the side, he graciously spared me an apologetic glance before returning his attention to the girl, pointing exaggeratedly at the desk. “We have an intercom for a reason.”

She pursed her red lips more tightly, light-colored eyes flicking to meet her boss’ with obvious annoyance and guilt. “But sir,” she protested, “he didn’t—”

He held up a hand, motioning for silence. “I don’t care. That’s no excuse to keep Mr. Lyre waiting.”

Her mouth remained open in a surprised little o, but she managed to hold her tongue. Mr. Kincade’s expression softened briefly. “In the future, just send them in, and I’ll deal with it if they’re not supposed to be here, okay?”

She glanced at him poutily from beneath her eyelashes. “Okay.”

“Thank you. Now, Mr. Lyre…?” He stepped to the side, propping the door open with his foot, and gestured for me to walk inside. I ducked inside and absently fingered the strap of my messenger bag as I looked around the room, focusing particularly on the cushioned chair placed in front of his desk for visitors. There was no way in hell I was sitting in that.

He closed the door and claimed his seat in the squashy swivel chair behind his desk while I remained standing, hands folded stiffly. He was kind enough not to say anything. I noticed that he was leafing through some folders on his desk, and I was struck by a question.

“How did you know it was me?” I wondered.

He offered me a faint smile as he closed the folders with a snap. “I did a little research. Sorry to ruin the introductions like that.” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and stretched his arm for a handshake. “I’m Jonathon Kincade. Nice to meet you.”

I stared at his hand in a brief panic, overwhelmed by the possibility of diseases crawling across his knuckles, and quickly avoided shaking hands by suddenly shoving my fists into my pockets. I cleared my throat somewhat nervously. “Uh, yeah, nice meeting you. I’m Emerson Lyre, but you already knew that.”

His smile faltered, making me flinch inwardly with shame. I hated being rude, but there was absolutely no way I was ever shaking hands with this man. Not unless we both had gloves on. Kincade leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed over his stomach and studied me with a somewhat guarded expression. When I didn’t say anything, he gave a little sigh and began idly poking at the folder on his desk, eventually pulling a sheet out and staring at it.

“So, I understand that you were working on several articles before you were transferred.” He tapped the paper he was holding against the desk, narrowing his dull green eyes. “I know you’re primarily an editor, but would you be willing to pick any of those up to publish for us?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, if you’re interested in those topics.”

Kincade suddenly burst into laughter, and it was like the social taboo from five minutes before had been completely forgotten. “You’re Emerson Lyre,” he wheezed between chuckles, grinning at my bewildered expression. “For God’s sake, we’re interested in your table scraps.”

I felt a hot blush spread across my face and down my neck. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome.” He eased himself out of the chair and into a standing position, his eyes much brighter than they’d been before. He was still smiling. “You look like you’re about to pass out, so I’ll let you go for the day. Get here a little before nine tomorrow and I’ll show you your office, okay?”

I hadn’t realized how tense I’d been until my shoulders drooped in relief, and I even managed to hesitantly return the smile. “Okay. Thanks again, Mr. Kincade.”

“No problem, no problem at all.” He shuffled around the desk and brushed past me to open the door, gesturing with both arms to the open doorway. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Bright and early!”

“Bright and early,” I echoed with considerably less enthusiasm as I strode into the other room. Keeping my head down to avoid Michelle’s venomous stare, I slid my jacket sleeve over my fingers as casually as I could. I took a deep breath and studiously focused all my attention on the door, overlooking any confused or disgusted stares they were possibly sending my way.

The hardest part was not shutting it twenty-five more times once I was outside.

-

A/N: Dedicated entirely to Jeoal. (Happy birthday.) Expect regular updates, and please review.