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EZRA

T he address is in a corner of the city I’ve never been to, despite living in Greenriver my whole life. I swear I’ve driven up and down the highway a thousand times, but I’ve never noticed the exit I took to get here.

I park down the street and flip my hood up against the cold.

The wind tugs at my jeans, slicing right through the ragged knees.

At the curb, I kick the crusted snow off my boots and look up.

In front of me is a dingy ground floor office with no signs anywhere.

The curtains are drawn tight. A sign is taped to the door, looking like it was written in Sharpie.

You’ve come to the right place.

What the hell does that mean?

I check the address on my phone, then look up at the building again.

Yep, it’s the same address.

I can’t help feeling like the sign is directed at me, specifically. That doesn’t make any sense, though. I stumbled on the ad on a poster board outside the court while registering my new address. The bulletin had been just as cryptic.

Looking for answers?

Got a problem that needs solving?

Need extra cash?

Call Owyn Maddox.

It honestly sounded like the type of gig that landed me in prison in the first place, but I’m desperate. I’ve got problems that could do with solving, and money would go a long way toward most of them. With a felony on my record, that’s proving impossible.

I took a number for the hell of it, and later that night I called, just for the hell of it again.

To my surprise, someone picked up.

I try the door, uncertainty frazzling my nerves.

It’s unlocked. The little bell dings when I push it open.

At the same time, my phone buzzes in my hand — a call from some collections company.

I swipe it away quickly. Debt collectors are the least of my problems. If I can’t start making court payments soon, I’m looking at jail time. County jail, not prison, but still.

It’s not a place I want to land again. Never mind that I’d lose my apartment, which I just barely qualified for. It might be a shit-hole, but it’s a step above living out of my truck. No permanent address doesn’t look too pretty next to felon on the resume.

Warm air sweeps over my shins as the door closes behind me.

The inside of the building smells musty and kind of damp, like driving through the countryside with a wet dog in the back seat.

My boots clunk loudly on the linoleum. Dim fluorescent lights reveal a waiting room with plastic chairs and an empty reception desk.

I cast around for a sign or a person, but there’s only another paper taped to the wall that reads ‘Wait Here’. For a second I consider turning right back around.

An exclamation draws my attention to the reception desk, where a young guy with shiny, cherubic eyes pops into view. “Oh, hello! Are you a hu — a customer?”

“I have an appointment.” I try to sound friendly, then realize I’m still wearing my hood. I tug it down.

The receptionist's eyes widen further, and he straightens behind the desk. I could probably do without the piercings at this stage in my job search, but I’m reluctant to take them out. If the felony doesn’t turn off potential employers, the metal in my face won’t either. Right?

“Yes, of course!” the receptionist squeaks. “Go right in, Mister…"

“Pine. Ezra is fine.”

The guy’s head bobs. “Yes, of course. He's waiting for you, Mister Pine.”

I head down the hall, my face tightening into a stress-induced scowl. When I reach the door with a nameplate that says ‘Owyn Maddox’, I force my jaw to relax and take a deep breath.

“Come in,” a muffled voice calls before I can knock.

The guy behind the desk doesn’t look up when I enter, engrossed in his computer.

He doesn’t look like he’s part of a gang, thank god — more like a retired surfer, with narrow glasses perched on his nose and dirty blond hair pulled up in a bun.

Bold geometric tattoos circle both wrists where his sleeves have been pushed up, and a braided thong hangs around his neck with some kind of new age-y pendant dangling from it.

I step into the room hesitantly.

“Maddox? I called a couple nights ago.”

“Sit, please,” he says absently, waving a hand.

I take the seat across the desk from him, fighting not to bounce my knee. His fingers zoom over the keyboard and he stabs the keys with intense focus. Finally, he finishes with a flourishing click and leans back in his chair, sighing.

“Bureaucracy these days,” he says, giving me a look like I’m meant to agree. “Never thought this would be my life, huh?”

“Uh,” I say blankly. “Yep.”

“You’re not here about that.” He shuffles through a stack of paper and my stomach tightens as he pulls out two sheets of paper stapled together. My resume is a pitiful half page. At this point, recruiters usually flip to the background check.

Maddox does this, pinching the paper flat where it’s stapled and squinting. He lifts his glasses, then settles them back down. My knee starts to jiggle.

“Hmm. Looking for a job, are you?”

“Yes? Like I said.” I can’t help the sharpness that leaks into my voice. I wish he’d just get it over with. But I also really need a job. “I’ll take anything. Labor. Service. Hell, I’ll clean toilets.”

Maddox pushes his glasses up. “Lived in Greenriver long?”

I frown. What’s that got to do with anything? “My whole life.”

“Never wanted a change? An adventure?”

“A couple years in prison kind of put an end to that,” I tell him, crossing my arms. Immediately I regret the attitude. Maddox’s eyebrow twitches and his eyes glimmer.

“I might have something. Behind the bar, a few shifts a week.” He flips the papers with my resume and background check over and scribbles something on the back of them, then he hands them to me.

“Go to this address and tell them you’re from Owyn Maddox.

If it doesn’t work out, come talk to me again. ”

He lets the paper fall to the desk when I don’t take it. Slowly, I drag it closer. There’s an address written on it. Once again, I don’t recognize the street.

“That’s it? No interview? What about my —” I shake the paper slightly and it rattles. I hate drawing attention to it, but it’s usually the only thing they care about.

“Your charge?” He purses his lips. “Possession with intent to sell. You would’ve been, what, eighteen?”

“Nineteen.”

“Any plans to reoffend?”

“God, no.”

He shrugs. “Do the trial period. See how you like it.”

He settles his glasses back on his nose and turns to the computer, and I have the distinct feeling I’ve been dismissed. Dazed, I shuffle back down the hall.

Someone else is in the waiting room when I return — he catches my eye right away. Tall, slim, and blond, the newcomer hovers by the reception desk with a pinched expression. At the sound of my boots his eyes flicker to me.

He has brilliant blue eyes, strangely bright. His gaze hooks on me briefly. A spark lights up in my gut, one I recognize.

One I’ve steered clear of since Jasper.

He looks away just as quickly. I tell myself I’m not annoyed by the dismissal. I know I don’t look like much these days.

The receptionist bounces into view again. “Mister Pine! I need you to sign some paperwork — Mister Maddox always forgets —”

He waves a pen at me frantically and gestures me to the desk. The stranger glides past, and I catch a whiff of something faintly flowery.

“I’ll go in now,” he says. His voice is crisp and lilting, with an accent I can’t place. It sounds as posh as his silky shirt looks.

“Oh, wait!” The receptionist hurries after him.

I sign the papers without even reading them.