Page 2 of The Delivery

“You have to get accepted first and sign a contract. At that point, we’ll discuss what your assignment would be. Success with one assignment determines the likelihood of being granted another and so on and so forth until you graduate. It’s a goal-oriented, feedback loop. If you make your goal, you’re given the opportunity to participate in another assignment all the way through until completion and certification, most likely gaining applicable credit toward community service hours, assuming that’s what the judge asked of you.”

“Who accepts me?”

“I do.” I swallow hard. He just made it sound so personal. I don’t accept participants based on anything personal. They have to meet very specific criteria and demonstrate promise in their first group activity. I don’t randomly pick and choose candidates because I either like or dislike them.

“Okay. So what do you want me to do?”

“Just answer a few questions.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m a social worker. I’m the project director at Pathways. I came in as a group leader initially.”

“Do you like it here?”

“I do like it. Most days.” I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions here, kid. “So is it Moisés you go by? I have to fill out your intake form, and we do honor nicknames here as long as they’re not gang affiliated.”

“Why is your nickname Doc?” he asks and pulls off his hat. His hair falls nearly to his shoulders. It’s shaved close around the sides but the center is long enough to be pulled into a ponytail, and it’s the blackest, thickest, shiniest head of hair I’ve ever seen. This kid missed his calling as a Pantene model. He runs his hands through it, and his bracelets clank together. His whole appearance would read decidedly feminine if not for his broad chest, muscular physique, and the shadow of stubble across his strong jaw.

“Have you ever applied for citizenship before?”

“Why don’t you put any pictures up in here? It seems kind of sad not having anything on the wall. You aren’t into art?”

He hasn’t answered a single question or even acknowledged I’m asking them. I arch my brow at him and hold eye contact, trying to figure out what kind of game he’s playing. Kids like these always want to play hardball. They don’t have the experience to realize that fucking with me means fucking with their own future. He’s knows how many others are in the lobby and that one signature from me could blow his chances. I can play hardball, too.

“The next time you’re arrested you will be tried as an adult. Have you ever been inside a federal penitentiary?”

“They’d deport me first. I don’t have any resident standing. You know, I have some canvases I could lend you, really colorful stuff. Bright. The subject matter is mostly dark but the colors are… well, I could bring them in for you to see.”

Ahah! He responded. I win. Not exactly the answer I was looking for, but he acknowledged my statement. I glance at my watch and see we’ve already gone over the fifteen minutes we allow each candidate. We have nothing filled out. Not even the name preference.

A soft knock sounds on the window of my office door, and Janey steps in with another coffee, this one in a disposable paper cup. I can smell the sweetened creamer as soon as she takes a step in the door.

“Times up,” she mouths to me and smiles sweetly. Janey is my right hand at Pathways, quite literally—the world’s best assistant and Friday night cocktail partner.

Moisés’ eyes are on me, and his stare is intense and smoky for such a young guy. His eyes are dark and almond shaped; they relay an intelligence that exceeds his years.

“So, do you want me?”

I think I have decided to accept him and we didn’t even get started on the goddamned questionnaire. I hope this one doesn’t come back and kick me in the butt. He’s an artist—hopefully not a moody one, and by moody, I mean violent. But he definitely doesn’t belong in jail. Jennifer, one of the team leaders, the blonde that all of the boys go crazy for, has a mural project going in Silver Lake today. We get asked to do a ton of murals. Most are commissioned by artists, and my kids just paint by numbers, but every once in a while, we get a freestyle one and we could use this guy for those. Pathways can paint the fuck out of some murals—they’re one of our most loved and successful team projects.

“I’ll give you one project. We’ll see how you do.”

Moisés smiles, and it’s a beautiful thing. It’s the only real display of emotion since he walked through the door. His face goes from sultry to spritely, and he seems so incredibly pleased.

“Okay, Mr. Cruz,” Janey interrupts as she sets the coffee down on my desk. “Just sign the consent form and come back out the front desk where Billy will escort you upstairs to Jennifer’s group. They’ve already started laying out the mural design on paper.”

I lean forward and slide the form over to Moisés, and he pulls a pen out of the front pocket of his backpack. He signs and then pulls his hair back from his face and replaces the beanie.

He stands to leave and throws his backpack over his shoulder. It clunks as he beelines for the door.

“What do you have with you? If it’s contraband you better leave it at the desk with Janey or you’re out before you even start.”

He turns when he reaches the door and smiles again. He reaches one arm up behind him and grips the top of the door as if to stretch out his back. His T-shirt rides up and a distinct line of little hairs lead down from his belly button to the waist of his pants. My eyes inadvertently stick to it, and he notices me looking. His smile widens. A million cascading thoughts fall through my mind.

He fucking caught me! Looking there. Am I attracted to him? Am I blushing? Belly button. Worst intake interview ever! Treasure trail. Cock. Swollen cock. Fuck. I’d lose my license. Seven years. I’d pull his hair. God, I want to touch that hair! He’s lying about his age. He’s a grown man. Look at the muscle in his arms alone. Christ! I’m seven years older than him. I’m a pervert. I would totally fuck him. Under any other circumstances. I’m a lech! I’d stick my tongue in his belly button and follow that path. Finch, you’re a disgusting lecherous old maid! His dick is probably small. Probably a lousy fuck. I need a relationship not a headache. Look at how his shirt stretches across his pecs. He must wrestle. He should wrestle me! I’d better get it together and say something here before he thinks I’m totally off my rocker and reports me.

“What is it?”

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