Calamity Rayne: Gets A Life

by Lydia Michaels

  I called Elle, and the waiting game began. I didn’t know why the initial phone call made me so nervous, but once it was done I was fine. I was proud of myself for taking a chance. It was pretty badass to say I almost worked for the Davenports once. No part of me ever expected a response, so when the email came that night, I suspiciously wondered if someone was fucking with me.

  They wanted to fly me out for an interview—all expenses covered. I would be meeting Remington Davenport in the flesh, along with two other candidates, and the selected person for the job would be staying on and starting the position immediately.

  Big decisions required big cocktails so off to the bar I went to meet Tyler and Elle. Once I summed up the outcome of my day, they both stared at me like I had assholes for eye sockets.

  “Say something,” I begged because at the moment I felt trapped in a dream or a pretty wild acid trip. This situation was totally surreal.

  “It’s like a game show,” Tyler muttered, with a starry gaze in his eyes.

  Elle was still reading over the email I’d printed out. “They’re going to pay for everything. Even if you don’t get the job, you get a trip out of it.”

  Tyler snapped out of his gaze. “Can you afford to miss two days of work?”

  The printed page smacked down on the table with Elle’s palm. “Why do you have to be so negative about everything? She could get the job and then she’ll be living it up in a mansion, sending your sorry ass postcards for the next six months.”

  He scoffed. “What year are you living in? They don’t even make postcards anymore. And I’m not being negative. I’m being realistic. This is going to wind up costing her money regardless. I’m just saying maybe we should look at this realistically. What are the chances they’ll actually hire someone with no experience as a personal assistant?”

  He was right. Missing two days of work would pinch. But I didn’t come this far to chicken out. I swiped the email off the table and forced my lips into a nervous grin.

  “I’m going. I mean, what’s the harm? I’d only have to miss one shift if it doesn’t work out. I could get a flight back within a few hours.” Missing one day’s pay was less of a hardship than missing two. “I want to at least say I tried.”

  “Atta girl!” Elle cheered.

  Tyler’s support was cautious. “I hope you get it. I just don’t want you to be crushed if you don’t.”

  “I never expected to get this far, so I have to see it through.” Seeing things through was a new thing I was trying since turning thirty.

  Shoving off the stool, I folded the email into my purse. “I gotta go. I have twelve hours to pack and figure out my flight arrangements.”

  Sliding my spare key off my keychain I held it out. “On the off chance that they hire me, who wants to get my car from the airport?” I could afford to park it there overnight, but anything longer would break the bank.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Tyler said, taking my key and hooking it onto his set.

  Standing, Elle gave me an affectionate hug. “You got this. Don’t get too tan when you’re visiting one of their private islands and try to text me at least once a day with pictures of weird rich people shit.”

  My arms squeezed tighter, hoping with every optimistic ounce of my being that I might have the chance to do just that. I faced Tyler and held out my arms.

  Reluctantly, he stood and hugged me, patting my back twice. “Try to avoid calamities, Rayne.”

  I snorted. “Like that’s possible.”

  Shoving off, I smiled. “This is cool, right? I mean, this puts me up there with that chick from high school that ditched reality for a year to ride elephants and meet monkeys, doesn’t it?”

  Elle nodded. “This is cool.”

  Blowing out a breath, Tyler smirked. “If you actually meet Remington Davenport for even a minute that’s pretty awesome.”

  “Aw, look at you finding the good in a situation.” I lovingly punched him in the arm. “You’re growing.”

  There was a strange energy tucked in that moment, as I looked at my two closest friends, feeling like an era was ending and a new chapter of my life was about to open.

  I smiled and blew them each a kiss. “I love you guys. Make sure—if I get the job—you only talk about me in your best Robin Leach voice. I’m off to spy on the rich and famous!”

  Look out world, here I come! Cue Mary Tyler More theme song.

  Chapter Three

  Ahoy! And Other Boat Words…

  Crossing the threshold of the plane to the aerobridge, my stomach plunged into my feet. I made it. Everything familiar was back in Oregon, which was invigoratingly frightening, like an orgasm in a public theater with people eating popcorn in the next row. Not that anything like that ever happened to me, but once I was on a date at the movies and the guy started kissing my neck. We had to stop because I couldn’t quit giggling.

  Looking out at the bustling sea of travelers, I couldn’t recall the last time I felt so delightfully uncertain. Maybe during my first substitute teacher job, but that didn’t end so well. I really hoped this situation wouldn’t conclude with the same oh shit, I’ve made a huge mistake epiphany.

  No. I wasn’t even going to entertain such thoughts. This was me taking a chance and discovering something great. New Jersey might be my mecca, my utopia, my final landing place that made all the immature voices in my head turn into grown up voices with big ol’ balls that faced the world head on. Yes, that was the spirit!

  I was Sex in the City’s Carrie Bradshaw, hungry for a fast paced, high-energy world to set on fire with my feminine wiles. The travel clothes and flip-flops would be removed as soon as my wardrobe arrived. Once I located my luggage and a bathroom, I’d switch into my perfect don’t you want to hire me ensemble and embrace my new, sexy self.

  Clopping along with the stampede of disembarking passengers, I flowed with the current to baggage claim and smiled brightly as the belt crowded with suitcases. There was no going back now and soon enough I’d be sitting in front of Remington Davenport, or one of his very important underlings.

  A man shouldered to the front of the mob, and I shifted out of his way. Okay, buddy, we all have places to be.

  Rather than fight for a spot closest to the action, I held back and let the more aggressive passengers claim their luggage while I sent a text to Elle and my mother letting them know I’d arrived safely.

  Elle responded with a Go get ‘em, tiger!

  Dots bounced on my mother’s text for a good three and a half minutes. Finally, her message came through. Wonderful! Call me when you can. Followed by about twelve emojis.

  Chucking my phone into my carry-on, I braved the conveyer belt again, which only had a few pieces left on the strip. Suitcases circled through the rubber curtain and back down the little slope. I couldn’t wait to change and march out to a cab doing my best shlemiel, schlemazel, hasenpfeffer incorporated skip toward making my dreams come true. In my fantasies I was Shirley, but in reality, I was a total Laverne.

  Now, where the hell was my suitcase? A new load flowed through the little car wash strips, and another swarm of hasty passengers crowded the luggage-go-round. A robust man blabbering into his cellphone trampled my toes and pain exploded in my foot. Practically swallowing my tongue as a throbbing ache shot up my leg, I hobbled back a step.

  Son of a bitch! Annie Wilkes from Misery could have done less damage with a sledgehammer.

  Limping out of the madness, I decided to wait by the mouth of the hatch and watch the suitcases roll onto the conveyer belt. As the second crowd thinned, I regrettably accepted that my luggage wasn’t there, but that was okay. I’d give my name to baggage claim, and they’d find it soon enough.

  Weaving through the mob, I scanned for a directory. Limping toward the sign that said BAGGAGE CLAIM, I passed time counting mustaches, wondering when they’d come back in style.

  “May I help you?” the irritated attendant greeted without a grin.

  I met his moodiness
with abrasive cheer. “Hello, I didn’t see my luggage on the belt.”

  He slid a laminated sheet across the counter with pictures of various types of suitcases. “What kind of bag was it?”

  Scanning the selection, I found one that seemed similar to my suitcase. “I guess this one’s closest, but it’s a leopard print.” That should make it easy to find.

  The man’s brows lifted, but his expression remained blank as he typed information into a computer. “Contact phone number?”

  After rattling off my number I asked, “Do you know how long it’ll take to locate my stuff?” I was sure they had an overflowing cart somewhere with a lonesome leopard bag waiting for me on it.

  He rolled his eyes. “Could be anywhere between two hours and two days if they locate it.”

  “If?”

  No, no. If wasn’t an option. I had to pack for anywhere from six hours to six months in one bag, so I carefully chose all my favorite things. There could be no losing those items.

  “I don’t understand. Where could it have gone?”

  He shrugged. “Sign the screen.”

  What exactly was I signing? Scanning the small print advising me of my rights to file a claim against the airline after seven days and asking me to list the value of my luggage’s contents, I recalled what I packed, certain it was every priceless piece of clothing that could fit within the seventy-pound weight limit.

  How does one put a numeric value on her favorite sweater—a sweater I bought back in high school from a store that no longer existed and therefore could never be replaced? Tapping the four-hundred-dollar option I slid the stylus back in the holder. They’d find it. No sense it worrying.

  “Should I just wait on that bench while you look?”

  Moody baggage claim guy had no sympathy for my loss. “I’d advise you to keep your phone on and wait for the airport to call. If you don’t hear from anyone in a few days, call the number at the bottom of your paperwork.” He printed out a receipt and slid it over the counter. “Have a nice day.”

  Did stuff like this happen to Carrie Bradshaw?

  Stepping aside so the next person could file their claim I glanced down at my outfit. Dear God, what was wrong with me?

  Plenty of well-dressed thirty-somethings wheeled their suitcases out of the airport, most of them clothed appropriately for any setting. Yet here I stood, rocking a faded T-shirt under an old cardigan. And what the hell was on my pants? Jesus, was that glue? When had I used paste? This was the perfect example of how I missed a few chapters in the Being A Grown Up handbook.

  Spotting a gift shop, I headed in that direction. If I could grab a sundress or maybe a nicer shirt that might help, but they only had men’s polo shirts and things that said New Jersey on the chest—and holy shit! Was that forty as in dollars? For a crappy airport shirt? Who was paying that? Certainly not this girl.

  Working my way through the automatic doors, I came face to face with a clusterfuck of gridlock weaving around a parade of idling cabs and hostile drivers. Horn honkers were the worst. I never hailed a cab and was pretty sure I couldn’t do one of those fancy whistles without slobbering all over my fingers, but I gave it my best effort.

  Nope. Definitely didn’t possess any hidden whistling talents.

  Wiping the drool from my fingers onto my stained pants, I tried waving a taxi down.

  “Hellooooo,” I sang, hoping someone might notice me.

  “Miss Meyers?”

  Turning at the sound of my name, I frowned at the sleekly dressed chauffeur holding a sign that read Rayne Meyers. That was my name, but…

  “Are you Rayne Meyers?” He glanced at a Blackberry and back at me with a frown.

  “Yes, that’s me.” No one said anything about transportation.

  He must have a copy of the headshot I was asked to send, which really wasn’t an honest telling of anything, being that it was eight years old and from my cousin’s wedding, one of the few times I actually wore makeup in the past decade.

  “Do you have luggage?”

  “They lost it. Are you with the Davenports?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Davenport’s awaiting you at the marina. He’s anxious to be on his way.”

  “On his way?” Where the hell was he was going with a broken leg so soon after a heart attack?

  “If this is all you have we should be going. The others are waiting.” He ushered me to the sleek limousine and opened the door.

  “Others?” I slid into the seat and the door quickly shut. That was when I saw the other prospective caretakers sitting inside the limo.

  Competition. “Hi. I’m Rayne.” I gave a nervous finger wave.

  Both were dressed to impress. The other woman, although she might actually be younger than me, seemed high strung, sparing only a glance and a partial smile before she went back to her iPad where she scanned some sort of text with her finger.

  Oh, come on. No one read that fast.

  “Are you interviewing for the assistant position?” the guy asked, dressed in a serious business suit, and seeming rather glad to meet me.

  “Sure am.” My answer made his grin double. No doubt he was sizing up the competition and found my presence non-threatening. “My, uh, luggage was lost. I planned on wearing something nicer.”

  The woman briefly glanced up from her iPad again, and I could swear she snickered. The guy held out his hand as the limo eased into traffic. “I’m Miles Pendleton. I’m from Davenport Communications, the page division. Are you from the intern program as well?”

  Nervous laughter sort of clunked out of me. “No. I’m just a waitress.”

  Now, the girl gave me a full inspection. “Have you ever worked for Davenport before?”

  “Nope, but there’s a first for everything.”

  She closed the cover of her iPad and slid it into a black leather briefcase resting by her feet. She had the same shoes my grade school librarian wore. “Where did you go to college?”

  “Oregon State.”

  Her brow lifted beneath her slicked back, blonde hair. “You’re an undergraduate?”

  “No, I graduated.”

  “What was your major?” she asked.

  I didn’t realize there would be an interview before the interview. “Education. What did you major in?”

  “Business.”

  “I’m getting my MBA,” Miles chimed in. “I won the legacy scholarship last spring.”

  “What’s the legacy scholarship?” I asked and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  The girl’s snicker was unmistakable this time. “It’s a Davenport grant.”

  Okay, these people were a little more informed than I was about the whole Davenport enterprise. That was fair. They’d obviously done their homework and not lost their luggage.

  “You don’t honestly expect a man like Remington Davenport to hire a waitress as his liaison over the next six months.”

  “Um…” I shrugged, but the feisty chick in my head was getting ready to cage fight this twat mite for assuming she was better than me after two seconds of knowing me. “Why not?”

  She laughed. “The fact that you can’t answer that on your own shows how unqualified you are to even be in this car.” She glanced at Miles. “Looks like the competition just decreased.”

  Oh, I’d cut a bitch. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”

  “I’m Cadence Thorndale, and I graduated second in my class from Yale.”

  I tipped my head empathetically, clicking my tongue to the roof of my mouth as I pouted. “Harvard wouldn’t take you?”

  Miles’s mouth parted in a smile as Cadence gaped at me in horror. “I do hope they can send your luggage back to your home address. No doubt you’ll be there before they locate your belongings.”

  “We’ll see,” I challenged, my gaze narrowing until she glanced away and withdrew her iPad. She didn’t make eye contact for the rest of the drive, but neither did Miles.

  Now, I really wanted the job. But another part of me adm
itted I was highly underqualified. If anyone deserved it, it was probably Miles. I mean, he put on a tie.

  Slightly nervous, I texted Elle.

  Competition is fierce. I’m up against Sheldon from Big Bang and that moody chick from Erin Brockovich.

  My phone vibrated.

  Who? Julia Roberts?

  No, the one who asked Julia how she contacted so many people and Julia made some snarky comment about blowing all of Hinkley.

  I’m sure you can give a better blowjob than that girl. Chin up. You got this.

  I pursed my lips, which had never touched a dick, but I was pretty sure the sophisticated Cadence of Yale wasn’t keen on sucking cock either, so the playing field was slightly level in that department. Neither of us were getting hired based on sex appeal.

  As we rode to the marina, I organized my carry-on and took inventory of the few items I had on hand. If I stayed, I’d need necessities like deodorant, a toothbrush, and some snacks.

  I tried to imagine the interview process, but being that we were going to a marina my imagination was stymied. Maybe I wouldn’t even make it to meeting Remington. Chances were one of his toadies would narrow down the odds and make a choice for the man in charge.

  Miles was the right choice. Cadence, on the other hand, had saber claws and the personality of chalk. I could probably outrank her with my glowing personality, but she had professionalism in spades. Me not so much.

  I felt a little bad about going up against Miles. He seemed nice enough. Maybe it was part of the Davenport strategy to put us all together before the interview started. Shit. I was starting to sweat.

  As a waitress, I had some people skills, but Remington Devonport wasn’t people. He was more along the lines of an alien life form women fawned over, but I wasn’t that sort of woman either, being that the opposite sex and I didn’t exactly mesh when it came to fancy flirting or vagina tricks. My vagina had no tricks. It was just sort of there, part of me like an ear or an elbow. I needed it, but had no control over how well it worked. Anyway, yuck. I could never flirt with some old guy to get a job, no matter how cushy that job might be.