Layers

by Sigal Ehrlich

  “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.

  His eyes roam over me with a wicked glee, stripping off every layer of clothing I have on. The air escapes my lungs at the intensity of that gaze.

  I gape back at him, my jaw slightly dropped. “Mmm … just made some coffee.” I mumble my lame excuse and follow it with a thin smile.

  “So I assume it wasn’t a request, then?” His teasing eyes are on me, that sexy grin is still plastered on his face, and his expression insinuates pure sin.

  “Too bad,” he murmurs, and I have to swallow hard.

  “Is that your thing?” I ask, recovering.

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Sneaking behind people and trying to engage them in salacious activities?” A low laugh, deep and hoarse, comes as a reply.

  “No.” He scratches his amused lips with his thumb, looking at me with a slightly tilted head. “And just for the record, I believe it was you who started with the indecent proposals.”

  I open my mouth, looking frantically for some clever comeback that doesn’t appear to come, and instead feel my face heat up. Again. Damn.

  “You know you’re not supposed to be in the CEO’s private kitchen, right?” he mutters, that expression of ridicule refusing to leave his face. Private kitchen? So what’s he doing here?

  “Neither are you,” I retort.

  He frowns, briefly taken aback at my reply.

  “Well, I don’t really care. You know, your CEO Mr. Stark sounds real condescending. Why would he need a private kitchen, anyway? Can’t he interact with the proletariat?” I tilt my head, challenging the attentive hazel eyes that stare back deep into mine. “I guess he could spare a cup of coffee, couldn’t he?”

  Towering over me, he slides his toned arms to the sides of his body, hands in his jeans pockets, his eyes locked on mine.

  ~~~

  The lazy curve that slowly forms on his lips encourages me and I go on: “I don’t think Mr. I-own-the-world would mind if I had a cup of coffee.” He shrugs, appearing to enjoy a private joke.

  “We could always ask him, Miss …?”

  “It’s Hayley Grace,” I reply and shift, a tad uncomfortable. “Hayley,” I murmur next as my courage gradually flees per Mr. Virile’s unconcealed attention. There’s a knot forming in my stomach caused by those naughty eyes of his.

  He extends his hand for a shake. “Daniel,” he declares, followed by a lopsided smile. “Charmed,” he adds. I shake his large palm and flinch from the heat wave that crosses over me. He doesn’t seem indifferent, either. I look down at my shoes as he slowly examines me head to toe, causing my nerves to quake. Why these shoes? Should have listened to Tasha. What would hot-piece here think to himself about my juvenile red sneakers? For god’s sake, I never listen.

  As if reading my mind he casually mutters, “Cool shoes.”

  I stare up at him, slightly startled, though I rapidly compose myself and beam at him. “Thank you, Daniel. I think so, too.” I’m rewarded with gleaming eyes.

  Catching a glimpse of my barely touched coffee cup, I scowl and look down at my blouse; the stains are evidently still there.

  He watches and says, “Well Miss Grace, perhaps this stacked up CEO of ours has something especially for this sort of misfortune around here.” He nods at my blouse and pivots to the side. As he bends to one of the cupboards under the sink his arm accidentally rubs against mine, running electric vibes up my spine. What is this delish smell? I need to stop myself from leaning in for another sniff. He grabs a pack of wet towels, handing me the pack as he flexes to stand, facing me this time. He pauses long enough for my eyes to meet his. “These should do the job.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, gaping at him, mesmerized. Control yourself, stop with the ogling.

  H
astily I rub the little brown stains dotted on my shirt, disturbingly aware that I’m doing it under his unnerving, steady stare. Trying to make amends with my job-interview-camisole, I’m reminded that I should join my group. I glance through the dark glass walls, only to notice that the group has proceeded further away from where I originally left them.

  I grimace, looking under my lashes at Daniel, whose piercing gaze makes me even more ill at ease, and start walking toward the door.

  “Miss Grace, don’t forget your coffee,” he says after me, a wide smirk coating his too damn handsome face.

  I look back at him, at the door and next at the coffee, weighing the situation. I quickly move a step back to take a sip of the coffee. Right after I stride toward the door, I say “Bye, Daniel,” over my shoulder and flash my most radiant grin.

  “Goodbye, Miss Grace. It was an absolute pleasure.” He winks at me teasingly. Nearly reaching the group, I turn back to look his way, only to find him still watching me, shining hazel eyes accompanied by an up-to-no-good expression. Wow.

  “Where have you been?” Tasha asks, scolding, accusing hands resting on her hips.

  “Had a quick coffee.” My lips twist into a thin enigmatic line and I shrug.

  At around noon, I’m summoned to Mrs. Greenich’s office for a quick interview while the rest of the group is gathered at one of the meeting rooms in level two.

  “What can you tell me about yourself, Miss …?” She stretches the ending while looking at my CV, “Miss Grace.” She adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose; there’s a twist on her lips that resembles a smile. Mrs. Greenich is doing a good job at looking somewhat attentive as I fill her in on my academic achievements and occupational experience. To her next question I elaborate on my career goals, trying hard to somehow make it sound like I’m interested in working in the high-tech sector.

  “So what position at Stark’s Software would be of interest to you, Miss Grace?” She studies me carefully under red frames. I have a very vague idea of what positions might be available at Stark Software. Hell, I am not even sure what they actually do. What did Tasha mention this morning? There was something about security.

  “In the security department?” I try. Judging by Mrs. Greenich’s irritated stare, that was not the right answer. I flush.

  I should have Googled them, listened to Tasha or at least paid some attention at orientation day. Though this is all just a part of a ruse, I still hate making a fool of myself, especially at such a respected firm.

  Mrs. Greenich, mumbling to herself, turns to write something on my résumé.

  “Stark Software seems like a very professional and intriguing organization.” I attempt to make amends, but as soon as the words leave my mouth I regret saying them. If you don’t have anything clever to say, just don’t …

  Mrs. Greenich now no longer tries to conceal her annoyance with me; she rolls her eyes as she stretches her hand out for a shake. “You can go back to the group now. They’re on the second floor with Mr. Stark.” She dismisses me with a nod toward the door. “The Oval conference room,” she adds, riled. Exactly what was missing, and the best is yet to come, meeting Mr. Stark. Can’t wait …

  “You missed him, he just left,” Tasha greets me as I enter the Oval room. “He is so captivating. The man just radiates strength. He’s kind of intimidating.” She fills me in, overly excited. Arrogant and intimidating, sounds like a keeper …

  “How was the meeting with uptight Greenich?”

  I snort. “Let’s put it this way: I’m pretty sure I’ve been crossed off their promising candidates list.”

  “That bad, hmm?” She giggles.

  “You can’t even begin to imagine.” Try crawl-under-a-rock embarrassing …

  ~~~

  As soon as Tasha starts the car I feel dozy, glad for this joke to be over, pledging to never take a bet from Tasha again. As I rest my head on the window, looking tiredly at the passing view, an unbidden thought about a certain sinful smile and hazel eyes invades my reverie.

  Chapter 3: Payback

  We’re sitting by our breakfast counter, our “royal dining place” as we call it, sipping our morning coffee with heavy, sleepy eyes, waiting for the caffeine to do its blessed job. Tasha, clad in her purple tank top and shorts, informs me that she’s planning to visit her parents with Ian today, and invites me along. I agree as soon as she asks. I hardly pass on occasions when Ian joins. Having Ian around is always a great treat; besides, I love Tasha’s parents. They’re like my second family, especially since our freshman year when I moved to San Francisco while my parents stayed back home in Chicago. I set aside the copy of the YOU magazine I’ve been browsing through while I listen to Tasha.

  For a moment I think about my job interview at the same magazine last week. I let myself play with the idea of starting the job sooner than they asked me to. There was something about final approvals for the headcount that should be cleared any day now, though they didn’t commit to a specific time frame. I still can’t believe how lucky I was to even be considered for the position of the creative director’s assistant. I should thank all available almighties that YOU magazine changed their usual recruitment policies and for once went for fresh, inexperienced applicants. Meanwhile, I’m more than grateful for my part-time job at an insurance company, which gives me breathing room to look for jobs I really want to do, like working at a magazine editorial or having my illustrations decorate a published children’s book.

  ~~~

  My phone flickers to my national anthem ringtone and disturbs us; simultaneously we look at the kitchen clock. Tasha turns my way, the awe in her eyes registering her curiosity, about who the hell would call at this hour. We’re both here, and Ian doesn’t do early. I shake my head and shrug. Checking my phone’s screen, I find out the call is from an unfamiliar number.

  “Good morning,” I answer.

  “May I speak to Miss Grace?” a lady at the other end inquires.

  “Speaking,” I reply tentatively. Tasha stares at me, trying to figure out who would be calling this early.

  “This is Helen, from Stark Software Technologies. We would like to schedule an interview with you today.” The lady at the other end sounds very determined. I try to process the information under Tasha’s observing gaze. “Stark Software,” I mouth at her and shrug again. She grimaces.

  “Can you make it today at eleven, Miss Grace?”

  “Today at eleven,” I echo her words, looking at Tasha. She bobs her head in enthusiasm as if to say of course you’ll go.

  “Yes, I’ll be able to make it today at eleven,” I respond in my most official voice, encouraging my dear friend to smirk.

  “Okay then, Miss Grace. Mr. Stark will see you at eleven sharp.”

  “Mr. Stark?” I repeat, hesitant and staggered. Tasha’s mouth turns into a symmetrical circle, her gaze reflecting our mutual thoughts.

  “And Miss Grace, please don’t be late. Mr. Stark has a tight schedule.” Bet he does. I snarl.

  “What the heavens was that all about?” Tasha asks, articulating what we both think.

  What the heavens. I inwardly snicker. It always amuses when she says that, prude Miss perfect.

  “Believe me, I haven’t got the tiniest clue,” I reply, while in my mind I try to revive my embarrassingly short meeting with rigid Greenich. The memory makes me far more perplexed as to why Mr. Stark himself would want to interview me.

  “You did right, Hales. I know that it all started as a joke and that this wouldn’t be your first choice, but giving it a chance is a smart move. If someone that respected and powerful would like to meet with you, interview or not, it’s not an opportunity you should pass up.”

  I nod. Can’t argue with facts.

  “Looks like it’s choose-an-outfit time.” Tasha grins at me. Just give her a reason to play dress up and she flourishes.

  We both head to my room. “What would one wear to a job interview with one of the most powerful men in the high-tech busi
ness?”

  “You’ve got me, but not to worry, my sweet friend,” she says. Controlling Miss Style takes the challenge. I press the remote to activate my iPod. The Cure will do a perfect job, I think as I turn to lie down on my bed. I watch my possessed friend doing her thing, going back and forth from her room to mine, each time with yet another piece of clothing, putting a shirt next to a skirt, bringing shoes from here to there.

  When she finally comes back to my room declaring that her mission is complete, I ask her, “What do we know about the notorious stacked-up Stark?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “And he deserves all of this ironic contempt just because he has a private kitchen?” she mutters in sheer cynicism, with slightly raised eyebrows.

  “Come on Tasha, can’t he be around the little people? What kind of message does he send to his employees?” I say, annoyed. “Stay away from me, I’m way too good for you, you guys are beneath me?” I huff. “And seriously, they weren’t sure if he could meet us? Wasn’t this tour scheduled like a month in advance?” Tasha’s eyes scoff at me.

  “He is a busy man, you know. And the kitchen, well, it does sound a tad alienating, but we don’t know the actual reason for that. Do we, now?” She looks at me with a raised brow, head tilted to the side. She does have a point. And yet, I choose to stick with my premonitions.

  “He’s very clever, obviously,” she says, putting her hair up with a rubber band. “And I believe he must be very self-driven and sharp to have such a successful business at a relatively young age. Also the fact that he’s so easy on the eyes does give him some extra credit,” she mutters with a thin pull of her lips, checking her hairdo in the mirror.

  “How old is he anyway?” I ask casually and Miss Wikipedia replies, “He’s thirty-four.”

  Pretty young to be ruling the world, or at least the western hemisphere. I sneer inwardly.

  “Here we go.” She nods proudly, showing me the outfit she composed. Gray pants, white t-shirt, wine-red stilettos and a black blazer.

  “I knew I could trust you to dress me up in a costume.” I frown, my eyes conveying friendly sarcasm.