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"No," I said, shaking my head. "That much I do know. I have a position waiting for me. I'm supposed to go this afternoon and meet my boss."
"You could ask for your boss's help, but it's not the kind of thing that will encourage confidence in you as a potential employee..." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
"I have to try," I said.
"Got a Plan B?" he asked expectantly.
"There is no Plan B. This is Plan A, B and C. Anyway, there's really nothing you can do, but thanks for listening."
"No problem. We do have social workers who could help you find a shelter or somewhere to stay if you need it." He handed me a card, and I tucked it into my pocket. "If you think of anything else, give me a call."
I forced a smile and then left the station house, checking the clock on the wall, not wanting to miss my meeting with Sharon. I hoped that I wouldn't have to call a social worker for help, but I was beginning to think that might be my last resort. No matter what, I wasn't going back to Manchester, but I might need to find a soup kitchen so I wouldn't have to dive into a stinking dumpster under the Brooklyn Bridge...
Until then, I had to find a cheap notebook and pen. I wandered around the streets, then went into a small bookstore to pick up a notebook and pen. The only options open to me were various superhero and toy-themed children's notebooks and pencils with toys on top that were on sale.
I chose Ironman for my notebook and a pencil with a purple-haired troll on top. I'd tell my boss it was the only notebook I could get on the fly. It would be a good story – one that we could laugh about one day.
Today was going to be one of those momentous days that you could look back on and laugh about, right?
I arrived outside the Macintyre Building on Fifth Avenue, my stomach totally in knots. The building was an old Art Deco with brass fixtures and actual sculptures, some of them looking like gargoyles. There was a security desk at the front, which I went to.
A nice older man dressed in a blue uniform greeted me.
"Hello. Ella Carlson to see Sharon Rogers."
The man nodded and picked up a phone. He spoke softly into the phone and then nodded. He hung up and smiled at me. "Can I see some ID?"
I smiled guiltily. "My wallet was stolen in Grand Central Station."
He glanced at me, his eyes moving up and down over my clothing and at the notebook and troll pencil I held in my hand. "I'll need to see some ID."
"Could you maybe ask Ms. Rogers to come down? Honestly, I don't have any ID but we've Skyped before so she knows me."
He picked up the phone once more and spoke quietly into it. He glanced at me, responded to whoever was on the other end, then hung up once more.
"She said you have auburn hair and big green eyes and that I should let you up even without ID."
"Thank you," I said and mock-wiped my brow. "I haven't had a chance to go to the bank or Social Security office to get replacement cards. I spent the last few hours in the police station giving a report."
He smiled back at me. "Rough morning?"
"You don't know the half of it."
He gave me a temporary ID and pointed to the elevators. "Twenty-seventh floor. Once you get the documentation, we'll get you a permanent card but that'll work for today."
"Thanks."
I took the card and headed to the elevator. The doors were just closing so I called out for them to hold.
When the door re-opened, I stepped on and saw a brown-haired businessman wearing a gray suit, with his back to the door. Beside him stood a bicycle courier in full riding uniform. He was leaning against the elevator wall, his helmet in his hand, his hair wet and his bangs falling in his eyes in a very sexy way. Bandages on his elbows and knees...
It was the bike courier from the previous day. The one who almost ran me down. The one I made crash into a taxi.
Crap...
Chapter Eight
Joshua
