The Last Grimm_Red's Hood

by H. L. Wampler

  By H. L. Wampler

  The Last Grimm

  Red’s Hood

  Table of Contents

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Chapter twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  Chapter twenty-five

  Chapter twenty-six

  Chapter twenty-seven

  Chapter twenty-eight

  Chapter twenty-nine

  Chapter thirty

  Chapter thirty-one

  Chapter thirty-two

  Chapter thirty-three

  Chapter-thirty-four

  Chapter thirty-five

  Chapter thirty-six

  Chapter thirty-seven

  Chapter thirty-eight

  Chapter thirty-nine

  Chapter forty

  Chapter one

  I did one last mirror check before leaving the comfort of my car. The curls I had been so meticulous about were now flat, my lipstick was quickly fading, and it was only nine am. I caught a glimpse of blue and black in my rearview mirror, the bus was early. Slamming my car door shut I ran across the street hoping that the driver would be nice enough to not shut the doors in my face.

  Spotting an empty seat towards the back I made a beeline for the coveted area. I slid in next to the window and closed my eyes letting my cheek rest against the cold window. Snowy days always seemed to make the windows of the Port Authority buses colder than normal, and it felt so good against my warm skin. Music blared through my headphones, unable to block out the chatter of the people around me. Today was one of those days that I woke up cranky and everyone around me did not help the cause. The stress of interviewing for the internship seemed to add to my irritability.

  It was already pure luck that Belinda Hexe even called me. I was positive being eighteen and a college freshman would make her toss my application in the trash, even though I did have stellar grades and experience. But she called.

  The black pumps squished my toes together, and I tugged at the hem of the skirt my mother let me borrow. Business suits weren’t really my thing. I dug through my oversized purse for a hair clip completely giving up on my hair looking presentable down. I fussed with a few stray strands of hair that escaped my grasp when the bus lurched forward suddenly. I could hear the brakes squealing as the driver tried to stop it from hitting something. My body was thrown forward, but I managed to throw my hands out right before my head smacked into the metal pole in front of me. The hair clip slipped out of my hand and bounced under a seat in front of me. My now loose hair swung around into my face as I braced for impact. My knees smacked against the plastic seat back in front of me, and shouts of surprise rang out through the crowded bus as people fell to the dirty floor. I watched from my seat, unable to squeeze past the large woman next to me as they struggled to get up, confused and somewhat angry. Towards the front, a toddler began to wail. My heart wrenched for her. Her mother gently bounced her up and down on her knee while smoothing the girls hair. I saw her lips moving and could only guess what she said to soothe her child.

  “What the hell, man!” a teenager shouted, using a steel pole to hoist himself up.

  “Sorry, folks. Something ran out in front of the bus,” the driver said.

  “What was it?” a tall and lanky woman who had very curly, brown hair and wore shorts on the freezing winter day asked.

  “It looked like a really big dog,” the driver said, standing on his perch and looking out the windows.

  “Why didn’t you run it over?” someone from the front of the bus asked angrily.

  “I’m not running animals over. Is everyone okay?” he asked, sitting down.

  “Yeah,” most people grumbled.

  A few weren't happy at all. They shot him dirty looks, and loudly complained that they wanted his drivers I.D. number and his supervisor’s line, while someone else actually threatened a lawsuit.

  Hadn’t they ever heard of an accident? I thought to myself, astounded that they didn't realize he may have prevented an accident, saving them a trip to the hospital and some pain.

  I looked out the window and down the alley searching for the animal. I didn't see any running around. In fact, nothing appeared out of the ordinary, just the usual downtown Pittsburgh lunch crowd, appearing unstart led by the bus's sudden screeching brakes. Nobody seemed to have seen the animal either or at least they didn’t appear fazed by it. I suppose it could have been some stray dog trying not to get squashed by the big tires. Directly in front of me a woman with over bleached hair, a too short skirt and well-worn boots picked at scabs on her cheeks, while rocking back and forth, muttering something to herself. She had a red hood pulled down over her eyes, but I could see her lips moving a mile a minute. She turned her head to look at me. I finally had a clear view of her face. Her eyes were sunken in and purple, her face an ashen white. I wondered why the woman looked how she did. I watched her for a few minutes with a bit of pity, but quickly diverted my stare back out the window.

  "Hey. Hey, you. Girl," she said.

  Too late, she saw me looking at her.

  "Yes?" I asked.

  "Do, do, you have a smoke?"

  "No, sorry," I replied, trying not to stare at her.

  "Liar," she accused.

  "Excuse me?" I asked.

  "You're a liar. Everyone smokes!" her voice started to rise enough to make a few people stop talking and watch us.

  "I'm sorry, lady, but I really don't smoke."

  She gave me a nasty look, and turned her attentions to the business man sitting next to her. As the bus rounded another corner I stood; trying to squeeze between the large, protruding stomach of the woman seated next to me and the plastic seat it pushed against. She either did not care that I fought for my life against her fat, or did not feel me being squished. Once I freed myself I finished shoving my way through people who clung to straps on the bars above their heads to the front. The horrendous mixture of body odor, dirty feet, swamp ass, and coffee breath smacked me in the face like a sack full of week-old shit.

  I hated taking the bus. I should have sucked it up and parked in a damn garage down here. A Volvo was definitely more comfortable than what I just went through. I shook my head.

  Stealthily, I slid my hand to my nose and choked down the vomit while trying to hold my breath. It turned out to be a difficult task. My poor lungs were on fire by the time I stepped onto the sidewalk. I gulped down the fresher air, thankful to be away from the death chamber called bus. While the city had come a long way from its steel mill roots of a hundred years ago, somehow I think Pittsburgh never lost the slight smoggy stench that still lingered in the air. I would never trade the familiar smell for any other place in the world. I blew out a puff of breath that floated toward the sky. As I followed my breathy puff of smoke up with my eyes, I saw the looming PPG towers. One couldn’t help but notice them. They hovered over Market Square like a pride of lions protecting their cubs. No matter how many times I've seen them, or lived here, I was always left in awe of the magnificence. A shiver ran down my spine, but I trudged on to One PPG Place.

  Crossing the square, I could
n’t help but look up at the big spires that were perched atop of the gargantuan glass buildings. The snow seemed to dance in and out of them, angrily swirling around like the Black Swan. A massive gust of wind blew in behind me as I entered the building, causing the doors to slam against the walls. I stopped and looked around the expansive lobby. Large orange-red columns stood on either side of a huge mahogany desk, which one guard seemed to be able to take care of. He huddled behind it with his feet up and a newspaper in his hands, which he dropped at the sound of the thick, glass doors slamming and stared at me.

  “I need Belinda Hexe with Rosemarie Fashions," I said, looking around me.

  “Excuse me?” asked the guard, who had white, balding hair, and a rotund belly while arching his eyebrows at me.

  “I need to see Belinda Hexe. She is expecting me,” I half-smiled at the man, but quickly bit my lip when I met his glare.

  “Thirty-ninth floor,” he said, not taking his eyes off me.

  “Oh, okay. Thanks,” my cheeks flushed and my nut-job status was sealed with him at least, “And I’m sorry about the doors. That wind. Sheesh.”

  “Sure, kid,” he muttered.

  I began to shuffle past the man, but paused. “Uh, so do I have to sign in or anything?”

  He looked up at me and rolled his eyes.

  “Guess not,” I muttered, “Is there an office or suite number?”

  “Thirty-ninth floor,” he reiterated.

  “The entire thirty-ninth floor?”

  “The entire thirty-ninth floor.”

  “Great,” I said, shuffling on my way.

  The row of elevators stood, looming, against one wall. They seemed so cold and unwelcoming. I tentatively pushed the up button and waited in silence. The lonely ding of the elevator resounded through the desolate waiting area. A few men in suits hurriedly filed out of the small container. They were all busy on cell phones either talking or emailing. I pushed past them and stood in the tiny compartment. The only button on the very top row was thirty-nine.

  I pushed it and waited as the awful elevator music started. My heart pounded even harder. One short ride and I would be with the fashion titan.

  Chapter Two

  I stepped off the elevator to a dimly lit hall. The wood on either side was a rich, dark color. It wasn’t a warm and inviting place. I actually had second thoughts about continuing. My professors wouldn’t blame me. In fact they may be relieved that the crazy freshman decided against going after an internship already.

  It’s just nerves. You’re just nervous. This will be amazing for your resume when you graduate. You’re the youngest candidate for this internship. Ever. Do it, Abigail!

  I took a deep breath and pulled open the glass doors to RoseMare Fashions. I never expected Belinda Hexe's office to be quite so extravagant. As I stepped across the threshold the floor changed from cold linoleum to a warm chocolate colored carpet. The walls were a crisp beige with life sized, black and white photos of models wearing some of RoseMarie's more popular looks from over the years. Large, black, leather couches sat at one end of the waiting area, and an enormous wooden desk sat directly in front of the doors with a set of large, wooden doors the same color behind it. A young, bottle-blonde sat at the wood desk chewing her gum like a cow chews its cud.

  I slowly approached and gave a slight smile. Bottle-blonde sighed loudly and appeared annoyed by my mere presence.

  “Hi, I’m here to see Miss Hexe?”

  “Do you have an appointment?” she definitely had no people skills.

  “Yes, I have an interview at two o’clock. I’m Abigail Grimm.”

  She glanced briefly at an organizer then back at me. Her demeanor sucked. She was definitely not an ideal receptionist. I did not see friendship blooming between the two of us. Ever.

  “Sit, she’ll see you in a sec,” she turned back to the magazine that rested precariously on her knees.

  She never pushed a buzzer or called anyone. I had my doubts about anybody seeing me in a ‘sec’.

  “Super,” I muttered.

  I spun around and looked for a place to hang my jacket. I found a coat rack that sat lonely and forlorn in a corner. I hung it then slunk to the closest love seat and plopped down. Every move I made, the couch made a rather unflattering sound. Bottle blonde side-eyed me each time.

  “It’s the, uh, couch?” I couldn’t help but pose everything as a question to the girl.

  I started to think she was intimidating.

  “Yeah,” she said, going back to reading her magazine.

  I sat there for what seemed like hours. It was probably ten minutes. I scanned the room looking for a clock of some sort, but no luck. I toyed with the idea of checking my phone for the time, but I did not want to seem impatient. I glanced up as the door to the office opened, and another woman came in. She was older, probably in her mid-forties and must have been somewhat important because bottle blonde sat up straight and flashed a perfect smile.

  “Hello, Mrs. Smith!” bottle-blonde said happily.

  “Good afternoon. I know I’m early to see Belinda, but I have to be back in New York by five,” she said with a heavy British accent.

  “Of course, ma’am. Please go right in,” the blonde smiled again at the woman.

  I sat there in awe. She was unbelievably beautiful, despite being a bit older. She had flawless, caramel colored skin; deep brown eyes and sleek black hair that had the hints of silver in it. A studded belt over a black top complimented her already tiny waist. The white slacks and red pumps seemed to just go with her.

  Suddenly, I felt very under dressed.

  Mrs. Smith had such an elegant glide that you couldn’t help but watch her walk. She disappeared through the double doors behind the desk. After the doors shut blondy just glared at me, I looked down at the coffee table in front of me. I lost track of the time that it took for her to come back out, but she glided out of the waiting area and through the front doors without so much as a ta-ta.

  “Blanche!” a thundering voice boomed from a small box sitting on the reception desk.

  Bottle blonde jumped in her seat, knocked over the magazine and spoke into the box that sat in front of her, “Yes, Miss Hexe?”

  “Is my two o’clock here?” the voice demanded.

  “Y-yes,” Blanche stuttered.

  “Good, send her in.”

  “She’ll see you now,” Blanche glared at me.

  I was amazed at how she went from scared receptionist to jerk so fast. I stood and headed to where the booming voice must have come from.

  Belinda’s actual office was simple, yet so amazingly beautiful. Her walls were light beige and had a few paintings of surrounding neighborhoods on them, but otherwise they were bare compared to the waiting area. Her desk sat in front of a wall of windows. The view really made the office. I could see all of downtown Pittsburgh and across the river. I could only imagine how amazing the blue lights from PNC park and the bridge looked from here.

  “An amazing view, no?” Belinda asked, when she caught me staring out the massive windows.

  “No. I mean yes. It’s amazing.”

  “It’s why I picked this suite. I love being on top of everything.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, still staring out the windows.

  “Sit.”

  Obediently, I slid into the closest chair.

  “Would you like some water?” the tall, stunning woman asked.

  “No thanks.”

  “Water,” she said, holding up a tall, skinny glass, “They say it’s really the fountain of youth. Drink enough and you’ll stay young.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I tried to sound interested.

  “It’s a bunch of bullshit,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  “There is no fountain of youth. Women chase a fantasy; plastic surgery, liposuction, tummy tucks. Even fancy clothes. They spend hundreds of thousands of dollars, and hours trying to be princesses when they are nothing more than peasants.”

&nbs
p; I sat in stunned silence. I prepared for questions, an insult on all woman kind, not so much.

  “We provide part of the lunacy here,” she continued.

  “The fancy clothes?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I couldn’t help myself, I stared at her. Her impeccable, olive skin shone in the sunlight as it came in through the windows, her jet black hair hung in loose curls down her back, and her lips were the brightest shade of red I had ever seen. The high heels didn't negate the fact she was naturally tall. So tall. I felt like such a frumpy hobo compared to her.

  She stepped from behind her desk and circled me. She ran her fingers through my sandy blonde hair, stared into my pale blue eyes with her own gray ones. I had never felt so intimidated by a woman in high heels and a dress before.

  She didn’t say anything, just examined me. I felt more like I a slab of meat set out for inspection rather than an interviewee.

  “Why do you want to work here?” She asked, her eyes never leaving mine.

  I took a deep breath, ready to go into my spiel, “I have always been interested in fashion. I grew up reading RoseMarie’s magazine, and when I learned there was an office in Pittsburgh, I just knew it was where I would go.”

  “You are very confident about that.”

  “I have to be.” I replied.

  “Why is that?” Her brows stitched together, and she pursed her lips.

  “If I’m not confident and don’t think I have the position, I’ll get down on myself. This way, I’m more positive and determined.”

  “So you’re a go getter?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “Good.” she said while crossing her arms in front of her.

  “I do appreciate that you’re seeing me. I know you prefer the interns to be older.”

  “Normally, yes, I don’t consider someone so young for the position, but I think you may have some potential.”

  “Potential?”

  “Yes. I sent for your college records and spoke with a few of your professors. You come highly recommended from everybody. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a collective group of people rave so much about one individual.”

  “You sent for my records? Do you normally do that?” I asked.