"'Bout time you got here," he grouched, clearly annoyed. "What took you so long? Lost in the mist?"
The voice did what the hallway lights didn't do. It revealed the newcomer's identity.
She'd listened to several podcasts by this man on her computer for months now. Here was the Elliott Larson, owner of this company. (Wait--that name...alongside Joey's...)The company who'd recently received her resume, cover letter, and application for the job of assistant to the Community Outreach Officer. That job would certainly bring her into occasional contact with this man.
And she'd just pissed him off.
She rushed an apology. "Omigod, I'm so sorry! I didn't meant to be late--"
Joey cut in. "It's not her fault. I delayed her, so--"
"But here's the proceeds from the booth." She shoved her way back into the conversation. "I'm sure they'll be a helpful contribution on the Keep the Mounted Patrol program."
She plucked the lockbox from Joey's hands and offered it to the very important Elliott Larson--who stepped back from her, his hands upraised and palms out.
"Whoa," he said. "I was speaking to Joe, not you. I don't even know who you are."
She bit her lip and retracted her offering. Things were only getting worse. How many ways could she offend the man? "Sorry...again. Um, is the receptionist available?"
Elliott fit his well-manicured hands to his excellently clothed and trim hips. A glower darkened his expression.
"I sent her home. Why?"
Kelly swallowed hard and took morose note of the absence of a plausible escape opportunity. Unfortunately, it appeared her irresponsibility was destined to come before the hoped-for-boss's attention.
"Then I need to turn this over to you." Doomed, she again offered the lockbox.
Elliott squinted at the object.
"What is it?"
Someone dressed in a pair of shoes that probably cost more than three months of her wished salary probably wasn't intimately familiar with a simple lockbox, but there wasn't a reason to stare at it like it was poisonous.
"Here are the donations collected at today's booth in Pioneer Square. Emerald Isle, Limited sponsored a raffle for--"
The glower returned, closing off her prattle. He took the lockbox from her hands and crossed the room to set it onto the receptionist's desk.
"I know about the booth," he grumbled, as he returned. "What I don't know is who you are, why you're with Joe, and why he carried the thing."
"Perhaps introductions are in order," said Joey, again cutting into the discussion. He pulled himself into a uselessly formal stance, made a genteel bow and swept one arm between them.
"Kelly, may I reintroduce you to Elliott Larson? Spazz," Joey reversed the cultured gesture, "please remember Kelly Hanks."
Another earthquake of reality shuddered through her. She'd applied for a job at her childhood tormenter's company? Words escaped her. So did air. Spazz appeared to be just as shocked. Bug-eyed, he worked his mouth like a landed fish as he, like her, struggled for words.
He found his first. "Smelly Kelly Hanks? Working my prize booth? Holy shit!"
Joey smiled and looked supremely satisfied with himself. He turned to her and winked. "Now, about that dinner?"
Chapter 4
* * *
Kelly found herself squished against the wall of the nearby Mexican eatery. She winced and peered at her elbow. The chipped red Formica table had caught her as she slid into the booth. No blood, but the rough edge of the table stood like a tiny militant, ready to bite her again, so she pulled her hoodie's left sleeve down to cover her wrist and found comfortable places for her elbows, knees, and feet.
Outside the window, hardy Portlanders traversed the sidewalk, heedless of the rain. Inside was a trip to tourist Mexico, including blaring mariachi music, servers dressed in flamenco garb, ongoing blenders delivering blended margarita drinks to salt-rimmed glasses, cheesy pinata decorations and the scent of jalapeno and onion teasing the air.
She'd walked past this eatery on multiple occasions, due to its location on her commute, but had never stopped in, despite the mouth-watering scents of the place. Her budget wouldn't stretch for a meal out, no matter how good it smelled. But now her tummy eagerly rumbled, ready to enjoy the treat.
Open, long-necked bottles of beer stood at each of the three placemats, sweating beads of amber. A platter of tortilla chips and bowls of both salsa and guacamole commandeered the middle of the table.
Joey sat next to her and took up more than his fair share of space. His thigh pressed against hers, and his arm stretched across the back of the booth in a way that somehow seemed both proprietary and courteous. Spazz sat on the other side of the booth. He selected a tortilla chip, dug into the salsa, and shoved the entire wedge into his mouth.
He crunched and frowned, then repeated himself for what must have been the eighth time. "I'm still dealing with the fact that you worked my prize booth today."
"Yeah, weird," said Joey, as he snagged his own chip. "What are the odds?"
"How t'hell did it happen?" Spazz continued to mourn.
His obsession over the incident puzzled Kelly. Really, he acted like she'd arrived and spread typhoid or something. "You requested volunteers from PSU's business college. Grad students. So, I signed up."
She grabbed a chip of her own and brought it to her mouth, but paused when she realized both men watched her, Spazz wearing an exasperated expression.
"What?" She put the chip in her mouth.
"I'm guessing he wasn't looking for an actual answer." Joey chuckled.
Her cheeks heated. "Oh. Um..."
"But go on," said Spazz. He reached for another chip, which he used to plow the guacamole dip, then took in with a single bite.
Busy crunching the chip in her mouth, she glanced to Joey, who returned the look with a wink. Encouraged, she tried again, hopeful not to piss off her hoped-for-boss.
"I worked the booth because of your push into Portland's business community," she said.
Spazz munched. "Utilizing the 'local boy goes big' angle?"
"Well, that and the fact the booth was an obvious ploy to introduce yourself to the forthcoming graduates." She reached for another chip and drew it through the salsa.
"True." Spazz nodded. "This block party was a godsend networking-wise."
She chewed, and nodded...hot! The burning of her tongue forced her to gulp a mouthful of beer before she could follow up on her point.
"I graduate this May," she wheezed and stifled a cough. "And since I'd already applied to Emerald Isle, I figured I'd better volunteer. Good karma."
"As well as good interview tactics," said Joey. "Separate yourself from the pile right off the bat."
"Thanks, yes, that was my idea. Given that tuition is so expensive, I'd love to roll into a decent paying job. The banks will be banging on my door way too soon." She felt herself glow from the little bit of praise.
Or was it the residual heat from the salsa? She took another sip of the cold beer.
"Christ, Smelly Kelly wants a job at my company. Holy hell," Spazz muttered dolefully into his bottle.
Wanna-be-boss or not, some things were off limits. "Keep calling me that and I'll send my white knight across the table to bust your lip again."
She patted Joey's lean, powerful thigh. He crunched a chip and smirked at Spazz, who looked like he'd just swallowed a bug. He appeared to want to say something, but dithered over his words. Joey leaned forward and tapped his beer bottle against Spazz's.
An obvious, wordless communication, but unfortunately, the message carried meant nothing to her. She darted a glance between the two, hopeful for a clue...and came up empty.
Joey's expression remained perfectly neutral as he selected another chip from the dish and crunched, while Spazz attacked him with sizzling glares. When Spazz cleared his throat with aggressive care, Joey only shrugged his amazing shoulders.
Spazz turned to her way with a professional smile, all teeth and tolera
nce, and said, "So, Kelly, tell me why you want to work for my company."
"An impromptu interview over beer, chips, and dip?" Her own smile pinched her cheeks.
"Issues of good practice and a spectacular opportunity aside, I'm seriously curious. What brought your application my human resources?"
"She didn't know you owned the place," said Joey with a laugh.
She flushed. True, as humiliating as it was. But what the hell, I may as well go for it.
"A position as assistant to the Community Outreach Officer caught my heart. I've been through two interviews already and am looking forward to the third and final." She cleared her throat. "I hope it won't be suggested that my application will go cold."
"Why would that happen? Aren't you qualified?"
Spazz sounded irked enough by her statement to fire a challenge of his own back across the table. He and Joey spent a few moments exchanging nasty and offensive gestures, just like old times. Her heart lifted, delighted by his question. Maybe she still had a chance!
"Final interviews will happen in April now the Community Outreach Officer has finally made the move here," said Spazz, returning to the conversation.
Better and better!
"I graduate in May with a Masters in Business Administration."
"So you said." Spazz used his fingertips to rotate the bottle atop his cocktail napkin. He appeared to be lost in thought, but he didn't appear to be impressed.
Hope crashed. He'd asked for "why" she wanted to work for Emerald Isle and all she'd given was a "me" answer.
Their waitress arrived with the meals they'd ordered. The table's silence warmed as she distributed hot plates of food. Kelly stirred her Spanish rice into her refried beans, as she always did, and contemplated her situation.
Tacos crunched as the men dug into their meals.
She'd been the only one to order enchiladas.
She steeled her spine and focused on Spazz. "I want the job because I want to make a difference."
"Um-hum." Spazz chewed on his mouthful of taco.
Yes. Of course. Too pat an answer. Sudden tears burned her eyes. How to make him understand? Her desire to "Change Things" went heart deep--soul deep, even. She would, somehow, find a way to correct the social injustices that poisoned American business culture one family at a time. Give Spazz something of me. Show him why I need to be at Emerald Isle's Outreach. "People are more important than scores of a bank ledger."
She heard the throb of emotion in her voice, but there was no way to disguise it. The burn was too close; the pain too personal. Her tablemates' attention lifted from their plates and beers.
"Stewart was obsessed with his credit score. Obsessed," she emphasized.
"Stewart is your husband?" Joey asked the question so neutrally he seemed to be discussing an expected visit from an unwelcome family member.
All the bottled up pain spilled from her like a river of poison.
"Stewart wasn't made of money. He ran an independent church and worked to feed the homeless and needy in our parish, all without any corporate assistance. But he was always badgering me about debt. Bills this, money that, debt...debt...debt. Don't be late paying that bill. That leads to a needless late fee. Don't ruin the credit score. I worked hard for that. Pay promptly and round up because that minimizes the interest payment. Kids? We can't afford them. Don't you know how much they cost? Let alone their college fees."
She swallowed heavily after the last statement. She'd wanted a family of her own. All through her painful adolescence, she'd dreamed of a loving, warm and supporting family she could nurture and treasure, and who would love, nurture, and treasure her.
"It hurt." She whispered the admission and swallowed a mouthful of her beer. It didn't thaw the iceberg lodged in her throat. "I wasn't even allowed to go to college at first. 'Too expensive'"--her fingers made hooks in the air to indicate quotes--"and he actually said, 'I'm not going to get into debt for you. There are needier people in the community."
"But federal financial aid could have..." Spazz began.
She shook her head even before he finished his sentence. "He was a simple, generous man, a minister. That had been his life for twenty years prior to our marriage. We didn't qualify for aid...well, not at first."
Black memories rose in her soul. She forced a few bites of her enchilada down her throat as a ploy for composure.
"Then he got sick," she said, softly. "Incurable kidney disease and down the rabbit hole we went."
"You needn't say anything else." Joey's hand rested on her shoulder.
But I must. They have to somehow understand. Businesses need to remember how to care for people first, not their profits.
"Stewart was a person," Kelly plowed onward. "He mattered, but when he couldn't work and went on disability, he became invisible. Assets were sold to pay for medical bills. Church, outreach building, car, house. And by then I was in college. Grants became our only income. The medical bills continued to accumulate, of course. Higher and higher. We had to move into an apartment when they took the house. Now, a grossly expensive rent bill every month instead of a reasonable mortgage. Expensive medication. We struggled to pay." Her voice caught on a sob.
"I was forced to go to social services to keep the electricity on. Food stamps. I took school loans and begged his family. Humiliation was the price for every grudging cent they loaned. Loaned," she spat the word. "Irreparably broke and facing a future of privation, I was nonetheless shamed, berated, and reminded--monthly--that I was expected to pay all monies back."
She threw Joey a glance that had to be one of desperation. Her face felt hot, brittle, made of glass instead of skin.
Unable to stop, she forged on, determined to have her story heard. "They constantly badgered me over the bills. Constantly. Desperate and asking for help isn't a selfish act. It's not."
Spazz muttered, "Fuck."
"Jesus, Joseph, and Mary." A savage expression carved Joey's face.
Appetite gone, she shoved her plate away and struggled against the threatening tears.
"The medicine that might've helped him get well was too expensive. That's what the insurance said: too expensive. Medicaid wouldn't pay for it. We'd been dropped from the church insurance long ago since we couldn't pay for it. I'm guessing, they figured keeping him alive indefinitely and with an ongoing expensive process--Stewart bedridden and on dialysis--would cost more than a funeral.
Pain lashed through her cramping stomach. God, it hurt, those memories.
"What do the one-percenters call the disabled these days? Parasites?" She heard the rage in her voice, but couldn't negate it. "Stewart's life wasn't worth saving. Not to them."
"Kelly, lassie..." A helpless expression filled Joey's face.
"In the end, we begged the banks for help. They gave the same answer: no. I had no one in my corner, no one, and nowhere to go. I needed that medicine"--she nearly wept from the rage--"but the insurance wouldn't pay for it."
Angry tears welled in her eyes. She wiped them vengefully. "This profit before people mentality poisoning our society must be stopped. It must."
She returned her attention to Spazz and their dinner in the small, Mexican café.
"That, Mr. Larson," she said, "is why I want to be a part of your Community Outreach Program. I will ensure that everything possible is done for those in desperation. I won't let 'someone else'"--another scornful hook of her fingers through the air--"deal with it."
She made a fist in her napkin and stared at her horrified audience, each man in turn. "I know I can't fix everything, but I can make sure people don't feel so alone--or so worthless.
Chapter 5
* * *
Kelly's story turned his insides into a brutal storm front. He wanted to punch a wall... no, five walls. He wanted to tear down the marble fortresses hiding the heartless bankers who enslaved good American people with their tightfisted ways.
Lunacy! The Founders must have wanted more for their country than this.
"Kelly, darlin', I'm broken by your story, m'lass," he rasped, the brogue thick in his voice. He cleared his throat, fighting the brogue. It arrived unbidden when his emotions ran high, which was not always in his best interests to reveal.
Spazz sat across from him, looking like he'd just been gutted.
"My God, Kelly," he murmured. "I'm so sorry."
Joey wrapped her with his closest arm and tugged her against his shoulder. She nestled against him, trembling, but only for a moment. When she pulled away, she caught up her napkin, dabbed at her eyes and gave a watery chuckle.
"Not a good interview, right? It's probably for the best anyway. Grandpa always said I would spend every penny that crossed my palm." The last dropped into a sorrowful mumble.
Spazz fashioned an expression that probably meant to be reassuring. "The good thing is that the Community Outreach Program has plenty of pennies to spend."
It irked Joey to see another man reassuring his Kelly. I get to ease her fears and pain. Me! The urge to beat his chest and howl like Tarzan was strong enough it startled him. He checked...no, his knuckles hadn't sprouted hair and his arms didn't appear long enough to drag when he shuffled around, grunting. Good news, that.
He signaled to a passing waitress. "I need the check and some to-go boxes," he said, then refocused on Kelly. "That's the kind of passion Spazz has been telling me he wants in his outreach program."
Her gaze shifted to him, a vista of green that reminded him of home. Her grateful gaze rested on him now. It filled him with energy, with vitality. He could move mountains. Jump to the moon. Fix anything and everything...even Spazz, who glared.
If eyes could be flamethrowers, Joey should be a smoking ruin by now.
Back me up, bro, he tried to say with his return stare.
Spazz somehow heard the message. He stopped wielding the eye cannons and picked up his beer. "Naturally, since this isn't an official interview, I can't make a genuine job offer, but I'll strongly recommend you to the hiring committee. Passion is absolutely critical in that position."
Ides Of March Page 3
