FINAL NOTICE
It’s the third one I’ve received this week, and I do the same thing with this one that I’ve done with all the others. I shove it into the bottom of my bag.
Of course I know pretending it doesn’t exist isn’t going to make things any better, but I can’t pull money that doesn’t exist out of nowhere, and so for right now, it’s easier to stick my head in the sand.
With each final notice I receive, I lose a little bit of hope. It hasn’t made a difference how many jobs I’ve taken, or how many hours I’ve done. It hasn’t mattered how shitty my apartment is or how much I scrimp. I can’t get my head above water.
I’ve done the math, of course. There is no way out of the hole Brad dug for me, and yet every morning I get up, I put on a brave face, and I keep on keeping on.
What choice do I have?
I rub at my tired eyes and curse. “Fuck.”
Carefully I drag my fingertips under my eyes to remove any smudges. I can’t remember the last time I slept more than a few hours at a time. Between being too stubborn to admit defeat and defer my studies and working three jobs, sleep just isn’t a luxury I can afford. I mean, I can barely afford to eat. Sleep seems kind of irrelevant at this point.
Stifling a yawn, I push through the doors of the gym. The Chicago Center for Youth has been in my family my whole life. The Center started with my grandfather. He had a hard upbringing, saw children in his neighborhood go down dark paths, almost went down a few himself. He worked tirelessly to get it up and running, and it’s been a Chicago institution ever since.
I work part time in the office, but I’m studying to do more. This place is why I refuse to admit defeat and defer. I want to be a counselor, to make a difference in the lives of the kids that come through. I don’t ever want them to feel alone, or like they don’t have someone they can speak to. I want to be their safe place.
It’s a cold Chicago morning, so the old building is still warming up. I say a quick hello to Julie, the cleaner, before heading into the office. There’s a mountain of work waiting for me, and I groan at the sight. I’ve been falling further and further behind in all aspects of my life, certainly not excluding the youth center. We have a fundraiser next weekend that I still have to confirm the menu for, chase up the guest list, write my father’s speech, as well as find something to wear. It will have to be something I already have. If my budget barely extends to include food, it definitely won’t cover a ball gown.
I sit at my desk and sigh. “Where do I even start?” I ask myself quietly.
It isn’t long before kids start arriving, all filtering through the office to see me before heading into the kitchen. We recently started providing breakfast and I’m still kept up at night at how many of our kids aren’t provided with three meals a day at home.
Our breakfast service is a trial. We don’t have the funding long-term, not unless a miracle hits us. Just keeping the doors open is a struggle most months as the city withdraws more and more funding. It’s why we’ve invited all the city’s socialites, businesspeople, and any Fortune 500 member I could find an address for. We need the donations if we want to keep operating.
Dad wanders into the office and I brace myself for the defeated look I’ve grown accustomed to over the last few months, but instead he greets me with a grin.
“You look tired,” he notes as he takes the seat opposite my desk.
“Gee thanks.” I roll my eyes.
“You’re working too much. Can you cut back at the club?” Worry fills his green eyes so similar to my own.
He doesn’t know about the debt. He has enough to worry about with this place, and he wouldn’t be able to handle not being able to dig me out of the hole that idiot dropped me in.
“I’m fine, Dad.” I force a smile to my lips, hoping it’s enough to ease his concern.
He eyes me for another moment before he starts to speak again. “I have great news! We have a new community service participant coming in this afternoon!”
I groan internally. Every few months some ex-con comes in and I lose more sleep over the possibility of them leading the kids down a path we try so desperately to keep them away from. I’ve wanted to cut the program for years, but Dad’s right in some regards, we do need the help.
“Don’t look at me like that. You know I like to give them a shot just like your grandpa did, and besides, this one is different.” It has been a long time since I’ve seen him look so worry-free, and that piques my interest. “It’s Rayne Saint James… brother of Storm Saint James, CEO of Frost Industries.”
I stare at him blankly. I’m clearly missing something, because to me, an ex-con is an ex-con, regardless of who they’re related to.
“If we can get a family like the Saint James’ involved in this place, it could mean we can make the breakfast program permanent. We could open another center like we planned before the recession. It could be huge for us, Emerson.”
He’s right. The Saint James family are rich, like really fucking wealthy. The word on the street is that Frost Industries walks on both sides of the law, not that anyone has ever been able to prove it.
This could be huge for us. My eyes fall to the filing cabinet of initiatives we’ve dreamed up over the years but have never had the funding to get off the ground. We could really help our kids, scholarships, field trips, things we only dared to dream of in the past could become a reality with the right benefactors.
“I know you have reservations about the community service program, but you, more than anyone, know how much we need the help. And from my source inside the CPD, it sounds like the charges they had on him had to be dropped because there was no proof, and his community service isn’t court-mandated, it was something he offered up to prove his connection to the community,” Dad told me matter-of-factly.
I nod. “Okay, Dad. I’ll give the guy the benefit of the doubt, but I get even a whiff of him being a bad influence on the kids and he’s out.”
Dad runs this place, but I manage these kinds of things so he can focus on the kids. It’s where his passion is, and it’s what he’s good at.
“This is going to be a good thing, honey, you’ll see.” He’s gone before he can see me shake my head.
“I doubt it.” It’s too good to be true having a Saint James fall in our laps like this, and if there’s one thing this mess Brad has me in has taught me, it’s if it seems too good to be true, it abso-fucking-lutely is.
I bury my head into the mountain of work I have for the gala. No matter how much I tick off my list, more just seems to appear at the bottom. Before I know it, it’s lunchtime and I am no closer to getting anything finalized. It’s quiet for the most part around this time, only some of the older kids are here as the others are at school.
I groan as I count the hours before I can go to bed tonight. I still have four hours of work here, three at the diner under my apartment, and six hours at the club, and that’s without considering the assignment I have due tomorrow that is still a blank document open on my laptop at home. In other words, I probably won’t be sleeping tonight… again. Not that I sleep well anymore anyway. I usually spend the night tossing and turning, trying to figure out how to get out of the mess I’ve found myself in.
I round the corner into the gym and stop dead in my tracks. Dad is speaking to someone I don’t recognize, a man who is towering over Dad’s very respectable six-foot.
Instinctively, I reach for the baseball bat we keep at the door of the office. We’ve had our fair share of problems here, and the cops don’t have much motivation to respond in this neighborhood.
Before I can think about my next move, the man turns around, and I’m stuck in place for a whole other reason.
The man would have to be the single most attractive human being I’ve ever laid eyes on. Eyes so dark they’re almost black, and perfectly messy black hair my fingers twitch to tug on. His jaw and cheekbones are perfectly chiseled, as if God himself had spent hours molding this man into the piece of art standing in front of me. I can’t remember a single time my body has reacted like this to a man, and I met Ryan Reynolds at a charity event last year. My mouth is dry, body warm as my mind wanders to the dirty things I’d like this man to do to me. Our eyes meet and my heart skips a beat.
“There she is.” My father’s voice pulls me back into the land of the living and drags my attention from the specimen of a man he’s standing with. “Rayne. This is my daughter, Emerson. Em, this is Rayne Saint James.” My cheeks flame red as I’m reminded of the bat in my hand.
I don’t know how I didn’t recognize him. He and his brother Storm look so similar, and Storm is in the tabloids most days as Chicago’s most eligible bachelor. Rayne seems to stay out of the limelight a bit more, but I’ve definitely seen him in the gossip pages a time or two.
Great first impression, Em. I internally roll my eyes at myself. Sleep deprivation and stress have officially started melting my brain, there’s no other explanation.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, but it feels like a really fucking long time. The spell I’m under breaks when a smirk tugs at Rayne’s perfectly sculpted lips. Where does this guy get off looking like he just stepped out of a fashion magazine when he comes to do community service with underprivileged children?
I drop the bat at the door of the office and force one foot in front of the other. The air around Rayne is thick as I close the distance, trying my best not to look as on edge as I feel.
“It’s nice to meet you, Emerson.” The sound of my name on his lips should be a criminal offense it sounds so damn sinful. Rayne’s voice is deep but velvet in a way that seems almost familiar. His hand juts out in front of him and I drag my eyes from his, down the wall of muscle I can make out even through his perfectly tailored suit, and to his outstretched hand.
