Moving from my apartment in Indio to my cousin’s home in San Diego was embarrassing at first. I now viewed it as a godsend.

To many in Southern California, riding a bicycle was a way of life. Throughout my job search in Indio, it was belittling. Each block I pedaled through, it seemed people turned and stared. Their glares and gestures stood as a constant reminder that I’d been fired, couldn’t find a replacement job, and was one of the city’s population that assembled California’s five percent unemployment rate.

Thrust into the melting pot of San Diego’s Prius and Tesla driving millions, however, I became invisible. I was simply another eco-friendly traveler.

I locked my bike to the rack and debated what to do with my hair. While clipping it into a managerial messy bun, I tilted my head back for one last look at San Diego’s clear blue sky before I entered the building.

Sweet fucking Jesus.

Sex on a stick was peering out of the third story window directly above me. It only took an instant to realize he was tattooed, wore an awesome beard, and was handsome as hell. Paralyzed by the thought of the sexual journey he and I could take together, I stared back at him with an open mouth.

He rubbed his tattooed fingers against his temples and turned away.

As fate would have it, the building he was in adjoined my new place of employ. The series of buildings were joined in a lengthy line of three-story businesses that extended the length of the block. Each had a different address, but they were all part of the same complex.

I filed his likeness in my dildo dossier and wondered if gawking at him would become a permanent part of my morning routine. If not, I’d at least pleasure myself to a mental image of him until my recollection faded to nothing.

Or until one of my cousin’s screaming kids banged on the bathroom door.

I ducked through the doorway and hustled up the two flights of stairs. A steel door with a Manager’s Office sign on it let me know I’d reached my destination. Anxious to start my new job, I eagerly pushed against it, but it didn’t budge.

I thrust my hip into it. It swung open with a bang!

“Jesus!” A nondescript man spun around and looked at me with bulging eyes. “You scared the fuck clean out of me.”

He wore clothes that had suited garden-variety men for decades, had ho-hum brown hair, an average build, wasn’t short, and was by no means tall. I scanned his face for a distinguishable feature and found not one thing that separated him from the masses of middle-aged men I’d met in my life.

He studied me while I tried to decide how and where to categorize him. He was in his late fifties and was wearing faded jeans. A powder blue button-down shirt that fit much tighter in the stomach than it did in the shoulders topped off his ensemble.

I looked at his feet.

Loafers.

I had encountered the male version of me.

Mister Average.

He stood in front of an awesome display of office furniture that was situated along a brick wall. I pushed the door closed and smiled. “Hi. I’m Andy. Andy Winslow.”

“Just about shit myself when you slung that door open.” He extended his hand. “Mort Hicks.”

I gave him a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He turned away and walked toward the large desk that was behind him. “I’m the senior property manager. He told me you’d be here this morning. Said you were a scotch drinker.”

“Mister Greene?”

“His name’s Pale,” he murmured.

I scrunched my nose. “His name is Pale Greene?”

He faced me and laughed. “Kale. With a K. Kale Greene. Always liked saying it. Beats the shit out of Mort.”

“Mort’s an awesome name.” I tilted my head to the side and peered beyond him. Contemporary office furniture fashioned out of weathered wood and stainless steel lined the far wall.

“Who uhhm.” I wagged my finger toward the desk. “Who works here?”

“Property manager.”

“Property manager you, or property manager me?”

“That’d be you.” He stepped aside. “Do you like it?”

“The office?”

He waved his hand toward the wall. “The new furniture. Kale had that shit delivered this weekend. Said he didn’t want you using that stuff that was in here. Good call, far as I’m concerned. Never know what that last dip-shit wiped on it or snorted off it. He was a real winner.”

“The last property manager?”

He leaned against the front edge of the desk. “Went by Preston, but his name was Todd. Cops came in and got him three weeks ago, Wednesday. Feds. That’s why that door’s so hard to open. They busted the old one off the wall, frame and all. New one fits like a saddle on a pig. That’ll be your first project. Get someone to fix that.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Wow’s right. I come in this place maybe once a week, and I’ll be dipped in chocolate and rolled in roasted nuts if I wasn’t standing right here when that screaming bunch of bastards came bustin’ in here. Blew one of those flash-bang things right there where you’re standing. Made me blind and deaf at the same damned time. Peed a little, too, but it was unintentional. Next thing I know, there’s thirty angry fuckers in here with machineguns.”

The thought of standing in the exact spot where the flash-bang grenade went off was pretty awesome – the machineguns and screaming feds only made it better. I wondered what Preston-Todd had hidden in the old desk, and wished they hadn’t hauled it off yet.

“Holy crap,” I said. “Kale didn’t tell me that.”

He stood up straight and stretched. “Suppose not.”

“So, I work in here, and you don’t? I’m here alone?”

He looked me up and down. “Don’t seem like the type that needs your hand held.”

“I’m not. I was just--”

“I drop by once a week. On Wednesdays, unless you need me for something. Kale owns about ten times this much property, and I’m the senior manager of it all. Shit. I go from Chino Hills to Chula Vista, and everywhere in between. I’m the guy you call if you can’t figure out who to call. Doubt you’ll need much, though. We’re at ninety-nine percent occupied now. Only place left to lease is the one Todd was in. 3-A.”

“It’s in this building?”

He pointed at the ceiling. “Right above us. Had the door fixed on it, too. Busted it at the exact same time they busted this one. Guess that’s how they do it. Keep a fella from gettin’ past ‘em, I suppose.”

“I imagine so,” I said, my tone dry. Police tactics fascinated me. I could have talked about the raid all afternoon, but I guessed he didn’t want to.

“Andy your real name?” he asked.

“It is. Is Mort yours?”

“Everybody asks. Sure is. Weird, huh?”

“Your name?”

“Yeah.”

“I like it,” I said.

He scoffed. “Makes one of us.”

I was quickly coming to like him. His personality did what his features never would. It made me smile. I decided to categorize him with the father from A Christmas Story, and Clint Eastwood’s character, Walt Kowalski, from Gran Torino. He was funny without trying to be, and I really liked him so far.

We spent the next two hours talking about my duties, what to expect, and how to resolve any issue that might come about.

When we were finished talking, he gave me an old-school Rolodex that he’d listed all the important phone numbers in, and then brushed his hands against his faded jeans. “I’ll see you next Wednesday,” he said. “Won’t bother coming day after tomorrow, you’ll be fine. Call me if you need anything.”

I was pleased that he seemed to trust me, and that he didn’t make me feel stupid for being a woman. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will, too.” He yanked on the door twice before it opened. “See you Wednesday.”

I took a seat in my new office chair. In no time, a chairgasm set in, and my eyes fell closed. I got up and looked it over. It was an awesome looking piece of furniture as far as chairs were concerned, but it didn’t appear to be as magical in appearance as it was in performance.

I lowered myself into the cloud-like mesh, and swept my hand over the thick wood of my new desk. Irregular, yet smooth, the surface was cool to the touch. I glanced around the office. One wall was painted white, two were vintage brick, and one was nothing but windows. I wondered if decorating was allowed, and got lost in the possibilities.

After deciding that black and white prints would look best, I walked to the glass wall and peered over the stone ledge. Across the street, a few people were walking in each direction. I watched them until they escaped my view, and wondered if they were fixtures in the neighborhood.

A dull thud against the door caused me to turn away from the window. Then, it flew open and hit the brick wall with a whack!

Just like Mort, I about shit myself.

Not because of the door. Because of who stood there staring at me.

Sex. On. A. Stick.