The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)(3)
By nine thirty, I’d made it back to the building and learned that downtown really did have a Starbucks on every block. Being technologically savvy (or as my mom liked to say, “addicted”), my fingers itched to take a snapshot of downtown Seattle and post about my first week at Starr Media. I frowned, remembering the strict policy prohibiting posts about the company on personal social media. Pretty much, working at Starr Media was the equivalent of being part of Fight Club. Heavy emphasis on the first rule.
As I entered the elevator, I chanced a glance at the mirrored wall and cringed. The misty Seattle air upped the frizz factor of my curls, and my thick mass of hair was quickly transitioning from a “before” to an “after” shot in a Chia Pet commercial.
I blew a stray piece out of my face as I balanced the to-go container with Jackson’s and my coffee and tapped my foot impatiently, waiting for my floor. For such a large building in the heart of downtown, the elevator moved at a banana slug pace, the digits of each floor flashing overhead as it ascended. When it finally got to the fortieth, I took a second to adjust my grip on the coffee container and my purse and made my way out. Both feet had just made it past the opening when the door zipped shut behind me, almost taking my purse in the process. I let out a yelp and stumbled forward, spilling a bit of coffee in the process. Holy mother of Moses, it was like I was in a giant arcade crane game. I straightened my jacket and adjusted the coffee cups, shaking off the incident. For an archaic elevator, it definitely made sure the door hit you on the way out.
Jackson looked up from his computer and smiled when he saw the coffee in my hands. “Looks like you just learned a lesson from old Betsey.”
“Who’s Betsey?” I handed him his drink.
“Our beloved elevator.” There was a silent duh added on to the end of that. “And here’s a hint: she only bites people who deserve it.” He pursed his lips then took a pull from his soy-hope-he-choked-on-it latte.
I looked at the elevator again, my heart still beating frantically against my chest. “Good to know.”
Why wasn’t that in the manual? Rule #768: Do not stand in elevator more than two seconds after the doors open. You will get chomped.
Someone with so many rules should include something on the carnivorous elevator.
I cupped my own coffee in my hands and took a deep pull of my triple shot espresso.
“When do I get to meet Mr. Starr?” I stared at my desk, which only had a manila folder with Craig Willington’s information, my large stack of liability papers to be signed, and the employee handbook. I’d imagined my first few days on the job to be chaotic, buried in paperwork (the exciting kind, not the signing-my-life-away kind), like I’d seen in all my favorite TV shows, but it was much more anticlimactic in real life. If my life were a hashtag right now, it’d be #whompwhomp.
If I were able to post about my job, that is.
“He’s already in his office and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Oh.” I frowned. Meeting Mr. Starr was at the top of my to-do list. The faster we met, the sooner he’d see I was capable and give me a larger workload. Judging by the constant annoyed expression affixed to Jackson’s face, he didn’t seem too keen on the idea of me making it past this week, so I needed to get someone else on my side.
“Don’t worry, Lacey, you’ll meet him soon enough.”
“Lainey.”
He waved his hand dismissively, and the fluorescent lights glinted off his manicured nails. “Whatever.” And then he muttered something that sounded a lot like “not that I’ll need to get to know your name, anyway.”
Um, that was not comforting. Whatsoever. Even though asking about previous employees was decidedly a bad idea, I just couldn’t sign another confidentiality waiver until I knew what exactly I was up against. “How long was the last person in my position employed here?”
“Two weeks.”
I swallowed hard. Okay, no big deal. Maybe they were a total dud and lacked the skills to be a second assistant. “And the person before that?”
“A week.”
Well, crap. “Oh.” I kept a smile plastered on my face all the way back to my desk, not wanting him to see me sweat. Seriously, was this how other companies in Seattle worked? Revolving door positions, everyone as disposable as a to-go cup?
This position was not dispensable to me. I had to make this work, so I had to show Mr. Starr just how invaluable I could be.
I plopped down in my swivel chair, and after signing my life away with the paperwork, I pulled up Craig Willington’s media account. Jackson had shown me how to gain access to the Cloud drive with all pre-approved photos from each celebrity. As part of my job description, I was in charge of posting on their social media sites and building their fan base.
Craig had sent over three pictures this morning—selfies on his boat, taken with his girlfriend, country music star Miranda Rivers. He had a blocky chin with a smattering of stubble, and the gap between his two front teeth was ten shades of charming. Miranda was in her typical peach-colored eye shadow and ruby red lips that glistened in the sunlight. I let out a sigh and stared wistfully at the photo. If I were reposting to my own page, I’d tag it #lifegoals. But this wasn’t my personal account—made apparent by my lack of arm candy and dismal bank account. Ah, the glamorous life of a postgrad student. Once I paid off Mom’s expenses, I’d be in the clear to make poor life choices with my newly acquired cash flow. In the meantime, “getting crazy” was code for Netflix and frozen pizza.