Ignite Me (The Annihilate Me Series)

by Ross, Christina

  “I’m home!” I said when I walked into our apartment. “And thank God it’s cool inside because it’s all kinds of hellish outside.” I looked over at the the air conditioner we’d purchased at a secondhand shop last year and watched it tremble and shake in our living-room window. “Thank God Bessie still has life in her yet.”

  “Come into the kitchen,” Rhoda said. “I have a surprise for you.”

  What is she up to now? I wondered with a smile.

  Between us, Rhoda and I had several rules when it came to her clairvoyance. Since I meant it when I said that I wanted to make it on my own, she was never to tell me which job was the right job, and which job I’d just be wasting my time at. I wanted to find all of that out for myself—otherwise, I’d just be cheating, which wasn’t the reason I’d spent a fortune on a Harvard education.

  Whatever success I achieved in my life, I wanted to say that I’d done it on my own, and not because Rhoda had the ability to guide me in ways that would likely lead me in better directions.

  From the get-go, she’d honored that request, and because she had one of the best poker faces I knew, she’d never once given herself away when I went for the jobs at DuPont and Microchip. Nor had she said anything about my interview with Wenn Enterprises today. Instead, all she’d done was give me a kiss on the cheek before she wished me well when I left earlier that morning.

  And that was perfect.

  Still, as I dropped my purse onto the table in our small foyer, I could tell by the sing-song tone in her voice that she’d already seen what today would bring—a new job, with a host of new possibilities.

  And so, with a smile on my face, I stepped into our small living area, made a hard right, and there stood my crazy girl, dressed in a colorful, flowery skirt and a bright white top that barely contained her massive breasts. Probably because of the heat, she’d swept her hair up into a bun.

  “These are for you!” she said as she held out a bunch of large palm leaves to me, which I just stared at. “Congratulations on the new job! Aaaagggh! I’ve been dying for weeks to celebrate this moment with you. And now I can celebrate it with you!” She stopped at that and seemed to check herself. “You did get the job, didn’t you? Sometimes I can be wrong—we both know that.”

  “I got it,” I said. “And thank you. But why the palm leaves?”

  “Because of their significance! If you sink yourself into floral lore, as I have for a good part of my young hippie life, you’ll learn that palm leaves stand for victory and success, which you achieved today. So, I found a nearby florist who actually had them in stock—he said that when gay guys really want to get swanky at their cocktail parties, they’ll use one of these to serve their hors d’oeuvres on. Think of it as something of a really cool cheese plate—but with a large, bright green leaf serving as the plate. And there is yet another reason why I love gay men—what a fantastic idea. And here we are! To you, my darling! To your victory and to your success!”

  I took the palm leaves she handed to me, and my heart swelled. “I love you, Rhoda,” I said.

  “I know you do, toots.”

  “Of course, you do. But I mean it. My life wouldn’t be as rich as it is today without you in it.”

  “The same goes for me. But here’s my hangup when it comes to your day today. You know I can’t tap into everything—that’s just not in the cards for me. Never has been. Never will be. Anyway, when I was at the office today telling people whatever the hell they wanted to know about their futures, there was one thing nagging at me that I couldn’t shake for the life of me—and it had to do with you.”

  “And what was that?”

  “When you left this morning, I already knew you were going to land this job of yours with Smackwell.”

  I laughed out loud at that. “Clearly, I told you where I was interviewing this morning, but I didn’t tell you who I was interviewing with. Her name is ‘Blackwell.’”

  “Close enough—I suck at names. Whatever. My point is that hovering around your interview was this vision of a really hot guy that I couldn’t make sense of. And I’m talking smoking hot.” She furrowed her brow at me. “Did anything like that happen to you today? Or was that just a matter of some sort of transference on my part that came from another client of mine? I saw twenty people today. I couldn’t get a read on it for the life of me, and it’s been bugging the hell out of me because I think that it does have to do with you.”

  “You’d be right,” I said. “Unless someone else had a similar experience.”

  “Not today—today was so far on the dreary end of the spectrum, I wanted to cut my throat. So it was you! Spill it!”

  “Rhoda, you should have seen him.”

  “I already have. Tall, dark, handsome—and sexy as hell. And that boy is built! And he’s got a closely trimmed beard that just screams, ‘Take me in your arms—make love to me now!’”

  “How do you even do that?” I asked.

  “Why do you always ask me that? Seriously? After two years? You know that I don’t know how. But I’ve been seeing visions of that man ever since you left this morning, and not because I’m horny. For the past two weeks, I’ve gone back to the loving, thrumming hums of my precious rabbit.”

  “I believe that falls under the category of TMI.”

  “Whatever. As if someone like him is ever going to be interested in a plus-sized gal like me. A woman can dream, though—and believe me, I dream with the sort of white-hot passion that would make a skinny girl like you faint.”

  “I’m not skinny.”

  “Fine, you’re thin, but at least you’ve got that rack of yours, so there’s that.”

  “You know, I really wish you wouldn’t put yourself down so often.”

  “Let’s get real. We live in Manhattan, where the competition for landing a hot stud like the one you met today is at an all-time high, especially with so many women working out daily in an effort to attract those men. You know—unlike me.” She threw up her hands. “But don’t worry about me! Barry is on the way—just three more years to go! In the meantime, I’m perfectly happy to ride my rabbit and wait for him, because I already know that Barry is the one.”

  “Who the hell is Barry?”

  “My soon-to-be husband,” she said. “I haven’t told you about him because Barry is still a ways off, so we’ll discuss him in, say, two-and-a-half years. I’m more curious about, um, yeah.” She squinted her eyes at me. “What’s his name? Rock? Jock? Something like that.”

  “It’s Brock.”

  “Actually, I’d be happy with any of those names. So butch. Tell me about him.”

  “We only met briefly, but I can tell you this—there was an undeniable spark between us.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “It actually felt kind of nice,” I said, placing the palm leaves onto the kitchen counter. “You’re the one who said that this would be my ‘Summer of Resolve.’ Resolve to find a new job, which I just got today, so let’s check that one off the list. And resolve to put myself back on the market in hopes of finding a rock-solid guy worth getting to know. It’s time for me to trust someone again, and I’m resolved to do that. But it’s going to take one hell of a man in order for me to do so.”

  “Why settle?” she said. “You’ll find the right guy—I know you will.”

  I pointed a finger at her. “Don’t you dare tell me whether it’s going to be with this guy or not.”

  “Look—we have our deal. My lips are sealed. You’ll find out on your own. And to be honest with you, I have no idea if he’s the one. I can visualize him, but I can’t get a read on him. I just know that at some point it will happen.”

  “Good, because I can’t let what that son of a bitch Bill did to me three years ago ruin my life. I’m no longer going to play the victim. Hell, I’ve even taken Adele off my playlist, so you know that I’m serious. Sure, I want my career to finally come off life support, but I also want to fall in love, get married, and have children.”
>
  My eyes widened when I said that and I looked at Rhoda. “About my career,” I said. “Blackwell caught the heat between me and Brock, and she was having none of it. When she first noticed it, she ordered Brock to have a seat, and told me to get into the elevator. And then she said this: ‘And perhaps then to Central Park, where you can find a nice quiet spot in the shade, think long and hard about what truly matters to you at this point in your life—you know, all the things that you just said to me—and hopefully that alone will clear your head of everything that’s swirling through it right now. That is, of course, if you’re even capable of hearing me at this point, because I’m not sure that you are. I’ll see you tomorrow.’”

  “Busted,” Rhoda said.

  “Totally. And here’s the thing that’s about to make me come undone—I’ll be working closely with him for the next week or so. The reasons why are complicated and not worth talking about, but answer me this: How am I even going to focus on my work when fireworks are bound to be exploding between us?”

  “Oh, that one’s easy,” Rhoda said with a little shrug. “You’re not. And I don’t think I’m spoiling anything here when I say that. So, you know, good luck with that one, toots. Because you’re going to need it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When I arrived at Wenn the next morning after quitting my job at Microchip the evening before—via an email, no less, because they deserved it—it was sunny, bright, and beautiful. The sky was clear blue and, given how hot it had been lately, there was a surprisingly cool breeze running from the Park straight down Fifth Avenue. Since there was no way I was going to be late for my first day on the job, I’d decided to take a cab.

  Given the bleak amount of money I had in my checking account, taking that cab was nothing short of an extravagance. But in an effort to convince Blackwell that I was serious about the job, I knew that I couldn’t take a chance on being late. So, I just sucked it up and paid the nearly twenty-dollar tab. Tomorrow, I’d get up even earlier than I had today and take the subway to work. Eventually, I’d get a handle on how long my commute would take.

  But I couldn’t screw up day one.

  When I left the cab, it was 6:40 in the morning. After paying the driver, entering the building, crossing the nearly deserted lobby, and riding the elevator to the fifty-first floor, it was 6:45. I was a mean fifteen minutes early. The type-A overachiever in me rarely let me down even if my career choices had done exactly that since I’d arrived in this bloody city.

  Since I didn’t know where my desk or office was—and because it was clear by the empty offices I passed that no one had yet arrived for work—I decided to go to Blackwell’s office to see if she was here.

  Naturally, she was—and when I saw her, she was leaning back in her chair, her eyes were lifted to the ceiling, she was on the phone, and she was wearing what clearly was another Chanel suit—this one pure white, with black buttons running down the front and black trim around the collar, pockets, and cuffs. When I stuck my head in the doorway of her office, I saw her check her watch before she glanced up at me with a quick smile and continued on with her conversation.

  “No, Chloe, that won’t do,” she said. “Jennifer can’t wear Miu Miu—you know that she can’t, so why would you even suggest one of their dresses to me? There isn’t enough tailoring in the world that could shovel that ass of hers into one of their gowns. So, listen to me—here’s what I expect from you today. Dior, darling. Dior, Dior, Dior. Or Oscar. There’s always Oscar—he works. So think Dior or Oscar because they just fit Jennifer—you know that. And by the way, speaking of Dior, in the latest edition of Vogue, which hit my desk just yesterday, I witnessed the most divoon, deep-purple Dior evening gown featured on the cover.”

  Divoon? Seriously? Who speaks like that?

  “Have you seen it? Perfect. That’s the one I want for this particular party.” There was a beat of silence before she spoke again. “What do you mean it isn’t available yet? Why are you speaking to me in tongues? We’ve both seen it on the cover of Vogue, for God’s sake, so naturally it’s available for the right price. It’s for the fall collection, you say? Do you think that I don’t already know that? And who gives a damn about their fall collection? Get someone on the phone at Dior who can deliver that dress to me, or I’ll just do it myself if Bergdorf can’t. If that happens, you’ll lose your commission. Are we clear here, Chloe? Jennifer must be seen in that dress before anyone else in Manhattan is seen in it—and I’m counting on you to make that happen. Call me the moment it has. I’m giving you an unlimited budget, and because of that alone, this should be a breeze for you. Good day.”

  With a flick of her thumb, she severed the cell phone connection, and placed the device on the table in front of her.

  “Bergdorf,” she said. “Ils sont impossibles. . . .”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “They’re impossible,” she said. “Have you not studied French?”

  “Actually, I studied Latin and Spanish.”

  “What a shame. And by the way—you’re here early.”

  “I’m never late,” I said.

  “Never, Madison? Really, Madison?”

  “Never.”

  “Well, we’ll give that little soundbite a ride around the park over the next few months, won’t we?”

  “Indeed, we will.”

  “Your confidence is beguiling.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But your outfit is a horror show.”

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “Let me just get this straight,” Blackwell said once she’d eyed me over. “On your first day of work at Wenn, you decided to come here looking like a train wreck?”

  “A train wreck?” I said. “This is a perfectly good suit.”

  “For whom? The homeless?”

  “I hope for Wenn.”

  “Have you even looked at yourself in a mirror today?”

  “Countless times. You wouldn’t believe how many times I checked myself before I left my apartment this morning.”

  “Then you must be blind.”

  “If I am, what am I missing?”

  “The sense of style you presented to me yesterday.”

  “What I gave you yesterday takes the kind of money I don’t have right now.”

  “And yet you still offered it to me. . . .”

  “On a credit card—as I already confessed to you. Today, I chose something that’s perfectly professional—a tailored black jacket, a white camisole, and a black skirt. For yesterday’s interview, I had no choice but to go way over my budget and splurge in an effort to make a good impression.”

  “So yesterday was nothing more than smoke and mirrors?” Blackwell said. She lifted her chin at me. “You tricked me.”

  “I did nothing of the sort.”

  She held up a hand. “Look,” she said. “As disappointed as I am right now, I’ll give you a pass and try to understand. You say that you’ve been underpaid at your previous positions. Now, I officially believe it. So, I’ll just expect your wardrobe to improve once you collect your first paycheck from Wenn. How’s that? You see—I can be reasonable.”

  Reasonably terrifying, I thought. Reasonably insulting. Reasonably bitchy. But far from reasonable.

  She stood up from her desk and smoothed the front of her skirt. Then her gaze flicked up to meet mine. “Even if I don’t approve of the suit, I do have to say that your hair and makeup are on point. So, at least you’ve got those going for you.” She moved around to the front of her desk. “You have paperwork to fill out,” she said. “Lot’s of it. Let me show you to your desk. You can complete it, and then you can give it to Margaret before we begin the day.”

  “I’m ready to go,” I said.

  “But are you ready for what’s to come?” she wondered out loud. “That’s the real question, Madison. So, let’s find out. And by the way, just so you know? I’m already dim with hope.”

  * * *

  The epicenter of Wenn’s human resources
area was shaped like a horseshoe, at the middle of which was my station, which was so large, it intimidated even me when I realized that this space would be mine.

  I counted three phones, two computers, one carbon-colored Aeron chair, and rows of color-coded folders stacked neatly against each other on the tall bookcases directly behind the chair.

  “Do you have a notepad?” Blackwell asked me.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

  “So, what you’re telling me is that you came to work this morning unprepared?”

  What is it with this woman?

  “I just thought that I’d be shown to my desk, and that there would be supplies here that I could use.”

  “Lucky for you that there are. There’s a yellow legal pad on the desk. Do you see it? It’s right there. Grab it along with a pen—and get ready to take notes, because what I’m about to say to you I’ll only say once.”

  I reached for the legal pad and a pen, and then I looked expectantly at her.

  “When you’re not running around Wenn or, for that matter, much of Manhattan to do my bidding, part of your job will be to maintain a complex filing system.” She pointed at the colorful wall of folders in front of us. “The red folders are for requests that rise to my level of oversight. At some point today, you can peruse through them to get the gist of what reaches my desk. The blue folders are for Wenn Air. The green folders are for Wenn Entertainment. The yellow folders are for Wenn Publishing. The white folders are for Wenn Pharmaceutical. The black folders are for. . . .”

  She spoke so quickly, I could barely keep up with her—but somehow I did. When she was finished outlining how things were filed, she motioned at all of the offices surrounding us with a sweeping arc of her hand.