The backs of my knees, my forehead, every part of my body felt sticky with a warm sheen of sweat. The white shorts and tank top I wore in preparation for the trip seemed to only make the heat worse. I had always thought of Miami as a magical place, full of bright lights and old-world charm that just seemed to suck you into an intoxicating tailspin of beautiful people and bacchanalian sensibilities. With my thighs sticking to the worn leather seats of the taxi and the wet, humid air filtering in through the dirty, lowered windows, I had a hard time focusing on the cityscape at all.

The closer the cab got to my new apartment, the harder I worked to hold off my impending panic attack. It was a wonder I survived two plane rides and an eight hour layover without completely breaking down. The reality of my hasty move, almost crippling uncertainty, my complete lack of funds and employment was finally starting to set in. The thoughts caused the sweat on the back of my knees to worsen and my heart to thump a quick staccato against my ribcage.

The deep voice of the cab driver rang through the car as we pulled up to a small, sturdy apartment building. The exterior was covered in a sickly looking peach color under the unflattering street light stationed directly above it. It was my first time seeing it outside of a few online photos and while it was definitely nothing special, the neighborhood seemed quiet, safe enough for a newcomer, and was on just the right side of dirt cheap.

I hastily unloaded my bags and made my way up the narrow stairs towards my second floor apartment. I collapsed with my back against the door as soon as I stepped inside, not even bothering to turn on the lights or look around, too tired to even cry.

* * *

Abrupt banging sounds and quick vibrations against my back woke me up the next morning, startling me out of a surprisingly sound sleep.

“Rosaline Reed?” A stocky, red-faced man with a lit cigarette hanging from his thin, chapped lips greeted me when I opened the door.

“Yes. That’s me.” I felt his beady eyes trail up my body slowly, sending chills down the length of my spine. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah eh... I’m Joe, the building manager.” His eyes landed on my breasts. ”We spoke on the phone. Mr. Kipling told you to come see me when you got in.”

I cursed myself for forgetting our agreement.

“I’m sorry about that, Joe but I got in pretty late last night and I figured you wouldn’t want to be bothered.” I gave him a quick smile, hoping to somewhat charm him into forgetting about it.

It worked.

“You can come see me anytime you like, honey.” His sharp bark of laughter made my ears ring.

I ignored his innuendo, deciding to focus on getting him to leave me alone instead.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, Joe, I have a lot of things I need to do today so-”

“Oh, of course, of course.” He licked his lips. “I set up shop down in the basement, just let me know if you need anything.”

“I think I’ll be fine, but thank you.” I gave him a small smile, friendly but not too big, before bidding him goodbye and closing the door.

My exhaustion from the night before gave me very little time to look around my new home. It was definitely nothing like I was used to. Already furnished, every item in the place seemed to be completely utilitarian. The place was old, shabby, and all but falling apart. It was a far cry from the opulence and plush surroundings of my childhood home the boarding school dorm rooms I had grown up in. There was something about it though, even amongst the peeling paint and underlying scent of dirt, that stirred a certain fondness in my chest.

* * *

After a long, hot shower and a change of clothes, I headed back out into the hot Miami streets with a few job prospects pulled up on my phone and pure determination in my mind. My foolhardy resolve had me feeling slightly optimistic but the realist in me knew that my resume only consisted of an unpaid internship at a low-rung law office and an unfinished Bachelor’s degree. I was almost positive I’d be flipping burgers at some hole-in-the-wall diner before the day was up.

Hours of sickeningly polite rejections and a few obligatory “we’ll let you know” statements later and I was ready to throw in the towel. One last scan over the classifieds section caused one particular ad to pop out at me. It was oddly short, simply stating that an artist's assistant was needed, no experience necessary. There was no phone number or email address listed, only an address and the request to “stop by before 6pm,” and at 5:15, I would be just be able to make it before the deadline.

The address, as it turned out, was actually a warehouse, only one story and covered in graffiti. It had all the pretenses of being abandoned except for the dark grey Porsche parked out front and the obviously reinforced steel door, painted a burnt orange color.

For a second, I contemplated turning around and heading home. Biding my time until the next morning and heading out again. The thought of my steadily dwindling bank account made the opportunity too good to pass up.

I pressed the high-tech buzzer stationed next to the heavy door and a rumbly, deep voice sounded out over the speakers. “What?”

“Uh…” I swallowed, something about the commanding tone made me nervous. “My name is Rosaline Reed, I’m here about the job.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the buzzer and for the second time since I had reached the warehouse, I tried to drum up the courage to not walk away.

“Wait just a second.”

Less than a minute later the heavy door swung open, revealing what was the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. He towered over me, clad in only a pair of dark jeans and a torso full of colorful tattoos. His dark brown hair sat unruly on top of his head and his handsome face was covered with a short, soft-looking beard. The man gave off an aura of pure confidence, something that, unlike most of the attractive men I had encountered in my lifetime, seemed almost unwavering.

His dark green eyes peered down into mine, making my tongue feel dry and heavy in my mouth. I suddenly felt heated in a very unfamiliar way. This time, the sweat on my palms was caused by something foreign and not at all by the murky Miami atmosphere.

“Hi.” A singular greeting was all I could manage and even that sounded pathetic.

The man raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You comin’ in or what?”

Somehow, I found my footing and stumbled into the warehouse, my nervousness momentarily forgotten as I took in my surroundings.

The entire back wall of the warehouse seemed to have been replaced with collapsing glass windows that opened up to let the dusky purple sunset bleed into the large, open space of the building. The floor was covered equally by a dirty white tarp and plentiful paint splatters. While the room itself was littered with paintings and various artistic structures. It, just like its owner, was like nothing I had ever seen.

“You like it,” he said.

“I’m... It’s…” I couldn’t seem to find the words to describe how I felt about the place. “I don’t know your name, yet!” I blurted out instead.

“Dex Quinn.” He reached out to grab my arm, spinning me around to face him. Gooseflesh quickly followed the rough hands he laid on my skin.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dex.” I reached my hand out to initiate a polite handshake, but he ignored it.

“You don’t know who I am?”

“Am I supposed to?” I didn’t mean to be rude, but while it was obvious that he was an artist I had never been too interested in the art world.

He paused again, looking at me curiously for a few seconds. Unlike the sickly gaze of my landlord this morning, the heated stare from Dex sent a chill up my spine for a completely different reason. It made me feel nervous and needy at the same time, two feelings that I couldn’t remember feeling together before. I couldn’t decide whether I hated it, or enjoyed it.

I started to speak again but he raised a hand to stop me.

“You’ll do. Be here tomorrow morning at 8. Dress casually.” With that, he walked further into the warehouse, leaving me behind.

“Oh, and Rosie,” He turned around once more, that gorgeous smirk back on his face. “Don’t be late.”

I quietly made my way back out onto the street, my cheeks flushing with blood in time with the harsh thumping of my heart.

He called me Rosie.