by M J Marstens
Even though I prepared the others for ‘Zahra’s’ looks, they appear just as stunned at viewing her for the first time as I was. Seeing her (struggle to) walk through those doors, her soft, breakable form encased in flowing teal, her body positioned submissively, but her eyes raining defiant fire. . .
I could feel the others fight to maintain a façade of normalcy, too.
She seemed stunned to see the eight of us. No sign of recognition. I don’t know what to do with her reactions. . . .with her fake innocence. Her acting skills this reincarnation are superb. I’m not overly worried, though. Our skills have grown, too. She can only pretend indifference for so long. Eventually, Pluto will uncover the truth.
I look over at the others, assessing the situation. Some are like me, a vile mixture of lust and anger; while the others seem unsure. I had warned everyone to shut their senses down when she was near. The sight of her is enough to make us forget our mission. . . but the smell of her makes you think of the taste of her, which makes you think of touching her explicitly, and hearing her sounds of pleasure. . . Of course, I’m sure she planned it this way.
So I prepared us: No touching, no smelling, and absolutely no fucking tasting.
We cannot help but see and hear her, but we are to remain impervious. And I was, until she marched right up to my desk and shoved her hand out to shake in introduction. I hesitated briefly; she already thought I was rude, but I caught the look of challenge in her eyes. I would not lose to her again.
So I took her hand.
Soft, small, warm.
I broke the rule of no touching.
I could feel the others looking at me. I needed to be strong for them. Show them that she does not affect me anymore. I decided to take it a step further and test my self-discipline. This is who I am at the core. I must have control. I took a small breath in, showing I could handle her scent.
It’s delicate and feminine, and wholly her, but I caught something on an undercurrent. I growl in frustration thinking about it, my whole body going stiff. Because underneath her natural aroma was a hint of arousal. This time, I took a deeper inhale and it took all my control for me to keep my fangs at bay and for my body not to change.
She smelled of completion. . .
Like she had just fucking come seconds before entering this room.
The others inhaled, too- curious as to my reaction. I bet they fucking regretted it the second they did it, if their groans were any indication. For her part, ‘Zahra’ seems startled, even nervous about our reactions, not triumphant.
Did she really not plan to inundate us with her pheromones?
I demanded she go wash off her perfume, but it’s really a moment for us to regain control. The scent of her orgasm has my dick harder than fucking stone. I know what she’s doing. She’s trying to break me. But I’m an iron wall of willpower. I’ll not let this curse take us down. I’ll break ‘Zahra’ first.
And when I do, I’m going to make her regret she was ever reincarnated.
Then I’m going to make her regret she was ever born.
f
ZAHRA
I come out of the conference room (which a small house could fit in) where the bathroom is. I walk around the table of food (and the hot guy) to stand back in front of the desk.
“Better?” I ask.
I try not to be snarky.
I need this job.
I need this job.
I attempt to keep the mantra in my mind’s forefront. Mr. Al-Zahil does not even look at me when he nods.
Like I said: total dick.
“Allow me to introduce you to my partners. We are the Board of Trustees and the head of the resort. To my right are Mr. Uryn and Illu Blitznetsy.”
Mr. Al-Zahil does not even point out who is who, so I’m left guessing which twin is Uryn and which is Illu. After my handshake with Total Dick you would think I would just stay put, but my parents taught me better manners and social skills. So I stroll over to the twins, trying not to trip- because they are even more intense up-close.
“Nice to meet you. Who is Rin and who is Lou?”
I wait to offer a hand until I know who I’m greeting. The one on the left cracks a small grin. The one on the right doubles down on his glare.
Well, I know which one can take a joke.
“I’m Illu,” says the one on the right.
His voice is gruff and thick with a Slavic accent. Damn him and his sexy ass voice. I’m so glad I do not wear underwear; they would never make it out of this interview. I hold out my hand to shake his.
“A pleasure, Illu.” I make sure to emphasize his name like he did. “And a pleasure to meet you, too, Uryn.”
I shake the other twin’s hand. The one with a sense of humor. I turn to my left and introduce myself to the next man, not bothering to wait for Mr. Al-Zahil.
“I’m Zahra, nice to meet you.”
“Arawn.” Comes the brusque reply.
That’s totaling three dicks now.
What a shame.
Arawn’s voice is a thick, Irish brogue. His callused hand engulfs mine for a shake and I’m momentarily mesmerized by his vivid green eyes. I briefly wonder, on a scale of one-to-ten, how inappropriate it is to fantasize about blowing your potential bosses.
Like a six or a seven?
I could live with that level of misconduct and still be able to look at myself in the mirror.
To Arawn’s left is the Devil. Not literally (I hope), but he looks like the proverbial bad boy. At least he’s smiling at me.
“I’m Ermio Mercoledi, but please, you call me Mio.”
Definitely Italian. His English does not sound as fluent as the others. Arawn and Illu look on with disapproval. Uryn’s face is blank. I don’t even want to guess what Mr. Al-Zahil’s looks like. I shake Mio’s hand happily. It does not take much to please me. Simple human compassion is good enough for me. Next to him is the giant. I hope he doesn’t stand, like Mio did. I already have a complex.
“Hi, I’m Zahra. Please don’t get up!” My request ends on a squeak.
“Why?” He asks in a deep, sonorous voice. It’s as lovely as he’s.
“Because I didn’t bring my step stool to this interview.” I smile, to show him I’m teasing. He chuckles and I relax. Everything about him is calming and reassuring.
“I’m Kane. It’s nice to meet you, Zahra.” The way he says my name makes my toes curl in my sandals.
“Spelled C-A-I-N?” I’m curious. It’s the numerologist in me. The simplest of spelling changes in a name and it can alter your whole Destiny path. Kane looks a little surprised at my query.
“Ah no, K-A-N-E. It’s actually pronounced ‘KAH-NAY’, but it’s easier to just keep it at Kane.”
“Kah-Nay, huh? It sounds a little like ‘Kanye’, so I can see why you would want to change that,” I joke. “But I’m happy to call you by your real name. I mean, I get it. Most people call me ‘Sarah’, but I still want them to pronounce it right. Although it does get tiring correcting everyone.” He shakes his head in sympathy. This guy gets it.
“I appreciate it, but I have been going by ‘Kane’ since I was a boy and only my people call me ‘Kay-Nay’.”
“Who, ah, are your people?” Kane gives me a kind grin. He really is a gentle giant.
“I’m from Kaneohe, Hawaii, but my ancestry is also Inuit and Tahitian.”
“Wow, that is so-” Mr. Al-Zahil cuts me off by clearing his throat. If I were keeping a Being-A-Prick Tally, he would almost be at twenty points. Impressive. I give Kane a little wave and smile and walk over to Wild Man. I wonder if he’ll be offended if I call him ‘Mr. Dundee’. I peek at his face.
Yep, he would definitely get pissy.
His looks scream ‘Jerk Alert’ more than Mr. Al-Zahil’s.
Four-to-three. That’s the dick-to-nice guy ratio currently.
A little depressing.
“I’m Caedon Marx. My friends call me ‘Caed’. You may call me Mr. Marx.”
He has a low voice t
hat rumbles out of him and the slow, premediated movements of a lion. Also- he totally has an Australian accent! I had him pegged from the get-go, as well. (I had Mr. California pegged right, too, remember? Fuck, I’m awesome.) So I’m going to chalk that up as a win, since Mr. Marx’s introduction was clearly meant to put me in my place.
“I’m Zahra. My friends call me ‘Zahra’, but you can call me ‘Ms. Delsol’.”
His eyes contract and I suddenly feel like I’m baiting a tiger. A decidedly stupid thing to do, but he merely nods his head in a lazy, feline manner.
Moving along.
Last but not least is Mr. Mischief by the buffet table. Like Mio, he has a welcoming smile on his face. Also like Mio, he looks like trouble.
“I’m Nyambe Soley, but I would be most pleased if you called me ‘Nyam’.”
His voice comes out in a drawl, lilted with deep Southern accents and a hint of something imported from across the seas. It’s as smooth as honey and so are his moves, as he catches my hand to press a kiss to the back of it. I try not to twitter like a nitwit. Pretending not to be affected by his kiss, I duck my head in greeting and slowly, laboriously make my way back to the desk where Mr. Al-Zahil stills sits, looking pissed.
“And I’m Khalid Al-Zahil. You may call me ‘Khal’.”
I’m surprised at this. . .
It almost seems like an overture of friendship- except he made it sound like a command.
Mr. Al-Zahil it is then.
Anything to ruffle Mr. OCD’s feathers. A thin smile graces my lips. Just because I don’t have a dick, doesn’t mean I couldn’t act like one. Khal (as I’m only going to call him in my head, because let’s be honest, Mr. Al-Zahil is a freaking mouthful) immediately gets to business. He asks me to describe my services, how long I have been practicing, who I learned from, and the depth of my interests in the metaphysical sciences. I take care to answer him as thoroughly as possible, because I can tell this man loves a good attention to detail.
Me too.
It’s the Virgo rising in me, I guess.
Khal and I might not like one another, but I’m determined to prove I’m an asset this company needs. He pauses every so often to jot something down on an open notebook, before refocusing his attention on me and barking more questions. Slowly, Khal begins focusing simply on my astrological talents. And so far, he seems. . . . nominally impressed with my skills. And I’m feeling. . . . marginally awesome, until he asks:
“Can you generate a chart by hand?”
I hope this is not a make it or break it answer.
“Um, no.”
CHAPTER 12
ZAHRA
I see Khal’s look of haughty dissatisfaction. Screw him, I don’t know anyone nowadays who can make a chart by hand. And trust me, I wouldn’t be in this side-profession if I had to do that much math anyway. But I can see the restless displeasure written on the other’s faces, too and I panic.
“But I can read a map!” I say this proudly.
There are varying degrees of confused and amused faces. . . sprinkled with looks like I’m an idiot. Fuck my brain-to-mouth filter. I hurry to rectify the situation.
“Most people nowadays rely too heavily on technology. Admittedly, I cannot generate a chart without it, but I do not use GPS to go somewhere. I use a good, old, regular map!”
“So, no GPS for you?” Nyam asks in idle amusement.
“Nope- well, except for that one time. I got lost because I was reading the map. . . uh, wrong, and I pulled up the directions to save time. . . and that other time. . . well, crap. . .” I trail off.
Navigation might not be my strongest point and a poor example of my skill set on my part. The guys do not look impressed. This in-person interview is not trending like the one over the phone. Well, maybe I’ll end up being able to blow one of them. . . a nice one.
Not Kane.
He’s too big. My mouth hurts just thinking about and I’m unsure if that saying about black men is true, so that leaves out Nyam.
So. . . hello Mio!
My inner musings are cut-off when the door opens and Mary comes bustling in. She shoots me a thousand-watt smile and asks Khal:
“Isn’t she a marvelous thing?”
The question seems almost rhetorical in nature and Khal seems. . . cautious. . . to answer.
“Yes, she’s something.”
He emphasizes the last word, but somehow phrases it politely enough to actually sound like a compliment. Mary beams at me. I beam back, almost giddy in my newfound knowledge: Mary is not just a receptionist. She means something to Khal and possibly to the others. Something important. And I’m going to use that to my advantage.
“Well, Mr. Al-Zahil was just asking me if I could generate a chart by hand. . . . unfortunately, that is not a skill I have worked to develop. . .” I trail off sadly.
Mary’s smile turns upside down.
“I don’t recall that being a requirement or even a preferred skill.”
She shoots a look at Khal. I see his hand clutch the pen a little tighter. Careful, Mr. Al-Zahil, you’re about to rupture your writing device. . . and potentially your spleen. Whoever Mary is, she’s definitely more than the head coordinator. And she’s on my side. Things are going my way again. Which is fantastic, but also concurrently disappointing because now I cannot blow anyone.
Shit, I have to get my head in the game.
Mary is talking about. . . I have no clue. . . because I’m too busy envisioning myself kneeling in front of Mio. . . FOCUS! Luckily, Mary is only highlighting the awesomeness that is me. I don’t even think I need to work for this position anymore. She might just sell it for me. Bless her.
“You should come to the corporate picnic on Wednesday,” Mary suddenly and enthusiastically invites me. “It ------------- themed.”
She’s bent over retrieving something she dropped from her folder and her voice muffles half the statement. I get down to help her pick it up, as the slip of paper has floated under the desk a bit.
“Yes, you should come get laid.” adds Mio.
I’m halfway under the desk, retrieving the wayward paper when his comment computes. My body jerks in reaction to his words and I smack my head on the underside of the desk.
Mother of god!
That’s going to leave a mark.
I crawl out, a little woozy. Kane bends down to help me up and sits me next to Caed. Like hell am I calling him Mr. Marx. . . in my head. Mary is wringing in her hands in worry.
“Are you alright, dear?”
“What. . . what did Mio say?” I’m a bit dazed. . . maybe I heard him wrong. Mio comes to stand before me.
“I said ‘you should come get laid’. It’s a Luau. Is that not how you say it?” He looks to Kane for confirmation, but I catch the humorous glint in his eyes.
He knows exactly what he said. He might actually be the devil in disguise. Now there is a throbbing ache between my legs, as well as my head. Mary studies me for a moment before announcing:
“I think that is enough for today. You’re going to have one heck of a headache if you don’t take some aspirin and have a rest. You can come back tomorrow and finish speaking with the boys then, I think. I’ll just go call the town car to pick you up.”
And with that, she sweeps out of the room, a general on a mission, leaving me alone again with potential demons (and a friendly giant). I look warily at Khal. Luckily, my head hurts too much for me to focus on how much of a douche canoe he has been. He stares back, sans sympathy. Finally, he leans forward and retrieves the piece of paper from under his desk.
When he rights himself, he gets up and walks around the desk until he’s standing in front of me. . . actually, over me. (It’s a little intimidating, but I’ll never admit that out loud.) I unconsciously press further into the seat, but that only brings me closer to Caed. I suddenly feel claustrophobic. Personal space, people- is it that hard of a concept? Khal’s eyes glimmer with malicious humor. No, he gets the concept and doesn’t give a fuck
. Clutching the back of my head, I glare at him.
He grins.
What a flipping mind game.
Exasperated with this entire ‘interview’ (which I’ll forever henceforth refer to as The Fiasco), I get up to walk out. I need some aspirin, food, and a testosterone detox. I wonder if that is one of the resort’s many spa amenities.
“Wait,” Khal surprises me by grabbing my upper right arm to swing me around to face him. . . well, face his lower chest. . .
I’m definitely wearing heels if I ever have the misfortune of seeing this guy again.
“Here.” He hands me the paper.
It’s a sticky note with a list of dates, times, and places. I raise an eyebrow at him. And wince. Damn Mio and his bad English. Khal, of course, is unfazed.
“They are our birthdates. Come back tomorrow at 8:00; if you can accurately tell us whose chart is whose, then you have the job.”
Is this asshat for real?
I’m an astrologist, not a freaking diviner.
A lot of people have this misconception, but I cannot tell you anything but my interpretation. . . astrology (for me) is about connecting to your deepest self for a more profound understanding of the mental and emotional catalysts that drive your psyche. Not for predicting the future or for reliving the past- although some branches of astrology do this. Arguably, a progressed chart, transits, solar returns, etc. could be used for this purpose, but again, I only use them on an individual level to aid in personal growth.
And like I mentioned earlier, everyone has every sign in their chart. While some features might be more predominant and scream [insert whoever’s name], I really couldn’t look at a chart and divine whose is whose from an hour’s worth of interaction. I mean, Arawn literally only said one word to me- how the hell am I to ‘know’ what he’s really like?
Whatever.
I need to leave before my head explodes. . . or worse, my mouth does. And my brain-to-boca filter seems to be malfunctioning.
“Of course, Mr. Al-Zahil,” I say with as much saccharin sweetness as I can, “but there are only seven dates and times and there are eight of you.”
I say ‘you’ like it’s an offense. (That’s because it is.)