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Mandy

I wasn’t burning the candle at both ends. I was cutting the candle up into tiny pieces and throwing them into a volcano.

“Come on Mandy, stay awake, stay awake.”

I stared at the numbers until they blurred, then blinked three times and straightened my posture, before pinching my cheek. I’d always found that a little pain was a great way to focus the mind.

The Peterson Holdings tax return wouldn't review itself. My fingers flew across the keyboard, each keystroke precise and deliberate, like the rest of my carefully constructed life. Outside the wall of windows, Denver sprawled fourteen stories below, but I barely registered the view anymore—just another beautiful thing I'd trained myself to ignore.

Prestige Partners occupied three floors in the glass tower downtown, all sleek surfaces and hushed conversations. My cubicle stood as a monument to organization—pens arranged by color, sticky notes aligned perfectly along the edge of my monitor, not a paperclip out of place. Even my desktop background was a simple gray gradient, soothing and unremarkable. Just like I needed to be.

I was exhausted, yes, but I couldn’t let standards slip.

I smoothed my charcoal pencil skirt and adjusted my cream blouse, checking that the top button remained fastened despite the slight discomfort at my throat. The navy blazer completed my armor—tailored to perfection, hiding any hint of the softness beneath. My copper hair pulled back so tightly it gave me a headache by four o'clock every day, but it hid the natural waves that made me look "too young" according to the senior partner's offhand comment three years ago. I hadn't worn it down at work since.

Too young. That was something I never wanted to seem.

"Mandy, just the person I wanted to see."

Martin Graves appeared at my cubicle entrance, his silver hair perfectly coiffed, his tie the exact shade of power blue that signaled authority without aggression. I'd analyzed his wardrobe choices once during a particularly tedious budget meeting.

"The Westridge audit was impeccable." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. "Peterson and the board noticed your efficiency. Your attention to detail is exactly what Prestige values."

I swallowed, arranged my features into what I hoped was a pleased but not overeager smile. Hopefully if I smiled widely enough, he wouldn’t notice the bags under my eyes. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate the opportunity to work on complex portfolios."

"Keep this up, and partnership discussions might come sooner than expected." He tapped my desk twice with his knuckles. "We're watching, Mandy. In a good way."

My smile remained fixed as he walked away, but underneath my ribs, something constricted. A familiar pressure—not quite pain, more like the slow crush of expectations I'd carried since childhood. 'Be better, achieve more, never show weakness.' The partnership carrot dangled, and like a good little donkey, I'd keep plodding forward.

When I was certain Martin had disappeared around the corner, I slid open my bottom desk drawer. Beneath a stack of manila folders and a box of expensive pens I'd never use, a tiny purple unicorn keychain caught the fluorescent light. I didn't touch it—just looked at its sparkly mane and silly grinning face. Three seconds of acknowledgment, that's all I allowed myself. Three seconds to remember there was more to me than spreadsheets and tax code.

I closed the drawer with a soft click just as my phone buzzed. The text displayed my sister's name and a simple message: "Went to treatment today. Nurse says I'm responding well."

My fingers hovered over the screen. Amy didn't mention the cost—she never did—but I knew what those treatments cost. $3,800 per session, insurance covering barely half. I'd been supplementing her bills for months now. My salary at Prestige was excellent, but not enough to cover both her care and my own expenses.

Quick mental math told me the payment from my next "special client" would cover her next two treatments with a little left over. The Kings paid well for discretion and expertise. I pushed away the flutter of anxiety that came with thoughts of my sideline accounting work. The fatigue I was experiencing and the lines I was crossing were worth it for Amy.

I typed back: "Great news! Love you. Call tonight?"

Then I closed the text and pulled up the Peterson Holdings document again. The spreadsheet welcomed me back with its orderly rows and columns, its predictable formulas. I took comfort in its rigid structure, so unlike the messy reality of my sister's illness or my own confused desires.

I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. Triple-check the numbers. Format the report. Make it perfect. Whatever I felt inside—the yearning, the fear, the exhaustion—I could lock it away behind rows of numbers that always, always added up.

T he elevator descended fourteen floors, each ding marking another step away from Mandy-the-accountant. By the time I hit the lobby, my shoulders had already dropped half an inch. I nodded to the security guard—same one for three years and I still didn't know his name—and pushed through the revolving doors into the evening air. Denver in June smelled like exhaust and restaurant kitchens, a far cry from the sanitized, climate-controlled office I'd spent eleven hours inside.

I walked with purpose to the parking garage, my heels clicking rhythmically against concrete. With each step, my rigid posture softened just a little more. The structure of my day—meetings, deadlines, colleagues watching—fell away.

My silver Audi A4 waited in its assigned spot, practical yet elegant. The car had been my one indulgence when I made senior accountant, though I'd calculated the payments down to the penny before signing. Inside, I locked the doors and exhaled. The first real breath of the day.

I reached up and pulled out the elastic band that held my ponytail, wincing as it caught a few strands. My scalp tingled as copper waves tumbled over my shoulders. I massaged my temples where a headache had taken root, pressing my fingers in small circles until the tension eased slightly.

Rush hour traffic crawled toward LoDo, my trendy apartment building chosen for its proximity to work rather than any real enjoyment of the neighborhood's overpriced cocktail bars. I'd just merged onto the highway when my phone rang through the car's Bluetooth system.

"Mandy speaking," I answered automatically, still in work mode.

"Hey numbers girl, why so corporate? It's just me." Lena's raspy laugh crackled through the speakers.

Despite my exhaustion, I smiled. Lena Rivera was everything I wasn't—tattooed, blunt, unapologetically herself. We'd met six months ago when I'd started doing under-the-table accounting for a few small businesses in Ironridge. Marked Kings Tattoo had become a regular client. The extra pay was essential to pay for Amy’s treatment.

"Sorry, habit." I eased into the left lane. "What's up?"

"That new receptionist screwed up the quarterly taxes and I need your magic before the end of week." Her voice held no real anger, just resignation. "I'd fix it myself, but you know I'm hopeless with this shit."

I hesitated. Tomorrow would be my third fourteen-hour day this week, and my brain felt like mush. "I've got back-to-back meetings until six, and—"

"Duke authorized overtime rates," Lena cut in. "And we could use your help with some . . . MC accounting issues too."

My grip tightened on the steering wheel. The Heavy Kings MC. I'd been doing books for their legitimate businesses—the tattoo parlor, the auto shop, the tavern—but I'd carefully avoided their other enterprises. Not that I was naive about where some of their money came from. I just maintained plausible deniability by keeping those conversations vague.

"How . . . urgent is the MC stuff?" I asked, careful to keep my tone neutral.

"Duke mentioned investment options." She paused. "Look, I know you're stretched thin, but they pay cash, no questions asked."

Amy's last text flashed in my mind. The treatments were working, but each one cost more than most people's monthly rent. Insurance had started making noise about "maximum coverage limits." The corporate bonus I'd been counting on was still months away.

"What time tomorrow?" I asked, already calculating how many hours of sleep I could function on.

"After dinner works. Eight-ish? I'll sweeten the deal with coffee and those chocolate croissants from Benson's you like."

I could hear the relief in her voice.

"Make it a large coffee and you've got a deal." I signaled for my exit. “Plus syrup—caramel.”

"Done. And Mandy? Thanks. I owe you one."

The call ended, and I realized I was gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles had turned white. I forced my fingers to relax as I turned into my apartment complex.

Working with the Heavy Kings gave me a strange flutter of excitement mixed with dread. They were dangerous—I wasn't stupid—but there was something captivating about their world. The loyalty, the freedom, the disregard for society's suffocating expectations. Everything I pushed down during daylight hours.

I parked and gathered my things, calculating how much Duke might pay for tomorrow's work and whether it would cover Amy's next treatment. The numbers were good.

It was the rest of the equation—the risk, the consequences, the way I felt drawn to a world I shouldn't want anything to do with.

There was no accounting for any of that.

M y apartment was a contradiction, just like me. I flipped on the lights in the main living room, revealing the space I'd carefully designed to impress anyone who might visit from work.

I needed to seem like a grown up.

Neutral tones dominated—beige sofa, gray accent chairs, glass coffee table with precisely arranged architectural magazines. Nothing personal. Nothing colorful. Nothing that hinted at the woman—or girl—behind the accountant. It was a showroom, not a home.

I kicked off my heels by the door, sighing as my stockinged feet sank into the plush carpet. The tension headache that had been building all day pulsed behind my eyes. I unzipped my skirt, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled pile and padded to the kitchen in just my blouse and underwear.

The freezer yielded a sad-looking chicken alfredo dinner that promised to be "gourmet." I stabbed the plastic film with a fork and shoved it in the microwave. While it rotated, I opened my bedroom door and stripped off my corporate armor, hanging each piece carefully in its designated spot. My fingers traced the row of nearly identical blouses, skirts, and blazers—a uniform of respectability.

From the dresser, I pulled out soft pink sweatpants and a t-shirt with a cartoon penguin wearing a bowtie. The fabric felt like a hug against my skin. I caught my reflection in the mirror—red hair falling in waves around my shoulders, green eyes tired but already softening as my daytime persona began to slip away.

The microwave beeped. I ate standing at the counter, barely tasting the bland pasta. Numbers still scrolled through my head—Amy's medical bills, my mortgage payment, the hours I'd need to work for the Kings tomorrow night.

When I finished, I rinsed the plastic tray and placed it in the recycling bin. Then I walked to the hallway closet and reached behind the winter coats to the small wooden box hidden on the top shelf. Inside was a single key on a rainbow ribbon.

I didn’t have a huge amount of time before I was due at Marked Kings, but I knew that I needed this right now. Some me time—the real me.

My heart beat faster as I approached the spare bedroom door. This room didn't exist on the apartment tour I gave colleagues or friends. It was mine alone.

The key turned with a satisfying click. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

Pastel blue walls greeted me, adorned with twinkling fairy lights that cast a gentle glow across the space. A twin bed pressed against one wall, covered in a patchwork quilt bursting with primary colors. Stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes perched along the headboard—bears, rabbits, unicorns, and dragons, each with a name and personality I knew by heart.

The bookshelf opposite held picture books with well-worn spines, coloring books, and plastic bins of crayons, markers, and glitter pens organized by color. A small television sat atop a white dresser painted with rainbow handprints. Beside it, a tiny refrigerator hummed softly.

I felt the tension in my shoulders dissolve as I sank onto the plush rainbow rug in the center of the room. My breathing slowed. Here, spreadsheets didn't matter. Partnership tracks didn't exist. I didn't have to be strong or smart or perfect.

I reached for Mr. Hoppy, a floppy-eared rabbit with fur worn thin from years of hugs. His left ear was slightly crooked where I'd had to stitch it back on after a particularly bad day three years ago. I clutched him to my chest, burying my face in his soft belly.

"Oh, Mr. Hoppy," I whispered. "I missed you today."

I imagined him answering in the gentle voice I'd created for him: "I missed you too, little one. Was it a hard day?"

"So hard," I murmured. "The numbers wouldn't stop."

I crawled to the mini-fridge and pulled out a carton of chocolate milk. My special sippy cup—purple with glitter trapped between plastic layers—waited on top. I filled it carefully, screwed on the lid with stars cut into it, and took a long drink. The chocolate was sweet and comforting, nothing like the black coffee I drank all day at work.

The remote control felt bulky in my hand as I turned on the television and found my favorite magical girl anime. Bright colors flashed across the screen, the simple story of friendship and courage making me smile. I settled back on the rug, reaching for my unicorn coloring book and the box of crayons.

I selected a pink crayon, its paper wrapper already half-peeled from use, and began carefully filling in the unicorn's mane. The simple motion of staying within the lines soothed me. Each stroke was deliberate, the waxy color building in layers until it was perfect.

"Mr. Hoppy," I said, propping him up against my leg, "Amy's treatments are working. But they cost so much." I switched to a purple crayon for the unicorn's tail. "I'm going to help the Kings with their money tomorrow. The scary motorcycle men."

I colored in silence for a moment, imagining Mr. Hoppy's concerned expression.

"I know they're dangerous," I continued, my voice small. "But they pay real good, and Amy needs me." I put down the crayon and picked him up again, squeezing him tight. "What if they find out about this? About . . . little me?"

The thought sent a chill through me. My Little side was my deepest secret—the part of me that found comfort in childish things when the adult world became too much. The only person in the whole world who knew about this side of me was my sister, Amy. If the Kings ever discovered this vulnerability, or, god forbid, my colleagues at Prestige Partners . . .

I shook my head and turned back to my coloring, focusing on the simple joy of creating something pretty. The cartoon played in the background, its cheerful theme song at odds with the worry that lingered even in this sanctuary.

"It'll be okay," I told Mr. Hoppy, though my voice wavered. "I'll be very professional. Very grown-up. They'll never know."

I checked my watch. It was time to go.

I parked my Audi between a beat-up pickup truck and a gleaming Harley in the back lot of Marked Kings Tattoo. The contrast was obvious. My luxury sedan stuck out badly among the motorcycles. I'd changed back into professional clothing before leaving home, trading my soft pink clothes for dark jeans and a forest green blouse that made my eyes pop while still looking professional. Professional was my armor. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, tucked a strand of hair behind an ear, and grabbed my laptop bag. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

The neon sign above the shop entrance hummed and flickered, casting a purple glow across the cracked pavement. "Marked Kings Tattoo" in angular black letters, with a crown design that matched the patches I'd seen on the Heavy Kings' leather cuts. A subtle reminder of who really owned this place.

I took a deep breath and walked in, the bell above the door announcing my arrival. The shop hit all my senses at once—the sharp smell of antiseptic and ink, the low rumble of rock music from hidden speakers, the buzz of tattoo machines that sounded like angry metal bees. Artwork covered every inch of wall space—flash designs, photographs of finished pieces, and what I recognized as Heavy Kings imagery—crowns, motorcycles, stylized weapons.

This world couldn't be further from the hushed corridors of Prestige Partners if it tried.

"There she is! The numbers witch!"

Lena emerged from behind a black curtain separating the front from the back rooms. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, bright blue streaks framing her face. Today she wore ripped black jeans and a tank top that showcased the intricate sleeve tattoos running down both arms—flowers and skulls intertwined in a dance that somehow worked.

She gave me a quick side-hug, the scent of her jasmine perfume mixing with the shop's industrial smells. "Thanks for coming. You know, this place would crash and burn without your brain."

I smiled, relaxing slightly. Lena had that effect—making everyone feel instantly comfortable despite her edgy appearance. "So, your new receptionist did a number on these accounts?"

"That's putting it mildly. He's good with the customers but absolute shit with numbers." She led me through the curtain to a cluttered back office. "I've set you up here. Coffee's fresh."