Private Internship

by Kitsy Clare

  By the time I take a few steps back toward the desk, he’s wolfed down one cookie and helped himself to two more. Yesss! He can tolerate my horrendous baking.

  No chocolate chips for me, though. An army of butterflies has invaded my stomach, and they’re tromping all over. Caz stares at my print with a blank face. It feels like an hour before he finally talks. Well, he doesn’t exactly talk; he heads over to a wide storage shelf and whips out a crisp sheet of paper, fastens it over my piece. Then he takes a thin marker from his pocket. “May I?”

  “May you what?”

  “Make some lines over your piece?”

  What the hell? “Is it so bad you need to draw over it?” I ask boldly—or foolishly.

  His laughter rings out clear, bell-like. “Oh, no, Sienna.”

  Even though my ire is rising, my heart pings with confused delight. “What’s so funny?” Feels like I’m forever asking him that.

  “It’s not that it’s bad.” He frames it with his big hands. “I like the intense blue and the spikes. The eyeballs are compelling. I want to show you something.”

  “Eyeballs?” I’m so relieved that this intimidating-beyond-belief man appreciates aspects of my piece that my knees are quaking. I lean back against his desk for support and try to look casual, put together. “Um, sure, go ahead. Just don’t let the sharpie bleed through.”

  He looks insulted. “What do you take me for?” An entitled white male luminary? Don’t ask.

  I shadow him while he traces over my lines and realize the paper is actually visualizing paper—a heavy tracing paper that looks opaque but shows the art underneath. He makes my spikes spikier, the two blobs into glaring monster eyes, my glittery jewel-dust surface into warty bumps. “What am I doing?” he asks, casting me a crafty half-grin that I have an inexplicable urge to kiss.

  “You tell me.”

  His eyes light up with that glee he gets during one of his epic games. “No way. To quote you, I asked you first.”

  “Okay, you’ve made a monster out of my flying jewel,” I declare.

  He waves around the sharpie. “And your flying jewel was…?”

  “Pretty, lyrical, floaty?”

  “Like sugar,” he says.

  “Huh? I don’t get it.”

  “It’s why this place rocks.” I still don’t get it, not at all. “Look.” He whips out another fresh paper, clips it up, and writes Schneitryn Sugar on it in big letters. Then he stands back. “Remember what I said I loved about sugar?”

  “Um, that it’s both syrupy and poisonous.”

  He nods eagerly. “Yet, all you have to do to totally change someone or something’s identity is to switch around a few lines or letters.” He fiddles with the letters in the Schneitryn name. “Bingo! Same letters, but read it now.”

  I gasp as it sinks in. “Strychnine. Holy shit!” Sweet, yet poisonous. “It’s almost like the founders did this on purpose!”

  “There are only so many coincidences.” His grin is wicked and sensual, and it’s hard to think straight when he beams it right at me. Its heat on me is like winter sun—sudden and lovely, rendering the snowy, frigid shadows friendly and manageable. “Sweet, yet poisonous,” he says, in an echo of the mantra in my head. “So when you think about your illustration, think formally about its opposite, too. If you incorporate some of those elements, you’ll strengthen your vision. It will have more muscle, less saccharine aftertaste.”

  While he’s explaining this, the sky darkens with a swift blast of hard rain clattering on the giant glass panes. Thunder follows—big, startling claps. “See? The universe approves.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “’Course not.” He jabs me lightheartedly. “Hey, let’s play a game.”

  Oh lord, another? I’ve barely gotten over the last one. “What game is that?”

  “Tag, you’re it!” He taps my shoulder and darts off. Is this really happening? The most famous artist in Brooklyn is playing tag with me like we’re five years old?

  I dash after him, as he disappears down a random hallway. This hall leads to a dark, open space where my feet slop in puddles from multiple roof leaks. Thunder continues to rattle the windows while I jog past more blue packaging machines and head into a room with stacks of filthy, rotting burlap bags holding ancient unrefined sugar. It’s cold in these raw, unfinished rooms. “Caz, come on out. Enough! I’m going to get lost,” I call after him, my chest cramping with rising panic.

  “Don’t be a wimp!” he yells from somewhere up ahead. I sprint toward his voice, winding around another hallway encrusted with blackened pipes. He’s fast and already past this area.

  “Give me a hint, say something!”

  “Getting warmer,” he yells, and I hear his footsteps fleeing around the bend, though I can’t see him.

  Almost to the curve in the hall, my sneaker catches on a warped floor plank, and I pitch forward. “Crap!” I grip one of the wall pipes, right myself, and keep going. It’s shadowy in here with only two bare bulbs illuminating each length of hallway. And there are no windows to let in outside light along this interior stretch.

  Not that the weather is sunny. Far from it. The last time I looked, the storm had turned the sky a menacing gray. The thunderclaps are resounding, even through the thick, windowless industrial walls. Tommy was right; a mighty storm is hitting New York City.

  Finally, I see a brighter glow at the end of this hallway. Phew. I must be headed toward one of the renovated studios. Instinct tells me to tread lightly, that Caz may still be lingering in here. I peek in. Amazing! He’s set up a gym complete with a line of hanging rings and a trampoline. It’s blessedly warmer in here. This warehouse is so enormous, it’s no wonder he’s only heated the renovated parts. Otherwise, it would cost a fortune to heat. In two of the corners, someone has deposited huge piles of sugar packets—ones tediously counted by spurned interns?

  My attention is drawn to the larger of the piles. Its packets are shifting ever so slightly. Ah! The jig’s up. Caz is hiding under it. Sugary mosh pit, here I come! I tiptoe forward, ever so slowly, and pounce, landing with a shockingly loud crunch. Burrowing down into the packets, my hand hits a leathery cowboy boot. I grip onto the lip for all its worth. “Tag!” I shriek. “Gotcha.”

  Caz explodes upward, like a giant cake surprise, his hair all at wild angles. Grabbing me by the waist, he pulls me down. We wrestle like kids, sending packets flying in all directions. He’s stronger than me, so it’s not long before his corded arms encircle me and pin me there, some big kid winning one over on his little brother or sister.

  But Caz is not like a big brother, not at all. Not sure what we are, with him gazing at me with his deep brown eyes animated, sparkly, and questioning. Wide, as if he’s seeing me clearly for the very first time. “You’re fun,” he whispers, his vulnerable yet firm opened mouth so near mine.

  Oh wow. I want him to close the gap between us. I will him to. Our chests press together, his flat to mine, our hearts beating fast, his tempo matching mine. His breath tickles my flushed cheeks. It’d be so easy to strip off our clothes and nestle down into this sugary mountain of dreams.

  Discover our own sweetness together. Taste it, savor it.

  “You’re wild,” I murmur back.

  His hungry gaze slides down to my mouth. Yes, he’s hungry. He can’t hide that with games. His sensual, needy energy is so intense, I swear he could devour me—all of this before we’ve even grazed lips.

  A thunderclap breaks our reverie, and a high-pitched, howling wind.

  “You’re not scared of me?” He tucks some stray locks behind my ear.

  “Maybe. But you told me a little fear’s a good thing.”

  “A good thing,” he echoes, still gazing at my mouth. He draws a finger across my bottom lip, which sends me into waves of shameless sensation.

  This is dangerous. He’s my boss. I’m committing professional suicide here. Caz runs scalding hot and icy cold. He’s bound to turn on
me. Is this what happened with Harper? She got too close and then.... “Hey, I tagged you,” I say into his hair. “What do you intend to do about it?”

  “Tag you back.” He grazes my ear with his lips.

  Get away. Snap out of your Caz spell. This is way too frightening and fear is a very bad thing after all. “Need a running start.” I jump up and sprint off, paying little attention to which hallway I’ve veered down.

  I’m determined to evade him, but how? He knows this building’s secrets much better than I do. I wish I had a floor plan. I see a side door to the left and duck in, careen along its narrow, dim confines. There’s a set of stairs. Rasping for breath, I take them two at a time.

  “I’ll get you, Sienna. I will,” he yells from somewhere behind me. He doesn’t sound too close, so maybe he didn’t see me dash up the stairs.

  This possibility gives me a jolt of devilish delight. I see why he likes games. I forgot how much fun they can be. Winding through another snake of a hallway, I shiver when I see the view outside the windows here.

  The sky has turned an eerie greenish black, and it’s still 4 p.m. The river water is roiling like a witch’s cauldron. But what really unnerves me is the scream of wind through the cracks in the panes, threatening to pop them out and shatter them. Its ferocity is driving the rain sideways in a way I’ve never seen before. Trembling, I keep on going.

  I pass through three more great rooms, one with upright barrel configurations and one dripping with so many roof leaks my sneakers get soaked from sinking into them. The light is flickering and shadowy, but it’s there, reassuring me I won’t get horribly lost. I’ll eventually find my way back to Caz’s studio. Then, in the third room, I wheel around and check to see if he’s behind me, when there’s a crack of something bigger than even the thunder, and the lights blink out completely.

  My heart skips a beat as I fumble and careen backwards into some sort of gargantuan opening with rough metal sides. When my head hits hard, even my mind snaps to black.

  8 CHAPTER EIGHT

  My skull pounds like I’ve hammered nails into it. I’m curled in an awkward heap against something metallic, quaking hard. It’s absolutely freezing in this...whatever it is. I’m teeth-chattering cold and can’t see my hands in front of me.

  And then, I remember the game of tag, the freaky sound like a bomb detonating, and the lights snapping off. I remember fumbling and falling.

  Unsteadily, I stand and graze my palms along the tapered sides. No corners. I’m stuck in one of Caz’s sugar cauldrons! Except, this one is massive. Reaching up, it dawns on me that the rim of this stinking vat is way beyond my reach—maybe even ten feet tall. The fact that I can’t see a thing makes it all the scarier.

  Damn Casper Mason and his games! My heart bangs against my shuddering ribs, and despite the fact that I’m freezing, sweat drips down my spine. My sneakers are still soaking wet with frigid water, which is chilling my entire body. The game is over. I don’t care if Caz tags me. In fact, I wish he would. It would get me out of this unholy mess.

  “Caz!” I yell, but my voice is trumped by the roaring wind of the storm—no, hurricane. Shit! Why didn’t I listen to Tommy and go straight home?

  “Caz, where are you? I’m stuck in here. Help. Please, get me out of this thing!” I plead, to the battering rain and the vacant, haunted rooms.

  After what seems like over an hour of me yelling and crouching in this hellhole, my shirt is soaked with nervous sweat, my toes feel close to frostbite, and I’m on the verge of tears.

  Then, with a giddy lilt in my chest, I hear the sound of distant footsteps. “Caz!” I rasp. “I’m in here, in the vat. I’m trapped!”

  Thankfully, his thudding steps get louder. But they’re halting; clearly, he’s walking blindly, too. Guess he has no flashlight. “Sienna?”

  “Yes! I’m trapped in a processing vat. Must be set way down into the floor.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus! I’m coming,” he promises from somewhere above me. “The fucking power went out. The storm. Can’t see where the hell I’m going.”

  “Be careful. Don’t you fall in, too. Over here,” I keep saying in as measured a tone as I can muster. “Follow my voice.” I can’t see him, but I hear his boots hit the metal lip then pause. I hear the soft shuffle when he crouches down, his hands grazing the rough metal, assessing its width. “I don’t have a rope or anything,” he says. “But there are all kinds of boxes around, and those burlap bags of unprocessed sugar. If I toss some down, you could stack them and climb up—”

  “Yes. Anything!” I exclaim, glad beyond belief that there will be two minds working on this terrible problem. “Drag them super slowly so they don’t burst open,” I suggest. “They’re incredibly decayed.”

  “Good point.” I hear him clambering around, gathering items and dragging them toward me. He does this for a while, until he mumbles, “This should do it. Those vats are about ten feet tall, so you’ll only need to hoist yourself up a few feet. After that I’ll grab onto your forearms. Gangway,” he exclaims. “Get to the far side of where you hear my voice.”

  I quickly comply. Momentarily, I hear the bags he’s gathered tumble down toward me.

  It takes another nerve-wracking twenty minutes or so for him to complete the drag and drop operation, and for me to build the burlap lift, while trying not to trip over the stray bags underfoot, not to mention the ones that exploded sugar from being too rotted out.

  I’ve arranged them in levels, in order to get a decent foothold. After climbing on all fours, I sway unsteadily on the top of the mound and stretch upward. “Can you touch my hands? Am I high enough?”

  I hear Caz fumbling, crawling around the rim. And then, almost like that magical Sistine Chapel finger-touch painting of Michelangelo’s, I feel the warmth of his callused hands on mine.

  “Got you!” he cries, and his big fingers quickly wind around my wrists. “Can you hoist up any higher so I can grab you?”

  “I’ll try.” I shimmy up even farther and stand on my tiptoes. Feel his muscled hands slide down my arms, almost to my elbows. If I weren’t so terrified, this skin on skin would turn me on big time.

  “Ready for the lift?” he asks hopefully.

  “Not really, but yeah. Just don’t pull my arms out of the sockets,” I add, half-joking, half-serious.

  “Then try to get a foothold or two on the inside edges while I pull. That way you can help lift, and the stress on your joints won’t be as great.”

  Easy peasy to get a foothold on sloping metal, I think darkly. But his grip is firm and his determination is evident in his labored breaths and steady pull upwards. My feet lift off the sacks, and I start to rise. Amazing! He’s lifting my entire body like a circus strongman. I even manage to get a toehold on a rough patch in the metal.

  “I got you. You got this,” Caz reassures. He hauls me up the last few feet, and catches me in his sturdy grip. Still hugging me, he guides me away from the lip of the vat, inch by inch, to safer ground. It’s pitch black in this room. No windows. The only sounds are the screeching wind from the neighboring hall and Caz’s husky breaths against my neck.

  My God, he’s embracing me for all he’s worth, his face hot against the part of my neck where my vital pulse beats. I let myself melt into his hard, strapping shoulders, brawny beyond belief from all of his chain acrobatics and drilling of unforgiving metals. He did it. He saved me! It’s all I can do not to weep with relief.

  “Sienna, Sienna.” He breathes impassioned words into my tousled hair. Lord, he feels so good pressing into the side of my neck, the wet brush of his mouth on my bare shoulder teasing out my inopportune lust. “I’m sorry I asked you to play tag,” he murmurs. “Sorry I didn’t send you home with Tommy. It’s a terrible hurricane. Something I’ve never seen before. The power blew out. The whole building’s dark. No heat either.”

  “Ooh, that’s horrible. What should we do?” It’s hard to think about pulling away, breaking our magnetic bond, especially because thi
s physical connection is keeping the creepy-crawly blackness at bay. I can’t even see his face.

  “Not sure, but are you all right? Did you hit your head or anything?”

  “I’m okay, just a little dazed.” In explore my head for bruises, I recall breaking my fall with my arms. Thank God for my fast reflexes.

  He pulls me in tighter. “Oh my, I’m glad you’re not hurt.”

  It feels so safe locked away in his bear hug, though danger alarms are ringing in my head. Caz is your boss. You have a boyfriend, even if he’s across the sea, even if he’s spending day and night with Betsy, his glamorous, worldly-wise Euro art dealer. Even if you rarely talk to Erik anymore. Caz is wrong and dangerous, and god knows, you’ve had enough danger for months, Sienna.

  Abruptly I break away and take a careful step back. “We need to get to your studio area, where we have cell phones. Any flashlights there?”

  “Cells will only be good until their charge runs out.” I sense his mood drop—for rejecting him?

  He couldn’t possibly assume I’m going to make mad love with him here in this dank room, when we can’t even see each other, or find where we dropped our clothes afterward. But, even worse, it’s presumptuous after how he’s treated me. I’m not one of his games, his toys. He can’t just toss me on a mountain of sugar packets and drill me like it’s another test I’ll laugh off.

  “I think I’ve got a few candles in my office,” he reasons. “Let’s see, where the heck are we?” I picture his mental wheels spinning. He must’ve recovered his sense of direction because he says, “Ah, yes,” and begins to guide me along, holding my hand. He warns me not to trip over some water-damaged planks he’s just bumbled onto, and to watch out for a sudden curve. Heading down one of the long hallways, I finally see moonlight casting ghostly shapes on the banging, shuddering panes. Pausing there, we lean against the long sill, marveling at the hurricane’s strength and breadth.

  “Unbelievable!” Caz remarks. “It’s not just Brooklyn—the whole Manhattan skyline is dark.”