The city’s massive skyscrapers loom in the distance, and a brown haze of pollution has the overcast day looking more sickly than usual. I brush my hand over my tight, naughty-teacher bun and try to smooth back any flyaways that my helmet might have created as I speed walk toward the front door.
There’s a man standing right outside the pristine glass double doors, and I slow my hurried pace as I get closer and take him in. He looks like Chucky all grown up with long straight red hair, a black pair of overalls over a heather gray T-shirt, and a creepy fucking face. There’s a second lanky man with a shaved head arguing with him, and when Lanky tries to grab the door handle, Chucky stops him.
“You know better,” Chucky tells him. “You tried this shit last time. Now get out of here before I call a Duo to deal with you. You know you aren’t qualified or welcome.”
Lanky stares at Chucky for a moment, anger clearly tinging his features. But just when I’m certain he’s about to throw a punch, he sighs and turns to walk away instead. He shoots one more seething glare over his shoulder at Chucky and then picks up his pace, cursing under his breath as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. When he sees me, he gives me a sneer and spits right at my feet, nearly hitting my shoes.
“What the hell?” I snap, surprised, taking a step back.
“Fucking elitist,” he says, before stomping away.
I glare at his retreating back, wondering if I can pull a Jack Dawson spit move from Titanic and land a nasty warning glob at his feet, but I’m not that good at spitting. I blame porn.
I turn on my heel and walk up to Chucky, wondering if he’s going to stop me from going inside too. But he just gives me a once-over, orange brows jumping up for a moment, and then he hurries to grab the door handle and pulls it open for me. “Go on in.”
“Thanks,” I say, breathing out in relief.
I’m still pumped full of adrenaline from my impatient, road-rage-filled drive over here. Add to that the disrespectful prick outside, and I’m a little more flustered than I’d like to be. I quickly check the time on my phone and swallow back the panic when I see that there are only ten minutes left for the open interviews. I take a deep breath, trying to sort my shit out, and put my confident face on before stepping over the threshold.
I pull a resume out of my bag as I approach the receptionist at the end of the empty lobby. It’s slightly crinkled, so I rush to try to smooth it out while trying to look completely nonchalant and poised. I don’t think I’m pulling it off, but luckily, the woman is on the phone, so she doesn’t notice as I iron it across my thigh.
Satisfied that it’s a little more straightened out, I take a minute to look around at the swank industrial chic feel of the place. The inside is brick, with exposed metal ducts and sprinklers, which coordinates well with the black worn leather accents and chairs. There’s minimal decor, but what I can see looks top of the line and expensive.
I reach the receptionist just as she hangs up her call, and she greets me with a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Hi, I’m Delta Gates, I’m here to interview for the Security Officer position,” I offer, my tone friendly and professional.
Her eyes shoot to her computer, no doubt checking the time, before they return to me with a hint of surprise in them. “You are? How wonderful!” Confusion flits through me at her words. I was expecting to see judgment in her gaze or maybe a bitchy word or two for being so late, but instead, she just looks...relieved. “Let me take you right back, Miss Gates.”
She gets up and comes around the desk, motioning for me to follow her. I take one last look around the empty lobby, wondering why this place isn’t packed full of applicants. The tapping of the receptionist’s heels on the polished concrete floor brings my attention ahead again as she leads me further into the building. We pass by a glass-walled office that’s clearly very upscale and must’ve cost a fortune to build, but that’s empty too.
What is this place?
I probably should have read the job description thoroughly, but there just wasn’t time. I’m really hoping that the job site I signed up for wouldn’t have sent me anything that I wasn’t technically qualified for, but it appears that I’m about to find out. I just hope I don’t make a complete ass of myself.
I’m guided into a back office—this one also surrounded by stunning glass walls—where a tall blonde supermodel of a woman stands and extends her hand in greeting. She smiles at me, and her teeth are so white and radiant I have to fight to keep from blinking like I’m staring into the sun. I reach out and give her a strong handshake just like my dad taught me to.
My dad’s voice rises in my mind like steam rises off a pond on a cold day. “You have to show them your trustworthiness right from the start, Del, and nothing communicates that faster than a firm, assertive handshake.” His advice floats away like a balloon I couldn’t keep hold of, and I focus on the beautiful woman in front of me.
“I’m Susan Atwood,” the hotter blonde version of Cindy Crawford greets me.
I offer back my much dimmer million-dollar smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Atwood. I’m Delta Gates.”
She gives me another megawatt smile, and an adorable giggle sneaks out of her full, flawless lips. “Delta...Gates. Well, isn’t that just perfect,” she observes, pulling her hand back and motioning for me to have a seat on the other side of the conference table.
I, of course, have no idea what the hell that means, but I smile and fake chuckle like I get the joke. I do as instructed and claim a chair across from her. The soft leather practically swaddles me as I sit down, as if it wants to rock me to sleep with a hot cup of tea and a lullaby, and I find myself completely distracted by how good it feels.
Holy shit, that’s a nice chair. It’s the most comfortable thing I’ve ever sat in, I think, but it’s an odd thing to be focused on since Ms. Atwood is talking and I’ve never given a fuck about a chair before. Fuck off, chair. I need to pay attention!
I force myself to tune into Ms. Atwood’s sultry tone and smooth cadence, while trying not to lean back against the chair and let it claim me. Nope. I will not fall into its buttery soft trap. I overcompensate by lurching forward, nearly smacking my knees on the glass table separating me from my interviewer. I give Ms. Atwood a strained smile and try to look all professional and security officer-esque or some shit. I really fucking need this job.
“So, Miss Gates, did you have any questions about the role and what it requires?” Ms. Atwood asks.
I cover up my panic by leaning forward and placing my clasped hands on the table. “Well...I’d love to hear more about your security needs, that way we can both get a better feel for whether or not I might be the right fit.”
I internally high five myself for that line. I definitely came across as a security professional. Now I’ll find out all about this job and whether or not I’m even qualified.
Score for underprepared and desperate me.
“Certainly,” Ms. Atwood coos and leans back in her chair. I wonder if she’s ever gotten distracted by it as much as me. “As I’m sure you already know, you’d be patrolling the private Perdition Estate. More specifically, the graveyard gate on that property, of course.”