by Maris Black
“Hello, stud,” I said to my reflection. Then I flipped my phone out and took a selfie to send to my mom. I captioned it First Day on the Job, then hit send.
“Good luck, baby!” My mom texted back. “You look beautiful as always.”
I wondered why I was being so overly-concerned about how I was dressed, anyway. It wasn’t like this was a real job. It was an internship— a test run. People expected interns to be slightly unkempt and a bit surly, right? At least that’s how it always was in the movies. The intern comes in, with a progressive attitude and a healthy disdain for authority cultivated through years of college classes and keggers, and breathes new life into the stodgy work atmosphere. After a couple of weeks, everyone is loosening their ties and taking longer lunch breaks. The girls are bringing their babies to work, everyone is openly embracing diversity, and the men are bonding over beers and darts at some cutting-edge club in the hipster district. Creativity has a renaissance.
Yeah, nice fantasy, dude.
The reality was that this was Vegas, and everyone in the office of the Alcazar was at least as progressive as me— even the granny answering the telephones. She wore tortoise-shell Catwoman glasses with a black chain, a pink cashmere sweater, and a matching pink streak in her platinum hair.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a smooth, professional tone. Her work voice. I was willing to bet her regular speaking voice was several steps lower and a lot less refined.
“I’m Jamie Atwood,” I said. “The new intern.”
“Intern?” She cocked her head to the side, as if she didn’t have the foggiest clue what I was talking about but was reluctant to admit it.
“We’ve got an intern?” A man poked his head around the half wall at Catwoman’s back, but when he saw me, his face fell. “Oh, a male intern. It figures. I was about to be going all Bill Clinton up in here. So what are you going to be doing for us, male intern?”
“Uh… publicist?” I was becoming increasingly less sure of myself. In fact, I was beginning to question whether I’d even come to the right hotel. Everyone seemed surprised— and less than thrilled— to see me. “Did you guys not know I was starting today? The name’s Jamie Atwood. Maybe there’s a memo or something?”
The man rounded the receptionist’s desk and shook my hand. “Mark Gladstone,” he said, slipping his hands easily into the pockets of his expensive dress pants. His dark hair was perfectly tousled, his shirt starched to perfection. “I’m afraid you’ve caught us a little off guard. We weren’t told we were getting an intern. Never had one before, so…” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, looking toward the receptionist as if for ideas. “What do you think, Cathy? Should we put him back there next to Alicia? Bet she’d love that. She really goes for those pretty boy types.”
Cathy scoffed. “Don’t do that to the poor boy. He wouldn’t get a lick of work done, and neither would she.”
Mark gave me a conspiratorial look and dropped his voice a notch. “Alicia is very… outgoing. If you catch my meaning.” He raised his eyebrows, and Cathy snorted.
“Outgoing, my ass. That girl is a slut, plain and simple.” She shook a finger at me. “You stay away from her if you know what’s good for you. There are plenty of nice girls in Vegas if you know where to look. Across town, though. Not around here.”
I nodded. “Thanks for the advice. I’m here to work, though. Not looking for a girlfriend.”
Mark huffed like he was personally affronted. “Who said anything about a girlfriend? You’re way too young to settle down. Hell, I’m too young to settle down, and I’ve got at least five years on you. How old are you?”
“I’ll be twenty-one in three weeks and a day. The twenty-ninth.”
The door opened behind me, and a cool draft hit my back. Cathy looked up, surprised, then started shuffling papers like she was trying to look busy.
Mark clapped me on the back. “Hey, we’ll have to take you out after work on your birthday and buy you some drinks. It’s not every day a guy becomes legal in Sin City! Don’t plan anything for the night of the twenty-ninth. I’ll handle everything.”
Mark, who looked the part of the quintessential office stud, sounded altogether too excited about introducing me to the debauchery of Vegas. Like he would take great personal pleasure in escorting me through the gates of Hell. My mind conjured up an image of me snorting mounds of cocaine off of a roulette table as Mark Gladstone cackled maniacally, surrounded by mobsters, carnies, and hookers… and one really awkward-looking donkey.
“Sounds nice,” I told him, pushing the disturbing image out of my head.
“You’ll have to get in line, Mark,” said a voice from behind me— a voice smooth and deep like dark chocolate. It was surprising that I recognized the voice without turning around. Except for the noisy video on my phone, I hadn’t heard Michael Kage speak since the night we met. But now he sounded familiar, as if we’d only paused for a moment in conversation.
I whirled around, feeling the smile take over my face. He was dressed in running shorts and sneakers. Sweat had seeped through almost every inch of his t-shirt, causing it to cling to the curves of his muscles. Muscles that were only hinted at in the suit he’d worn the night of the event but were now on audacious display here in this professional setting. Somehow the incongruity of his style of dress and the locale made it almost obscene— like a shirtless guy in a restaurant.
Kage ran a hand through his unruly dark hair, pushing sweaty tendrils away from his face. A few strands still clung to his temples. “I think it’s only right that I should be the one to take Jamie out on his birthday, since he belongs to me.” Both Cathy and Mark seemed to do subtle double-takes at his comment. “I hired him as my publicist, so he’s working for me.”
“Ahhh…” Cathy breathed. “That explains it. We were trying to figure out where the little whippersnapper belonged. Now we know.” She glanced pointedly at Mark. “You got here just in the nick of time. I’m afraid Mr. Gladstone was about to change his sexual affiliation just so he could pull a Bill Clinton.”
“Uh-huh.” Kage narrowed his eyes at Mark. “Get your own intern. This one’s mine.”
Mark waved his hand in the air dismissively. “I want a girl intern, not a boy one. Could you put in a good word with your uncle for me?”
“Sure. Why don’t we get you a private secretary who’s fresh out of massage therapy school? Put you in an office upstairs, with a bed in it? Fully stocked with flavored condoms and a box of latex toys.”
Mark positively beamed. “Now you’re talking.”
“Yeah,” Kage said. “I’ll get right on it.”
He turned his attention to me. “So how is it going, Jamie? Did you get settled into your room okay?”
“Oh, yeah. That place is phenomenal. Love the rock soaps.”
Cathy wrinkled her nose at Kage. “Looks like someone else could use some soap right now.”
Kage smiled almost shyly and grabbed the tail of his t-shirt, pulling it up and using it to wipe his sweaty forehead. I caught a glimpse of his glistening washboard abs before he dropped it back into place.
“You wanna grab some lunch?” he asked.
“Me?” I snapped my gaping mouth shut and looked around to confirm he was talking to me. “Sure. Uh, now?”
“No, not now.” His tone suggested I might be a little soft in the head. “It’s only ten after eight. I meant at noon.”
“Of course.” I blushed so hard I was positive my hair turned red.
“Mr. Santori,” Cathy interrupted, speaking to Kage. “Where should we put your intern?”
“My uncle didn’t make arrangements for him to have an office?”
Cathy shook her head slowly.
“Well, give him an office then. A nice one.”
“Really?” Mark gaped. “I’ve been here two years, and I’m still in a cubicle.”
“Not my problem, brown-nose. You’ve been kissing up to the wrong Santori.” Kage banded his strong fingers around my ar
m just above my elbow and pulled me down a wide walkway flanked by cubicles. All of the employees, which appeared to comprise two men and four women, had their noses stuck out of their cubicles, watching us.
One girl, about my age with dark blond hair, smiled as we passed. If she was supposed to be the office slut, she hid it well beneath her conservative clothing and wholesome face. “Hi, Kage,” she said under her breath.
“Alicia,” Kage said flatly, and I couldn’t help wondering if there was a story there.
When we got to the back of the office, I asked the question that was currently driving me crazy. “Why do some people call you Kage, and you introduce yourself as Michael Kage, but Cathy just called you Mr. Santori?”
He shrugged. “Michael Kage Santori is my legal name. But I don’t like Santori, so I dropped it.”
“That makes sense.”
“Does it?”
The brusqueness of his tone made it feel like he was putting me in my place for something, though for what I had no idea. Still, I wasn’t stupid. I didn’t bring up the name thing again.
When we got to the back of the office area, I noted three empty cubicles, one of which I assumed belonged to Mark Gladstone. There were several doors back there, too. “Any of these offices empty?” Kage asked loudly to no one in particular.
Alicia came up beside us. “They’re all taken, Kage. Management, you know.”
I had the sudden fear that Kage was going to start busting down doors and tossing managers out on their asses. Alienating an entire office full of people and establishing myself as the pet of the boss’s spoiled nephew was not what I had in mind for my first day of work.
“It’s fine, Kage.” I leaned closer, so that only he could hear what I was saying. Well, he and possibly the blond girl Alicia, who was standing much too close for comfort. “I can work in a cubicle, I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do mind,” he said. “You’re working for me, and I don’t want any of these fuckers knowing my business.”
“Ahhh.” I was beginning to see his dilemma now. He wasn’t playing favorites; he was protecting his interests. I felt a little ashamed for misinterpreting his motives, and for thinking he was spoiled.
“Yeah, you sit out here in a cubicle, and whoever is nearby can hear every word you’re saying.” He speared Alicia with a hard glare, and she finally had enough sense to walk away. “I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just a little pissed because my uncle was supposed to get you an office. I asked him to. Maybe you could just use a cubicle for a while until I can arrange something different. Do you have a laptop?”
“In my room,” I said.
“You’ll need to use it for business, I guess. But stay on the hotel Wi-Fi, okay? Not the office network. It’s heavily monitored, so all of your embarrassing personal stuff on there…” He smiled mischievously. “Well, you get the idea.”
“Heavily monitored?” I gulped, feeling like I’d taken a job at the CIA rather than a Vegas hotel. “What makes you think I’ve got embarrassing things on my laptop?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
His smile was contagious, and I couldn’t help giving it right back to him. Of course, he was right. I did have embarrassing things on my laptop. Doesn’t everyone?
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he teased. “Anyway, you have fun getting settled in here with the natives. We’re just winging it, you and me, okay? I’ve never had an intern before, and you’ve never been an intern before, so let’s play it by ear. You figure out what you need to do your job, and I’ll make sure you get it even if I have to bust some heads. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” I said, still smiling.
“I’ll stop back by to get you for lunch, okay?” He looked down at his sweaty attire. “And I promise I’ll be clean.”
He left before I could reply, and I was left standing in a strange office, in front of a strange cubicle, surrounded by a bunch of strange people. I sat down in my chair and pulled out my cell phone to call Dr. Washburn. Getting some emergency advice was my first order of business.
“Dr. Washburn, I’m in deep shit.”
I heard the professor’s nasally chuckle on the other end of the line. “Hello to you, too, Mr. Atwood. What can I do for you?”
“I’m sitting in a cubicle,” I said, then dropped my voice, remembering Kage’s warning about being overheard. “I don’t know what to do, Dr. Washburn. I figured they’d tell me what to do, you know? Like an assignment or something. This is jacked up.”
Dr. Washburn chuckled again. “Calm down, Jamie. Think. You must realize this job you’ve accepted is largely an artistic endeavor. It’s not piecing together a car on an assembly line or making pre-prepped fast food burgers. You’re creating something from scratch. No one can tell you what to do, because you are the one who will be planning everything. You’re the expert. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” I groaned. “Oh, God. I thought I’d be putting together press packets or something. Calling places to arrange things.”
Again with the infuriating chuckle.
“Doc, could you please quit laughing at me? This is serious.”
“I know, Jamie. Listen, all of those things you just mentioned are legitimate things you may be doing. But you will be the one to come up with the plan. Essentially, you will be giving yourself assignments rather than waiting for someone else to give them to you. Autonomy is something you have to get used to in the working world. It’s not like high school or college. Who do you think comes up with the assignments to give to you in my classes?”
“You?” I asked hesitantly.
“Me. Not the dean or the school board. I have to come up with that stuff out of my own noggin. That’s what you’re going to have to do, as well.”
I paused for a moment, my heart beating fast, realizing I may have been in over my head. “So where do I start?” I asked finally.
“Do some research on the internet. Try to find articles or books about publicists, especially sports publicists, and find out specifics about what they do. Recommendations, pitfalls, anecdotes… Whatever will spark some ideas about the types of things you should be doing. Then get to know your client, Jamie. That’s the most important thing.”
“That makes sense.” I liked the idea of getting to know my client a lot more than doing research.
“Give it a couple of days, then call me and tell me what you’ve learned. Okay?”
“Okay, Doc. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And Jamie… stop stressing. That won’t do anyone any good.”
It was my turn to chuckle. “Says the man who freaks out if he’s one second late to class.”
I could hear the frown over the phone. “That’s different.”
BY LUNCH time, I was engrossed in an excerpt from a biography of a publicist who had represented a bunch of high-profile athletes. The trials he faced in making some of those guys look good had me shaking my head. Dog fighting, alleged murder, domestic abuse, cheating, and let’s not forget the ever-popular use of performance enhancing drugs— or PED’s as the media so loved to call them. You name it, these athletes had done it, and then turned around and hired someone to get them out of it.
Of course, it wasn’t all a desperate game of clean-up for the publicists of the world. Advertising campaigns, wardrobe choices, speeches, and public appearances were some of the other less dramatic things they dealt with on a daily basis.
Overall, I felt pretty productive for a guy who didn’t know what the hell he was doing. I was jotting down some ideas on a notepad that Catwoman Cathy had given me when Kage showed up for lunch. His approach was so stealthy I didn’t realize he was there until his shadow fell across my paper. I jumped and spun around in my task chair.
“Hi,” he said calmly, as if he had no idea he’d just scared the bejesus out of me.
“Hi.” I worked to slow my banging heart.
“You look different.” At my confused look, he reached up and tappe
d lightly on the frame of my glasses.
“Oh, yeah.” I quickly snatched them off of my face and set them on the desk. Then I flipped my notepad face down on top of them and stood up. “Will my laptop be safe here?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “I don’t think anybody will steal it. You got anything on that pad of paper you mind someone seeing?”
“Paranoid much?” I regretted the question right after it cleared my lips, but Kage didn’t appear to take offense.
“Lotta nosy people around here,” he said. “They like knowing what I’m up to, and I like to keep a little mystery.”
I laughed. “You’re definitely a mystery.”
“Yeah?” He grinned, obviously pleased to have me guessing.
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, Kage. I’m your publicist, and the first order of business for me is getting to know my client.”
“You’ll know me soon enough. In fact, you may be regretting signing on for this job in a couple of weeks. You’re gonna get sick of seeing me.”
For some reason, that comment made me feel awkward, and I shoved my hands into my pockets and looked away. I couldn’t come up with anything to say. All I could do was turn that thought over in my mind— spending time with Michael Kage. So much time I’d get sick of seeing him. I didn’t think anyone could get sick of seeing someone who looked like he did, but I did consider that I might need to take up drinking to calm my nerves around him.
He was so incredibly larger than life. I’d never met anyone who made me feel so insignificant, so lacking. Either he sensed my unease and purposely came to the rescue, or he was oblivious to it, because he continued on smoothly.
“Let’s get out of here. I’m starving.”
Again, everyone stared at us as we passed between the cubicles and exited through the office door. Kage led me on a winding path through the hotel lobby and the casino, down a hallway, and through a set of soundproof doors. I knew they were soundproof, because on one side of them the noise of the casino was deafening, and the other side was like putting my ear to a sea shell. Through the high-pitched ring of sudden silence in my ear came the tinkling of light music from the down the hall. Something ethereal like new age.