The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)(2)
A field trip around the office was much better than being stuck in this two-person isle of seclusion.
We walked past the main entrance and into the other portion of the office where the rest of the employees at Starr Media were stationed. Pristine white tile gleamed in the lighting, and the walls were painted a trendy steel gray, occasionally dotted with pictures of our most esteemed clients. Jackson picked up his pace to a power walk and rattled off explanations the same way a guide would on a Hollywood sightseeing tour—bored, informative, and over-rehearsed. Somehow, that was less than comforting, and “please don’t let this be a revolving door position,” and “crap, I need this job more than air” rolled around in my head.
He pointed to a small room on the left and didn’t bother to stop. “Here is the copy room. We each have our own codes. If you lose yours, you’re subjected to the wrath of Glinda. Don’t piss her off.”
I nodded and scribbled a quick “don’t cross Glinda” into my notebook, adding a double underline to the note.
After passing a few more doors where Jackson mumbled descriptions under his breath, we reached the back half of the office, which contained fifteen or so cubicles with posh chairs, exposed brick walls, and cement flooring that gave it an industrial chic feel. A hum of fingers hitting keyboards, ringing phones, and low murmuring voices filled the space, a completely different vibe than my post in the stuffy entranceway. Action happened here—the dynamic of people creating and orchestrating ideas practically zapped like static electricity in the air. This was where I wanted to end up. This was the place to be.
The energy shifted as a few people glanced up from their paperwork, studied me for a few seconds, and then went back to what they were doing.
Jackson pointed to each desk, starting from the back and working his way to the window. “This is Amy, Fred, Patricia…” the list went on, much faster than I could scrawl on my paper. The verdict was out on whether or not Jackson was doing this on purpose or if he normally talked like he was on triple fast forward.
As far as introductions went, this was what I would classify as a drive-by—fast, chaotic, and one that guaranteed zero chance of remembering anyone.
“Hi.” I waved. A few grunts sounded from a couple of the cubicles toward the window, but everyone else kept their head down and continued working.
All right. A lively bunch. I clutched my notepad to my chest and pushed back the burning desire to sprint from the room and hide under my desk, popping Skittles and hoping they put me into a sugar coma.
College had made for an easy environment to meet like-minded people. I’d assumed that since we were all working for the same company, I’d hit it off right away because, hey, couldn’t we all just band together and say “stick it” to the garlic-hating man? But it was becoming increasingly apparent I had to earn my way up the social ladder as well.
“Hurry up, newbie.” Jackson was already in the hallway that led to our desks, and I hustled out of the bullpen to catch up to him. The power walk had turned into a half sprint just to keep up with him as we weaved our way to the front entrance.
As soon as we got back to our desks, he plopped down in his chair and began typing something on his computer. “When you’re done with the manual, I need you to make a coffee run. Two pump vanilla latte with soy milk. Extra hot.”
My head shot up. This could be it; I could finally have a chance to meet the mysterious Brogan Starr. “Is that Mr. Starr’s drink?” Sounded like a drink for someone with a stick up their ass. Scratch that, ass was one of the pre-determined no-no words. Behind, then. Mr. Starr had a stick up his behind.
“No, mine.”
I swallowed back a smart-behind response. Grunt work was part of the whole working my way up the totem pole in the social media business, that was expected. Play the game, move up one peg at a time, and one day, I’d be able to share my own ideas for improving networking. Until then, I was Jackson’s…female dog.
See? Fast learner.
“No problem.” I even managed to plaster a smile on my face, just to show how delighted I was to be here. Which wasn’t too far from the mark, because nothing made me happier than a steady income fresh out of grad school, especially when I could put more toward Mom’s medical bills and, okay, the occasional use of my one-click finger for online shopping.
Twenty pages later, I decided to take a break and get Jackson’s coffee. I glanced his way as I walked toward the elevator, and caught myself before I could shake my head at his slouched figure. His feet were propped on his desk as he fiddled with something on his phone. Cell phone use during work hours was prohibited—as stated in rule forty-seven. But I guess that rule didn’t apply to first assistants.
The elevator opened and Jackson shouted, “Soy milk. Extra hot or you’re fired!” before the doors closed.
My job now rested in the hands of a barista and their ability to heat blast the shit out of Jackson’s latte. Excellent.
I slumped against the metal bar at the rear of the elevator and rested my head against the wall. An upbeat eighties song droned over the intercom, and it reminded me of something Mom would lip sync to in the car. A sad smile wobbled at the corners of my mouth. It was pathetic how much I missed her—I mean, a twenty-four-year-old should be okay living a couple hundred miles from her mom. As it was, a whole month apart proved I was a total mama’s girl, especially given her current condition. Before I could pull out my phone to give her a quick call, the elevator doors sprang open, and I hustled out the door to get Jackson’s latte before I gave him any reason to fire me on my second day.