by Kat T. Masen
“I don’t have one,” I answer honestly. “I moved here with my brother. I don’t have friends or acquaintances. I’m here to work.”
The three of them turn to look at each other, no facial expressions to indicate they are pleased with my answers.
“I’ll be honest, Miss Milenov, I’m not sure you truly understand the pressure of this role. After all, you only worked at a small law firm in Alaska.” Sonia pulls a face like Alaska was breeding lepers.
I’m gobsmacked at her arrogance, desperate to give her my two cents and walk away if it weren’t for my low bank balance and the fact that Flynn and Mom need me.
“I assure you,” I say, biting my tongue and straining my words. “Working for Mildred Mason was anything but small. If anyone understands pressure, it’s me. I worked two jobs to support my sick mother and would have gladly stayed in Alaska and taken on a third if she allowed me.”
“My dear…” she says, patronizing my ability, “… Hollywood is not Alaska. I mean, you’re not exactly dressed for the role. Appearance is everything.”
I look down at my suit then gaze at theirs. So what if it isn’t designer? I don’t understand why that would influence their decision to hire me. I can do the job, that should be all that matters.
“I can do the job,” I reiterate, though struggling to compose my words. “I wouldn’t have come out here if I didn’t think I could do the job.”
Sonia laughs, strategically placing the pen on the corner of her red, plump lips. “You’ll get eaten alive.”
“Sonia,” Charlotte and Emerson mouth beneath their breaths, their face shadowed by disappointment.
“With all due respect, Ms. Jones, pressure is knowing that time is ticking, and for every minute that passes, I have a mother who slowly forgets who I am.” I stand up with a wobble, leaning on the table for support. “Thank you for the opportunity. I’m sure you’ll find the right person sitting in reception.”
My smile is forced, my confidence completely shattered with emotions running high as I walk fast, out of the room, toward the elevator with my tears held back. How dare she think I’m incapable and don’t understand the meaning of pressure. My anger, combined with the lack of sleep, pushes my sanity over the edge. As soon as the doors open into the lobby, and my face is met with the scorching sun, I burst into tears in front of random strangers who make no effort to console me, simply staring at me like I’m some kind of fool.
Back home, I curl up into a ball on the sofa, nursing the chamomile tea in my hand. The mug I hand-carried from back home, made by Mama during one of her pottery classes. Cradling it in my hand brings me closer to her. I want so much to pick up the phone and call her, but the humiliation of today is too much.
Flynn left a note that he’s out. Desperate to find a piece of home, I call Liam and tell him what’s happening, needing to hear a familiar voice.
“They just don’t know you, Milly. It’ll work out. I’m sure there’s another job waiting that will see you for who you truly are. I really hate that you feel this way.”
“You should have seen her, she acted as if I was a five-year-old applying for the job. I’ve never felt so humiliated. California is different…”
“It’s not home.”
I miss him so much. The smell of his skin when he sweats in the workshop. The way his hair falls over his eyes—much to my annoyance—only for me to sweep it away. Four days and this is the longest we have been apart.
“I want to come back home,” I cry openly into the speaker, tasting my tears as they fall to my lips. “I miss you, I miss Phoebe… and Mama.”
Liam remains quiet, allowing me to express my emotions in ways he has never heard from me before. After several minutes of listing all the things I miss about home, I quieten down, enough for him to finally get a word in.
“Have you spoken to your mom?”
“Not yet. I was going to call her after I got the job. God, how stupid was I to think I was good enough.”
“Hey, don’t you dare for a second think you’re not good enough. What makes them better, huh? Just because they have money doesn’t make you less worthy. They’re not us. They’re not bred to understand what working hard means.”
I suppose he has a point. I’m just too upset to rationalize with my depressed self. We somehow move onto his work, updating me on what’s happening back home. I miss the boys in the workshop, their antics, and the way they sing country music loudly as they tinker on the cars.
Just as we’re about to say goodbye to each other, I hear the beep of another call coming through.
“Sorry, Liam, I’ve got another call. Can I call you back tonight?”
“Always.” I hear his smile before I say goodbye and answer the other call.
“Milana?” The voice is familiar. “It’s Emerson.”
Shit. I straighten my posture and respond with a chirpy tone. “Hi, Emerson.”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, just talking to an old friend.”
“Great. First, I’m sorry for Sonia being so rude today. She’s a great publicist and ruthless when it comes to the media, but sucks at being a human.”
I smile with relief. Emerson doesn’t come across like Sonia. It’s good to know I’m not the only one who thinks she’s rude.
“I wanted to offer you the job. If you’ll take it, of course.”
I almost jump on the sofa Tom Cruise style. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m a hard worker, and I can easily work under pressure. I promise I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. Are you free to catch up for a coffee this afternoon? We can go through the details of the job and the expectations.”
She tells me her address, and I scribble it down eagerly. We agree to meet at four o’clock, and when we both end the call, I jump on the sofa and hug the piece of paper, grinning to myself.
I will show Sonia Jones that I can do the job.
It is my mission.
I grab my cell off the sofa and dial Mama’s number, eager to tell her the good news and hear her voice.
Maybe, just maybe, this will work out after all.
Chapter Five
Public transportation in Los Angeles is a joke.
Without my own car, I have no other means of getting around. Back home, I’m spoiled. Not only do I have my own car, but a boyfriend who makes sure it turns on and gets me from A to B.
The bus ride is uneventful, folks keeping to themselves and staring out the window in a dull state of mind. I plan to stop off at a coffee shop near a place called The Grove. According to an old newspaper that I found on our doorstep, it’s a popular place to shop and eat with many celebrities frequenting the joint. Not that I care. I just want to get my hands on this ridiculously expensive cake to say thank you for employing me even though I’m a rambling mess.
The coffee shop is busy, many people occupying the small tables which are scattered around. The glass display is full of delicious desserts. Rows and rows of mouth-watering sweets, making my stomach growl loudly enough that the lady carrying a tiny rat-looking dog in her purse, takes notice.
“The caramel baked cheesecake with crushed Oreos and peanut butter cups, please.”
The cashier, Sarah, packs the cake into a silver box, sliding it over the counter as I hand her some cash. Politely saying, “Thank you,” I turn around deciding to open the carton to catch another glimpse of this oh-so-perfect cake.
The side of the lid gets caught in the corner. I nudge it slightly to close it shut again when all of a sudden, my body slams into another person causing me to gasp loudly.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!”
Frazzled, I look up to see an annoyed guy wearing a thick leather jacket, standing in front of me, arm draped around a pretty girl and carrying a helmet in his spare hand. She appears to be amused by something, and following her eyes, I stare down at my white dress now covered in Oreos.
Shit. Shit. SHIT!
“Might wan
t to do something about that dress of yours,” he snorts, arrogantly, twitching his hazel eyes with a fiendish grin.
“Excuse me?” Perhaps I’m overreacting, but this moron just cost me thirty dollars. Who does this asswipe think he is? “How about you learn some manners!”
I’m not the type of person to raise my voice at a stranger, usually controlled and able to walk away from such nonsense. Yet something about the way he makes me feel like a pathetic nobody just rubs me the wrong way.
He—and his Hollywood bimbo—don’t deserve any more of my time. The damage is done, I have a ruined cake and an equally ruined dress. Of course, I had to wear white today.
I turn back around with a red face, greeting Sarah at the counter. I could see the sympathy in her eyes together with a disappointed smile.
“You know what?” Sarah is examining the damage. “I’m sure Mona can quickly fix the top. Saves you having to buy another.”
Sarah disappears into the kitchen only to return with a smile, asking me to wait for a few minutes while Mona fixes the icing. She hands me a small cloth which I use to carefully wipe the excess cake off my dress.
Mr. Dick, as I like to call him starting from this moment, moves closer to the counter, ordering a triple-shot coffee as if he didn’t do anything. I stand, waiting, impatiently tapping my feet with my arms crossed to cover the hideous stain. I have no time to get changed let alone spend money on another dress.
He hands over a credit card, trying to eye-flirt with Sarah.
“You know, you might want to watch where you’re walking. Head buried in a cake box is probably not the smartest thing to do.”
“Neither is being a dick,” I mumble under my breath.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. It’s bad manners not to make eye contact with someone when you speak.”
My head moves swiftly, eyes wide open, staring at this arrogant ass. He isn’t the first arrogant asshole I’ve encountered in the four days I have been here. Los Angeles is full of them.
“You want to talk to me about making eye contact? I think you just told me to watch where I was walking, but at the same time, you’re flirting with Sarah.”
Sarah almost drops the coffee in her hand, embarrassed that she enjoyed his attention.
He takes the cup and turns to face me, giving me a better chance to get a glimpse of the face attached to the asshole personality.
The first thing I notice is how light his eyes are—hazel colored—light in comparison to the dark beard sitting across the bottom half of his face. His olive complexion makes them stand out, but beneath them are dark bags. Tired, worn out—something about him looks aged.
Without trying to make it look obvious, a scar on the side of his jawline catches my attention. It has a pinkish tinge, looking fresh from some accident and buried in his overgrown beard.
“Are you done looking at me now?”
I pull back, unaware how obvious I have been.
“Yes. Just wanted to remember the face of the person who cost me my favorite dress and is making me late to an important appointment.”
“That dress is your favorite?”
I look down at my dress. It’s my favorite. I bought it three summers ago at the Macy’s clearance rack during one of our girly road trips to Anchorage. It has this 1950s feel to it—halter neck with three large buttons that run down my chest. The bottom flairs beneath my waist, covering my wide hips.
“Actually, it is.”
The blonde bimbo who accompanied him into the shop is by his side, eyeing me again as if I belong in a zoo.
“I bet you’re not from around here. Let me guess, you came here to be the next biggest movie star.”
They laugh in unison, only adding to my uncomfortable state.
“And let me guess, you came here to be the next biggest porn star!”
I don’t wait for her reaction, turning around and facing the counter desperate for Sarah to return with my cake. Beside me, Mr. Dick is laughing, prompting Bimbo to nudge him with her shoulder.
Sarah comes out of the kitchen carrying my box. Letting out a sigh of relief, I thank her as she slowly passes it over. I won’t open the box this time, turning my back to them while I walk to the exit.
“Hey!”
I stop for a moment, contemplating whether or not to turn around and bother giving him another minute of my time.
“What?”
“I still didn’t get an apology.”
The box is steady in my hands as I turn around to argue with him one more time.
“Since I’ll never see you again, you can take my apology and shove it up your ass.”
His lips curve upward into a wide grin. “And if you do see me again?”
“Then I’ll take it out of your ass and actually mean it.”
I refuse to entertain him any longer, pushing the door open and leaving the shop in a mad rush to Emerson’s house.
***
“This cake is divine.”
Emerson takes another bite as we sit outside on the back patio. Her house is enormous, surrounded by the greenest grass I have ever seen and views of the valley that stretch beyond the horizon. Toward the right, there is an Olympic-size pool with a small pool house on the opposite side. It’s just like out of a magazine, picture-perfect and could fit the tagline of Dream Home.
“Thank you. Again, I’m so sorry about my appearance. I’m not usually like this, I just… I can’t believe the nerve of that guy.”
She smiles softly. “It’s okay. Once I almost walked on stage with toilet paper hanging out of my butt, so I understand completely. Though, that was entirely my fault.”
We both laugh with a mouthful of cake. Emerson’s easy-going, spending some time to explain the role and parts of her personal life. I have a good feeling about her. She seems nothing like the other snobs I have encountered.
“I have a daughter. She’s six months old. Her name is Lola.” She taps on her phone and proudly shows me a picture. She’s a gorgeous baby with a full head of brown hair coupled with deep blue eyes. “She’s napping now, otherwise I would bring her down.”
It explains why she has a baby monitor on the table beside her phone.
“I try to keep a routine. I work three days a week from nine to five, and then on the remaining days, I work during her naps. When my husband’s in town, I get a chance to work a bit more but to be honest, I just want to spend time with him.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what does he do?”
“He plays soccer. Right now, he’s in Brazil leading a soccer program for youths.”
“Sounds like you have your hands full,” I tell her, with ease.
“Yes, that’s why you’re here.” She laughs, taking another bite of cake. “I’ve got baby brain. I need someone to help me with scheduling meetings, run business errands, and meet with suppliers when I can’t. When I have interviews and appearances, I need someone to coordinate my publicist, stylist, the whole team. It’s a very busy role, but I think you’re the right fit, Milana.”
“I’m dedicated. We simply need to find our groove. Does that make sense?”
Her eyes light up, impressed. “Total sense. So, how about we start tomorrow? If you can meet me here at nine? Just wait here a second…”
Emerson stands, her white shorts and navy-blue tank matching the fabric of the chair she was sitting in. She disappears only to return moments later carrying a laptop, phone, and set of keys.
“This is for you.” She hands them to me, much to my bewilderment. “We can schedule the next twelve months’ of meetings tomorrow and sync our diaries. The keys are for the car you’ll need to run errands. The phone is for business clients to contact you and me.”
“But… this is…” I stumble on my words, feeling terrible for accepting the car.
“All part of the job,” she finishes my sentence. “And, a tax right-off. Charlie, that’s what we call her instead of Charlotte, is my lawyer. She’ll FedEx you the contracts to
sign.”
Back home, Mildred Mason had one computer and a landline in the office. It was never an issue, and somehow, we were contactable. Although I had a laptop and a brick, as Liam referred to it, this is all a bit much.
“Are you sure?” I question with uncertainty. “I was going to buy a car. I just wanted to get settled first.”
Emerson places the keys in my hand and rests her palm on mine, reassuring me that this isn’t a pity handout. “I’m sure. There is one catch, though.”
Of course, there is.
“One of my business associates is very difficult to work with. In fact, I limit contact with him because I can’t deal with him anymore.”
Odd, yet I’m curious as to why she doesn’t just cut ties.
“Your business partner?”
“Yes.” The subject appears to irritate her, the smile on her face disappearing, and the grit in her teeth portraying her anger toward this individual. “As much as I would love not to deal with him, he has made it difficult for me to legally pull away from the business.”
He already sounds like a dickhead.
“It’s okay. When it comes to people like this, I can keep my head strong and stay focused on the job.”
She breathes a sigh of relief and ends with a small giggle. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“If today’s debacle taught me anything, it’s to be prepared. You never know who’s just around the corner…”
Chapter Six
There’s a loud thump, thump, thump against the wall.
The room is filled with the beautiful, warm sunlight that California is known for. I appreciate the small things in life, just not the loud banging against my wall. Stumbling out of bed in my sleep shorts and worn-out KISS t-shirt, I make it out to the living room to see Flynn passed out on the sofa surrounded by bags of chips and empty bottles of cola. It suddenly dawns on me that the sound is coming from the wall I share with my elderly neighbors.
Oh, dear God, no.