by Emme Rollins
“Well, that's good to hear, although you are a little late,” the secretary said. The note of mockery in her voice was clear as crystal. Then she coughed genteelly and seemed to sober up. “Well, at any rate, I'm afraid Mr. Hudson has been slightly delayed by an emergency phone call, but he will come greet you all as soon as possible. Please be patient.” Mr. Hudson. That must be the office manager or whatever. Why did the name ring a faint bell, though?
I shook the thought off—I'd tended bar in a popular touristy night spot for almost three years so most people and names seemed familiar to me now—and nodded at the secretary on the off chance that she had been addressing me specifically and continued my search. At last I managed to locate my phone. Pulling it out of the bag I turned it on and began scrolling through my contacts, trying to convey the impression to anyone who might be watching me that I had some very urgent business to attend to.
Inside, of course, I wanted to die of humiliation. The laughter echoed in my head, like a cheesy flashback in an old 80s flick.
I hated myself for it. Why did I care what a bunch of stuck up douchebags in business suits thought of me? They were douchebags, and after I got turned down for this job I'd probably never see them again. Douchebag opinions were, by definition, inconsequential.
Except I did care. I cared very much. If they laughed at me I wouldn't be able to bear it. And they probably weren't douchebags, to be honest. They were probably all very nice people who rescued turtles from the middle of the road and called their grandmothers every Sunday. Disappointing them would be even worse.
Good little Rebecca, I thought sourly. So sweet. So nice. Always aiming to please.
Yeah. That's me.
And look where it got me.
I bit my lip and kept my head down as I scrolled around my phone. I avoided the potential minefields of my email and Facebook, as I'd been doing for the past eight days, and instead checked innocuous things like the weather (always pleasant) and my agenda (always empty). I hoped I looked busy. I felt as though the word 'LOSER' were written above my head in neon letters. You know, just in case people couldn't tell from simply looking at me.
I didn't dare risk a look around. I didn't want to accidentally catch anyone's eye.
After about a minute or so, the silence in the room began to grate on my ears, so I took a deep breath and peeked from beneath my lashes to scope out the rest of my comrades, but most of my fellow applicants were staring at tablets or typing on laptops. I surreptitiously studied them as I paged through my mixed drinks cheat sheet app, trying to size them up.
From what I could see, my competition ranged in age from fresh out of college to mid-thirties. The women were, to a one, lovely and perfectly made up. They all wore their hair—invariably blond—loose and highlighted, cascading over their shoulders in either straight layers or soft waves. I tried not to finger my long wavy indigo, black, and platinum undercut. They were also, to a woman, skinny. My full breasts, solid waist and wide hips made me feel like a whale. I turned my attention from them and instead attempted to study the men as well.
Which was weird. Because there actually were men. I don't want to get all sexist up in this piece, but generally you don't see men going out for jobs as maids. I mean, sometimes you do, but these were all white and east Asian guys clearly from the upper crust, and that was just straight up unusual.
I felt a frown creep across my features. Was... was I in the wrong place? Apprehension building, I double-checked the entry on my phone that Rose had keyed in. There it was—the address of the building, and suite 305. I had already checked it twice before I came in. Glancing around, I spied a small deck of business cards sitting on the secretary's desk. Should I get up? If I did, everyone would look at me, and if I approached the secretary she'd probably give me another skeptical glare and then I would perish of embarrassment. Just fall down on the floor and die. But I should triple check, just in case. Just in case I had somehow got the wrong address.
...No. I couldn't have. There was a job interview going on right now, and I was applying for a job. That my competition appeared to be unusually stiff was just one of those weird quirks of fate. I'd heard McDonald's had held a job fair for sixty thousand job openings and had received over a million applications. If that didn't point to desperate times, I didn't know what did.
It was fine. Everything was fine.
And then I had no more time to contemplate macroeconomics as applied to the domestic service industry, because suddenly the frosted glass doors opened and a tall man in a dark suit swept through them, pulling a small gaggle of peons behind him. They were all scrolling through tablets and babbling into phones and sending texts as they tried to keep up with him. He ignored all of them, stepped into the center of the lobby, and swept his gaze over the gathered supplicants like we were slaves up for auction. His eyes locked with mine.
My brain jumped the tracks.
You know how sometimes you meet someone's eyes and your heart drops through the floor? Your blood races through your body, heating you up, because you know, know in your bones, that this person would be the grand passionate love affair of your life? That the desire you feel in that very moment will scorch the pages of history, if you could only screw up the courage to speak to this stranger who has suddenly set you on fire? The sort of moment that always ends in disappointment because the object of your sudden and unholy lust is clearly not interested and looks away? Or, you know, breaks your eye contact to kiss his girlfriend or something?
It was like that.
I sat there and stared at him, and he stared back at me. Normally I would tear my gaze away, since staring is rude and I'd hate to be rude, but my god, he was hot as sin.
First there were his eyes, long-lashed and blue-green, as intense as the waters of the Caribbean. His dark hair was messy and a few days of growth stubbled his chin. He was young, probably no more than twenty eight, a few years older than me, and clearly a shark in the world of business if he was running an office like this already. The suit he wore so casually was clearly expensive because it had that certain messy rolled-out-of-bed look that really expensive suits can give the right kind of man. His lips weren't full or thin, but rather almost pursed, kissable, and his broad jaw gave the impression of a man who never took no for an answer.
Even more intriguing, however, were the tattoos peeking from beneath his white collar and twining around his hands, and the rows of elaborate silver and diamond earrings bristling from the shells of his ears. He was completely respectable, except for those little touches.
This was a man with a rougher past than his insanely expensive suit would imply. A man with a bit of history. If I'd met him while I was tending bar, I would have poured free drinks down his throat all night hoping to get his story out of him. Then I would chicken out of attempting to jump his bones and probably watch in envy as he left with another girl.
He also seemed strangely familiar to me, but I couldn't put my finger on why.
For what seemed like an hour we stared at each other. Then he looked away.
Oh well. I knew it was too good to last.
I sat there trying to regain my composure and suppress the flush rampaging across my face while he coolly inspected the rest of the candidates. Then, in a bored voice, he said:
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I am Kent Hudson. It's good to see you all, and thank you for coming out. Before we start, I would like to ask if any of you have commitments later this afternoon or this evening? A show of hands will be sufficient.”
More than half of the pool of applicants raised their hands.
“Good, good. Please, anyone who has an appointment to make after this, come to this side of the room. Everyone else, this side, please.” And he swept his arms wide to indicate which side was which. He moved with an elegant grace that reminded me of a dancer or a pianist.
Biting my lip, I rose to my feet and followed the lesser half of the room that had no other commitments that afternoon. Feeli
ng like a fish out of water, I joined the rest of the losers. There were only six of us. The girl I ended up standing next to was almost a head taller than me, with long buttery blonde hair, a smart black business suit and red pumps. She was gorgeous. I felt like a cow standing next to her. Her eyes met mine briefly and she gave me a pity smile before turning away as soon as was politely acceptable, missing my returning grateful smile.
I sighed and stared across the room at the larger group of people. This division probably meant the people with things to do would be given priority, which meant that I wasn't going to get home until well after six. Just because I'm a loser who doesn't have any friends or places to go doesn't mean my time isn't valuable, I griped to myself. I was going to lose valuable bathtub scrubbing time. And the toilets hadn't been cleaned since Friday...
Then Mr. Hudson-the-Hot clapped his hands. “Good, good. Everyone who has a prior commitment, get the hell out of here.”
Silence fell like an ax. I stared at the other applicants across the room, their faces drained of color, their jaws slackening. One of them piped up, a guy with dark auburn hair and an old vintage briefcase:
“I beg your pardon, sir?” he said. “What do you mean?”
Mr. Hudson shoved his hands in his pockets, looking bored. “Exactly what I said. If you have something else to do this afternoon, get the hell out of here. This job requires total commitment. If you can't even give me a committed afternoon to interview for this job, then you are not committed enough to win this job. Leave. Goodbye. Sayonara.” He jerked his head toward the glass doors. No one moved, and he snorted in irritation. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get out of here before I call the cops.”
And just like that, the scales had tipped. What I had thought was a liability was actually a good thing... if working for Hudson-the-Horrible counted as a good thing, that is, and that was clearly up for debate.
What he had said about the job bothered me, too. Why did a maid job require total commitment? I mean, I'm pretty good at committing to cleaning, but what sort of jackass boss thought anyone would be committed to it at all? Rose had said this was a software consulting business; I knew how grungy software developers could get and I had no doubt that they needed someone to clean up their goon hovels, but the way Mr. Hudson talked about it, it seemed like the lucky winner of the job would have to be on call twenty-four seven.
I knew trying to find a job was a bad idea, I thought. But I couldn't bow out now, not when my chances of finding paying work had suddenly risen significantly.
Then Mr. Hudson turned and studied the remaining six of us, his blue-green eyes narrowing. I tried to look as small as possible, my shoulders hunching as I clutched my messenger bag in front of me. Maybe if I tried folding my body this way, I could hide inside it! I'd have to cut off my arms and legs first, though. Cut off arms and legs, or risk working for Mr. Hudson? Life was full of tough decisions.
“Peter!” Mr. Hudson barked abruptly. Behind him one of the interns leaped to attention and scurried up to his side. His hunched posture mimicked mine, and he looked for all the world like Igor sidling up to Dr. Frankenstein. Yesss, Massterrrr?
“Yes, sir!” Peter almost shouted. He stood as straight as a rod, practically vibrating with eagerness to please.
Mr. Hudson didn't even look at him. “How many tickets were you able to procure?”
Tickets? I thought. What tickets? What the hell is going on here?
Peter consulted the tablet in front of him. “Four tickets, sir!”
Mr. Hudson's eyes flickered. “Hmm. Four. Very well.” He marched across the floor, stalking toward us.
The air grew thicker and I swear all six of us drew together as he approached. He was tall, and by the time he reached us he was looming over all of us except the tallest guy. Tilting his head, he regarded each one of us in turn. It might have been my imagination, but I thought his eyes lingered on me the longest.
I felt the heat of his gaze on my skin. I couldn't tell if it brought me pleasure or discomfort, and I looked away almost immediately, staring over his shoulder.
“Hmm,” he said again. “Very well. You!” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the tallest guy. “What's your name?”
The tall dude sucked his breath in. “Richard, sir.”
“Richard? Too stuffy. Leave.”
Richard opened his mouth to protest, but Mr. Hudson gave him a glare so quelling that he shut it again. My hands on the strap of my messenger bag were white with tension. Richard gathered his things and left, his face blotchy with rage. Mr. Hudson narrowed his eyes at the rest of us. He honed in on the young man who had been standing next to Richard.
“Your name?”
I didn't even dare look at the hapless victim.
“Um... Daniel, sir.”
“Daniel. Acceptable. Daniel, tell me what qualifications you think you have to be a personal assistant?”
My brain blanked. Personal assistant? What?
I almost blurted out, But wait, isn't this the interview for the twice-weekly maid? Luckily I stopped myself in time.
I was a total idiot. This was a mix up. I mixed up the addresses somehow. I should have realized it wasn't a domestic help position when I first walked in. No one wore a suit to try to get such a dismal job. I still couldn't figure out how I managed to screw up the address, though. I'd checked it twice! I knew I should have checked it three times!
Daniel was rattling off his personal talents. “...I can keep a tight schedule, I worked for several hedge fund managers back in New York and I was instrumental in keeping their lives in order so they could keep making money rather than bother themselves with the minutiae of—”
“Stop.” Mr. Hudson held up a hand. “Just... stop. You're boring me. You can stay, but don't bore me again.”
Holy shit, I thought.
I should have turned around and marched out of the office right then and there. I should have fled and not looked back. But something stopped me.
I was already here, wasn't I? I'd already made one cut. And personal assistant sounded like it paid a lot better than a Monday and Wednesday maid.
...Also, while Mr. Hudson was a terrible person, he really was a singularity of hotness. His hotness was like a force of nature. It extended past the bounds of his body and into the air around him. The office lobby was slightly more attractive with him standing in the middle of it. Hell, maybe I looked more attractive standing next to him.
Haha. Joke.
“You,” Mr. Hudson said, singling out another young man. “Your name?”
“Randy, sir.”
“Randy.” Mr. Hudson scratched his chin. “I like your hair. You stay. What about you? You got a name?”
“Kurt,” said the fourth young man over the sound of Randy's relieved sigh.
“Kurt, have you ever snorted coke?”
I peeked at the hapless Kurt from the corner of my eye. He was a skinny thing, with pale blond hair and a complexion to match. At the moment it appeared rather waxy with a sheen of sweat. “Uh,” he said.
Mr. Hudson reached out and placed his hand on Kurt's shoulder. “Just tell the truth, son. We're in the music biz. It's not going to shock me.” Music biz?
Hesitantly, Kurt nodded.
“Yes?” Mr. Hudson asked.
“Yes,” Kurt confirmed.
“Get out of my sight.”
Kurt ducked his head and ran out of the office. Next to me, the gorgeous blonde inhaled sharply as Mr. Hudson whirled around and pinned her with his glare. “You, what's your name?”
I felt so sorry for her. It took her a few tries to get the word out. “M—Megan, sir.”
“Megan.” Mr. Hudson stepped back and looked her up and down. His eyes came to rest on her shoes. “Hmm,” he said. “Black suit, dark hose. Red shoes.” He shook his head. “Ugly. Bad fashion sense. You're out.”
I stared at him, and the whole world seemed to slow down to a crawl.
Ugly. You're out. It wasn't the words, but th
e tone. I had heard that tone more times than I could ever count over the last four years. It grated over my brain, scraping and pulling at feelings poorly buried and inexpertly faced. My stomach knotted, tightening with fear and impotent anger.
Don't you dare talk to me that way, I thought as the room melted away. Don't you dare speak that way to me ever again.
Ever.
Rage and panic battled inside me for an infinite moment, my heart swelling as though it were about to burst. My vision skated dangerously as I realized I wasn't going to take that. I wasn't going to let him get away with it any more.
My mouth opened without my consent.
“They aren't ugly! She looks great. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Then the world snapped back into place as every head in the room turned and stared at me, including Mr. Kent Hudson.
Did I say that? I wondered in a panic. Did those words come out of my mouth? Oh please, no, no, no—
“I think I'm Kent Hudson. And who the fuck are you?” Mr. Hudson demanded. “And what would you know about fashion?” His eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down. I felt every inch of his burning gaze travel over my skin, setting me on fire and worming its way into places I'd never known existed. I noticed his eyes lingered on the full curves of my breasts before returning to my face. “Please,” he said. “Your name...?”
“Rebecca,” I heard myself say. “My name is Rebecca Alton and I think she looks great.” Shut up! My brain screamed at my mouth. You want to get us killed? This guy looks like he might know a guy who knows a guy and the next thing you know you're vulture food in the Mojave!
He stepped back. “Tell me why you think she looks great.”
I glanced at Megan. Her face was as red as the shoes she now studied. “I think...” I cast about. What I really thought was that Kent Hudson was a giant shitheel and a bully—and I couldn't stand bullies. I'd also never successfully stood up to a bully, despite numerous tries, and I somehow doubted today would be the day to break that streak. Nevertheless, I had to give it a go.