Layers(3)

Why did I agree to that bet in the first place? Who can drink more mojitos? Especially with Miss Gracefully-alcohol-consuming Master?

“Did you polish your CV?” she asks casually, not doing such a good job in trying to conquer a smile by biting her lips.

I scowl as she regards me with a giggle. She’s enjoying this way too much, the little harlot. Had she not been the closest person to me in the entire world I would definitely hate her, especially right now.

“It can always open doors, you know.” She turns the wheel to take the next exit.

“To what, exactly?” I snort, resentment clearly expressed by my tone. “Running a high-tech company?”

“Laugh it up, but you never know. Perhaps this visit will change your life forever,” she announces dramatically, her joyful eyes staring ahead at the road with an “I am always right, aren’t I?” condescending grin. She glances my way and laughs. I join her, amused.

“You are so lame,” I say between giggles.

“And let the fun begin,” Tasha declares as we step out of the car. “How do I look?” She rubs her lips together, correcting her pale pink glossy lipstick with her pinky while glancing at her reflection via the Audi TT’s dark window.

“Impeccable, as you always do.” I wink at her. Pleased, her smile broadens.

Tasha fidgets and almost skips toward our destination, and I know it’s due to the opportunity at hand. By making a good impression at this interview, she could find a ticket to her dream job.

I stare at Tasha looking so radiant and together with her smart, well-fitted black suit, then look down at myself. I begin at my white camisole, then down to my tight jeans, and end the tour on my shoes: my trademark red sneakers. I sigh.

A thought crosses my mind. Perhaps I should put my hair up so I look just a tad more presentable? Why bother? I don’t really care. I’m just a prisoner here.

And yet here I find myself with some overly enthusiastic grads, in a formal meeting room at Stark Software Technologies, Inc. Seriously, what am I doing here? The thought amuses me. Cruel, Tash, plain cruelty.

A highly refined-looking, older yet attractive lady with brown, straight, shoulder-length hair enters the room. A clipboard is pressed forcefully to her chest.

She stares at us, her lips in a fine line, and in too high of a voice announces, “Good morning, everyone, and welcome to Stark Software Technologies. My name is Alexandra Greenich and I am Stark Software’s head of human resources.” She gazes at each of us individually with intense green eyes framed by thick, red glasses.

All of the anxious faces of my fellow visitors look back at her, reflecting thrill at the opportunity they’ve been given.

A thin, annoyed arc forms on Mrs. Greenich’s bright red lips as she continues, “I will be your guide for today, and we’ll shortly start our visit. Any questions before we start?”

A tall, heavy-bodied redhead with the most freckled face I have ever seen coughs. As she begins to speak I notice that the buttons are threatening to pop out from her too tight, blue blouse any minute now. “Will we meet Mr. Stark?” All eyes shift at once and everyone gawks widely at Mrs. Greenich, waiting for her reply.

They all seem so eager to hear her answer, and gape at her as though she were about to reveal the location of the Holy Grail. I grimace; I can’t help but snort inwardly.

“I’m not sure he’ll be available today, as his schedule is quite full, but I was personally promised that his resourceful personal assistant is working on clearing a spot in his schedule so he can meet with you, if possible.” Tasha seems somewhat disappointed; I mockingly cover my open mouth in disbelief. Her lips pull up and she shakes her head.

“Will we get coffee or something else to drink?” I whisper to Tasha. “My throat’s dry and I need to continue working on waking up.” She just shrugs.

“Don’t ask,” she whispers, in a warning tone. “It’s not professional.”

I narrow my eyes at her.

By the time we reach the second floor, or the “management floor” as Mrs. Greenich calls it, I’m so weary and thirsty that I just can’t listen to her high, nerve-wracking voice anymore. She mentions something about the kitchen, but I’m not with her anymore. I wait a bit for the group to go on without me and enter the elegant kitchen furnished with ultra-modern wine-red and black cabinets above a spotless shiny white floor. There’s a high-end coffee machine calling my name on the countertop across the room. A quick little coffee and I am out of here.

I press the green small-cup button and the machine awakens with the noise of evaporating steam. The oh-so-aromatic, roasted scent wafts toward me as the machine fills the cup with a rich chocolate-colored liquid. I’m thrilled, already anticipating the taste. When the machine signals that the cycle is complete, I grab the cup too hastily, and some of the coffee manages to spill on my white blouse.

Observing the damage with irritation, I murmur, “Fuck me,” under my breath.

“Is that a request?”

Shifting my stare back to see who has just spoken; I find myself holding on to the counter from a momentary loss of balance, as I take in the sight of the orator.

Heat spreads from the center of my skull through my throat, to the top of my cleavage. And I don’t do blushing. What the hell?

Standing there is the very picture of hot, tall and sinful. White tee, jeans, and the most alluring bad boy stance. Something in his crooked smile inexplicably leaves me dumbfounded. For the space of a moment, I am lost in him.