First a/n! Hopefully people are reading this and liking it…..let us know either way. On to the real drama… AND a huge shout out to our AMAZINGLY FANTASTIC beta off-the-deep-end!
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I had a professor in college who told us on the first day of classes, "After this, your entire life is going to be spent chasing paper." We all stared as he took a dollar out of his wallet and tore it in half. "Paper. You're gonna go to work, you're gonna sit at a desk, and at the end of the week you're gonna get a check that will be just enough to last for the next week."
We laughed. Well, I laughed. I laughed because I was gonna be different. I only went to college to appease my parents until I got my big break. I looked at that man who had a weird tick in his jaw and wore mismatched frumpy clothing, and I laughed. Because he didn't understand. Because he thought I was going to fall victim to his horrible twisted fate.
As it turns out, I was the one that misunderstood.
I'm almost positive that if he saw me today in my black pants and tucked in button down blue shirt, he would laugh at me. Ha-ha, Edward, joke's on you, kid.
"Good morning," Hannah says when I walk into the kitchen. I nod. "I made you some toast with peanut butter and bananas."
I hate bananas.
I accept the plate anyway. "Thank you," I say and lean in to kiss her but she turns and offers her cheek.
"Lipstick," she offers as an excuse and smiles tightly. "I really wish you would wear the contacts we bought."
I adjust my glasses self-consciously and take a bite out of the toast. "They're hard on my eyes."
She frowns and then nods. "I have to run. I'll see you tonight."
I nod and pour myself a cup of coffee. It's strong and bitter but it tastes better than the toast and I need to wash the banana taste down with something.
I stand up with a sigh and roll the remaining toast up in a paper towel before I throw it away. The last thing I need is for her to see it in the garbage and start complaining about how I don't appreciate the extra effort she puts into our relationship.
***
There are few things in life that are more irritating then early mornings. At least that's how it is in my world. I hurry across the living room and nearly trip over my jeans as I try to pull them on and run at the same time.
Damn pencil neck service. Who the hell makes an appointment for 8:30 in the morning? Don't most places open at 9? Therefore, wouldn't it follow that no business should happen till well after 11? When I called the accounting firm they 'pushed back' the appointment from 7:30 when I choked on my coffee. It's nice to know that the possibility of killing a potential client is something they try to avoid.
As I round the corner and reach my destination. I reach for the washer and rip the top open hoping to get my top at least halfway dried in the fifteen minutes I have. I reach for the dryer, but freeze when I see the familiar scrawl on a note on top. Please sweet Lennon, no.
I don't even need to read it to know what happened. Damn Emmett and his love of all things bear. I can't tell him enough times that a bear rug cannot fit in a standard dryer. This is not happening.
"Emmett!" The yell bounces off the walls and back towards me, but no response. He would be hiding. He knows what he did. The constant bass coming from his room gives away his hiding place. I push open his door without a knock and he screams like a girl.
"Jesus, Izzy. Knock much?" he asks. He holds a towel over himself like I'm his aging grandmother. I roll my eyes and hold up the note. I chuckle at the fear that stains his features. No one that large should be scared of me. I could hardly do any noticeable damage. At least not physically.
"Again Em?" I ask.
He grins sheepishly and shrugs. I try to stay angry I do, but its too damn hard and I am too damn late.
"You will have the dryer repaired by the time I get home and you will NEVER, EVER try to clean that thing here ever again," I state. He nods like a scolded child and I groan and trudge back to my room. Now to find something to wear.
The only day someone professional and more adult than I am is coming I don't have anything to wear but my painting shirt. I stare at the shirt disdainfully before pulling it over my head. To hell with it, who the cares what the pencil neck thinks anyway?
The answering machine catches my eye and I hit the floor looking for my left shoe under my bed. It's blinking again. I spare the voices on the tape and simply ignore them for now. I reach blindly under my bed hoping to feel the familiar canvas of my sneaker; instead all I feel is dust and candy wrappers. I should really vacuum under there.
The clock rubs the time in my face as I rush by it. No chance of being on time now. I skip breakfast and opt simply one of Emmett's protein shakes. Here goes nothing.
***
"Hi, Violet," I say and smile at the receptionist as I walk into the Stein and Meyer offices.
"Hi, sweetheart," she says and smiles back at me. "Did you do anything this weekend?"
I take the cookie she offers me and shake my head. "Just caught up on some stuff around the house."
She shakes her head and takes her glasses off of her nose. Violet is the grandmother that I wish I had. I finger the ring in my left pocket and wait for the scolding that she gives me every Monday.
"Edward, when was the last time you went out and just got ripped?" I cough and she scowls at me. But ripped? Really? "What? You need to have some fun, sweetheart."
"I am having fun," I say and offer her my best smile. "It's your day to choose what we're having for lunch."
"I'm old, Edward, not stupid. I know when you're trying to distract me."
I laugh then and lean in to kiss her cheek. "No Thai," I tell her and then walk towards my desk.
"Edward! There you are. Were the trains backed up this morning?" I roll my eyes and turn around to face Kara Wellesley. Her smile is artificially sweet and is totally negated by her evil, dark, blue eyes. She doesn't have a single quality that redeems her from being the nastiest, most condescending bitch in the entire firm.
"Kara," I say with a tight nod.
"Edward, there are two new accounts that need to be covered today," she says and walks with me to my desk. "The first is an old lady who's about to die and wants to get her affairs in order. The second is a non-profit organization. Something about poor kids and music. You have to take one of them."
I place my briefcase down on my chair before turning to look at her. "I'll take the old woman."
"I'm taking the old woman," she says with a smirk.
"Why'd you give me both options if you weren't gonna let me choose?" I ask her and rub the pad of my thumb along the stone in my pocket.
She shrugs. "I just wanted you to feel like you had a choice." She offers me another smile and I want to punch her in the mouth. I press the stone into my finger until I feel just the smallest amount of pain. "Your appointment's in 15 minutes. Better get moving if the trains are moving slowly this morning."
She turns and saunters away, incredibly proud of herself, and I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. I look down at the folder for the non-profit. It's all the way across town. I grab the folder and my briefcase and run.
***
I can hear the clamor from my office from almost half a block away. The smile on my face can't be helped. I love my job. Even if it doesn't exactly bring in the money and my office is actually a loft without the proper permits, I never dread coming here and that's got to say something. The one good thing my upbringing gave me, job freedom.
I climb the three flights of stairs and enter the always open door. Several people are rushing around the small space, yelling directions and insults as they work. No one pauses as I enter and weave my way deeper into the madness. A coffee is shoved into my hand and my smile widens. Perfection.
I drop into my desk chair and watch the chaos for several minutes taking great pride in knowing that I had something to do with it all.
"Hey Izzy? Stein and Meyer called to say their guy might be a little late," Angela calls out to me. The heavy sigh gushes out of me without thought. Oh yes, the pencil neck. I had almost forgotten. My head rolls back onto the top of my chair and I knowingly avoid that reality for just a moment longer.
The pencil neck is only here to help. I repeat the statement over and over in my mind before pushing myself up and towards my pitiful attempt at book keeping. I nearly run into Angela again before making it to my destination.
"You want me to stick around to help?" she asks. She's got a messenger back over her shoulder and her arms are loaded with paperwork, but of course she offers. It's one of the reasons I can't get by without her. She handles all the paperwork, all the stuff that bores me to sleep, she can't get enough of.
"No I can handle one measly pencil neck," I assure her. She raises an eyebrow to question that statement, but I wave her off. If I can't do this what kind of director am I? The office quiets as Angela leaves taking the team with her. I finally arrive at the single closet and place my hands over the knobs fearing the reaction when I open the doors.
I jerk them open and clench my eyes shut waiting for the crash, but there isn't one. Miraculously everything stays in place. Score one for me. I begin to dig through the contents smiling at the accumulation.
Being a nonprofit isn't glamorous by any means, but nothing can beat the high of watching a kid touch the keys of a piano for the first time. And that's what I get to do every day. Bring music into schools that have been silent for years. It's amazing really what a little music can do.
The familiar feel good rushes over me and I almost forget what brought me to the closet in the first place. Soon enough it wears off a little and I continue my dig. Boxes of photos fall to the ground, littering evidence of our success all over the floor. I ignore the pull to reminisce and keep digging. Finally the familiar tattered leather appears and I smile. And Angela says I'm not organized.
The feeling of accomplishment lingers until I see the mess that I've made.
"Damn pencil neck. Not worth all this time and effort," I grumble. I begin to push everything back in the general direction of the closet. This is not going well.
"He better praise my preparatory skills," I hiss as I continue to push. Just as I have the mess almost cleaned up, someone clears their throat behind me and I lose my balance.
"Fuckety fuck!"
It just slips out and suddenly I'm flat on my back, lying on top of all my hard work. Who the hell does this person think they are? Suddenly a shadow falls over me and a hand reaches out to help me. I take it begrudgingly and escape from the pit.
Once on my feet I take a moment to straighten my shirt before looking up. I see his shoes first. Sensible, it's the pencil neck. I can feel a sneer working its way onto my face, but I fight it back. The pencil neck is only here to help.
I skip detailing the rest of the outfit and go straight for his face, might as well get this over with. And then there was green.
***
I have, officially, walked into my worst nightmare. The woman, who looks more like a girl, was mumbling to herself when I walked into her office. Somebody directed me to her even though I asked for the director of this place.
I help her to her feet and look down at wide brown eyes.
Surely I didn't hear her say 'fuckety fuck'.
"Are you alright?" I ask her, taking in the messy hair, distressed and distracted eyes, and full pink lips.
"Depends. What's your definition of fine?" she asks and smoothes down a large white t-shirt covered in a variety of colors. I can't tell if it came with the paint on it or not. It probably came with it; she seems like that kind of girl. "Everything important is intact, so I would say yes, I'm fine."
I cock my head to the side and give her a funny look. "Do you know where I might be able to find…" I look down at the folder in my hands. "Isabella Swan?"
She laughs and raises her hand. "Present."
I can't help it when my mouth falls open and I take her in again from the top of her shiny but messy brown hair, to the paint covered t-shirt, down her faded jeans, and finally landing on her grey flip flops and purple toenails. Purple toenails. I'm supposed to work seriously with someone who has purple toenails. "You're Isabella Swan? You run this place?"
"Didn't we just call roll?" I just stand there and blink at her. Clearly unaffected by my silence, she continues speaking and laughs and says, "But I guess we're working repetition today… so, yes, I am Isabella Swan and yes, I am the director of this 'place' as you so sweetly called it. I would assume that makes you the pencil nee… I mean consultant from Stein and Meyer?"
A huge, dazzling grin breaks across her face as she extends her arm, offering me her hand. Her fingernails are also purple. For god's sake.
I muster up the kindest face I can manage and place my hand in hers. It's small and smoother than I expected as she tightens her fingers around my hand and gives it two strong shakes. "Edward Cullen." When she frees my hand, I stuff it into my pocket, feeling for the stone, hoping it'll provide a little bit of calm. But considering the mayhem surrounding me, I'm clearly hoping for a miracle.
***
His name sounds more like a death sentence than anything else. His face is so stern as he waits for me to offer a reply, but I've already given him my name twice and this is my first interaction with a pencil neck so I have no idea what comes next. I rock back on my heels a little and wait for him to take charge, but he does little more than stare at a particularly large paint stain on my shirt.
Judging of course. No wonder he couldn't believe I run this 'place'. The brown leather case catches my eye again and I grin. I reach for it and bring it in front of me holding it out like it's the holy grail of all things pencil neck. Only he doesn't look at it like the Holy Grail. He's looking at it like it's a six-foot boa constrictor.
"I know it's unorthodox, but I've kept most of the paperwork in here," I explain patting the side of the worn guitar case. His face relaxes slightly and his finger goes to push his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. I think those glasses might be the most likable part of him. Mostly because they are not an actual extension of his body and all the judging he is doing.
I smile winningly again at him just because it seems to makes him so nervous. I gesture towards my desk.
"Where do you want to start?"
I am trying to be the leader, but this is like the blind leading the man with 20/20 sight and I would love for him to take over at any time. He reaches back and rubs the back of his neck as his eyes visually appraise the office. He sighs slightly before bringing his gaze back to mine.
"Is there someplace we can sit down?" he asks. I look down my extended arm towards my desk that I am still pointing at. I can't help but laugh. I begin to make my way through the mess, but then I realize that he is firmly rooted to his spot.
Without much thought I reach back, take his arm, and tug him behind me. Apparently pencil necks aren't much different from the children I deal with every day. When we arrive at my desk I push him towards my desk chair and sink into the metal folding chair across from him. I wouldn't want him to feel unwelcome.
It takes him a moment to position himself, but them I can see everything fall into place as he lays the guitar case on the desk and expertly flicks open the latches. My eyebrow raises, I know the signs of a musician when I see them. Could this be a musician desk jobbing as a pencil neck?
His eyes widen at the sheer amount of paper bulging from the space and I wince slightly. I was pretty sure that would be his reaction.
"How bad is it?" I ask. He swallows slowly and pulls a handful of crumpled paper out of the case.
"How many years worth of bills and receipts are in here?" he asks. I bite my lower lip and want nothing more to skip that question. I have no doubt what his response will be.
"Two….maybe three years?" And there it is. All out shock and disgust. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I called in the professionals.
He takes a deep breath and then drops the papers back into the case. Slowly he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. That does not look like a good sign. I was hoping for a light hearted 'It'll be no problem'. But I knew that was just a pipe dream.
At least now, with his hair pointing in all directions and his top button undone he looks a little more human, a little less robotic. He runs his hands through the papers several times before meeting my gaze again. Why do I get the feeling I am in trouble?
"What kind of business are you running here?"
Ouch. That one was below the belt. I straighten my posture.
"A damn good one thank you very much."
I realize that was not the reply he was expecting when he chuckles briefly. Even more human of him. I half smile at him before taking a deep breath.
"Listen, I know that this is a mess and probably the least professional or organized way you have ever seen finances kept, but I love this business. I love being the one who brings music back to school and to kids and I'm sorry if I thought that a guitar case would suffice. But, I hired you so obviously I know that was wrong and I would just really, really appreciate your help."
My little speech has left my out of breath and I'm sure red in the face, but I force myself to keep my eyes on him as he tilts his head to the side and reaches into his pocket. His hand stays there for awhile before he closes his eyes, sighs and looks at me once more.
I grit my teeth in anticipation. Like his answer could make or break me when I know in reality there are a long list of consultants in the phone book and I could always call another. But for some reason I don't want another. I want him and his musician hands.
***
Passion. The passion pours out of her and lights up her eyes as she all but begs for me to understand. And who am I to deny passion? I think maybe I, better than anyone else, understand how important it is to be passionate about something. That without it, without that deep burning in your gut to just do something, you're nothing.
Maybe that's why I find myself wanting to say yes despite the cluster fuck I'm facing. Maybe it'll be nice for a few days to just work with someone who feels something that I haven't felt in years. Maybe the kindness and honesty in her brown eyes is something that I just need to see in another human being.
I look down at the guitar case and then back up at her face and it's hopeful, her eyes all but pleading with me.
"Alright, Isabella," I say with a small nod and stretch my arm across the table. She clasps my hand in both of hers and that smile slowly begins to form on her lips again. "Let's get started."
The smile spreads quickly, lighting up her entire face, and she mouths a silent "thanks." And I can't help the smile that spreads across my face in return.