Annihilate Me (Vol. 1) (The Annihilate Me Series)

by Christina Ross

“Executive Assistant to Mr. Wenn.”

  “There’s your reason.”

  “She said I’d be working twelve to fifteen hours a day. Including most weekends. Apparently, I’m about to become his right-armed confidante.”

  “What does that mean? Never mind. Come over here and sit down. Drink your coffee. If it’s cold, I’ll pour you another cup. But I need you to sit down. You can’t walk in there with a smashed nose if you suddenly decide to collapse on me.”

  I felt Lisa guide me across the room and I was gently lowered into a chair.

  “Take a breath.”

  I breathed in deeply. “Taken.”

  “Now, come on. Drink your coffee and get it together. Enough is enough.”

  I did as I was told, and slowly fell back into myself. “Sorry,” I said. “That was unfortunate.”

  “You may have just won the lottery. I get it. It’s a lot to absorb, but you’re not even there yet. What you have is an opportunity. That’s it. Today, you rest. Tomorrow, we get your hair done. Then we buy a new suit and shoes. I’m talking Prada and Louboutins. OK?”

  I nodded at her. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Well, believe it. You’ve waited months for this opportunity.”

  “I sure as hell wasn’t expecting this opportunity.”

  “All the sweeter. I’m going to get a clean towel and wash your feet. Then, I’ll apply more ointment and wrap them again with gauze. We’ll do it again before you go to bed. Ibuprofen will take care of the rest of the swelling. You’ll take two pills every four hours. We need to get you back on your feet as quickly as possible.”

  I looked her in the eyes. “Can you believe this?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “But I’ve always believed in you. You’re the one who doesn’t. You and your parents. But I’m proud of you. Beyond proud of you. This could be it. Now, we need to make sure this is it. Got me?”

  “Got you,” I said.

  “Prada fixes everything,” she said. “Or at least, that’s what I hear. Usually, a martini does it for me. But in this case, I’ll listen to the Bible, which naturally is this month’s edition of Vogue. I devoured it last week. Prada’s new line is on trend. Queen Wintour never gets it wrong.”

  CHAP

  TER NINE

  It was a rare girls’ day out, and despite the sorry condition of my feet, which were still sore even in the most comfortable and forgiving flats that I owned, Lisa and I made a day of it.

  My hair was styled and colored by Salon V on East Seventh Street. Nothing dramatic, just enough to complement the oval shape of my face, with a chestnut color that enhanced the look. I treated each of us to a facial and a mani-pedi.

  “We’re in the wrong business,” Lisa said when the bill was tallied and I paid the cashier with my credit card. “Good grief.”

  “It’ll be worth it,” I said.

  “You look amazing.”

  “She’s right,” the cashier said. “You do. I wish I looked like you.”

  I smiled at her. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Trust me. It’s the truth.”

  I flushed at the compliment. “I need to look my best.” I looked at Lisa, who was wearing skinny jeans, red double-strap patent-leather sandals, and a white tank with nothing beneath it save for her full breasts and a clear view of her nipples.

  As racy as she looked, it was a look she could pull off. Her blonde hair was pulled away from her face in a simple ponytail that fell to the small of her back. With the exception of mascara, she wore almost no makeup because she didn’t need much. To me, she was the pretty one. She studied style and loved fashion, and it came easily to her, which made me smile because otherwise her life revolved around successfully writing about zombies.

  “Do you think I did the right thing by keeping most of the length?”

  “You can do more with your hair that way. Any number of things. And your split ends are history. Thank God for that. One day, you and your cheap shampoo will part.”

  “I haven’t done this since we left Maine. I was way overdue for all of it. And if the job at Wenn doesn’t work out, it will just help me when I look for a waitressing gig.”

  “A server gig?”

  “Right.”

  “And it will. But you’re going to land this job, so we won’t think of the other right now. It’s all about confidence. Looking like you do now, you should be filled with it.”

  But I wasn’t. I wondered if that day would ever come.

  On Lisa’s dime, we took a cab to Prada on Fifth Avenue. After trying on six different outfits, I bought a pale blue suit with a white silk top that fit perfectly and worked well with my hair color and skin tone. The suit was nearly three thousand dollars, though I scored big when we found some discounted leather point-toe Prada pumps that cost a third of what the Louboutins would have cost me. I had to hold my breath when I paid for them. What was I doing? Today had cost me a fortune I didn’t have.

  I’m doing the right thing. I’m investing in my future.

  At least I hoped that was the case.

  After finishing our cheap salads and Diet Cokes at a corner table at McDonald’s—we had to make a concession somewhere on this ridiculously expensive day—Lisa grilled me with leading questions in an effort to prepare me for tomorrow’s interview. When she finished, she seemed pleased by the answers.

  “Well, there’s one thing that can be said for the past four months,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Because you’ve had so many interviews, you’re more than prepared for whatever comes tomorrow. It’s as if you have your master’s degree in interviewing. Whatever he lobs at you, you’ll be prepared for it.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so.”

  Neither of us could have known then how wrong she was.

  CHAPT

  ER TEN

  At ten minutes before noon, I arrived at Wenn Enterprises by cab. The taxi was yet another treat from Lisa. I owed her big time. Not just for the financial support, but also for the emotional support. To make certain that my feet returned home without additional swelling and blisters, she gave me enough cab fare for a ride back to the apartment as well. There was no better friend. I was blessed to have her in my life and in my corner.

  If I get this job, she is so going to be spoiled with a shopping extravaganza that will annihilate anything in her zombie-apocalypse world.

  I left the cab, and approached the building, clicking toward it with my new shoes, which were beyond beyond. I’d never splurged on shoes like these because, frankly, I couldn’t afford them. They were elegant, chic, and surprisingly comfortable. I was relieved that my feet were nearly back to normal. But as I crossed the sidewalk, I couldn’t forget what happened the last time I was here: My moment with Ms. Blackwell. My briefcase smashing onto the sidewalk. Resumes flying everywhere. And that God of a man rushing out of the building to help me retrieve them. All in all, coming here that day had turned out to be one of the worst days I’ve had since I’d arrived in Manhattan. And now here I was again, invited back to interview for a position that could change my life for the foreseeable future. Surreal didn’t even begin to describe how I felt.

  I crossed the lobby to the reception desk, and tossed my hair neatly behind me. I had decided to wear it down. The way it was skillfully cut, it just looked better that way, especially with my newly chestnut hair contrasting against my pale blue suit.

  “I’m Jennifer Kent,” I said to one of the men behind the desk.

  “Sorry?”

  There were too many people in the lobby. I needed to speak up. “I’m Jennifer Kent. I have an interview with Mr. Wenn today.”

  “Which means you need to see Ms. Blackwell.”

  Terrific. But I knew that was coming.

  “Let me call and let her know that you’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  He acted as if he didn’t even hear me. Instead, he spoke into the phone. “A M
s. Kent is here to see you. Waiting room? Oh. OK. I’ll have her come straight to you.”

  He hung up the phone, and said, “Fifty-First floor. Hang a left. Down a long hallway. You’ll find—”

  “I’ve been there,” I said, dreading the moment when Ms. Blackwell would belittle me again. “I can find Ms. Blackwell.” I can sniff her out like a dog on a bone. “Thank you.”

  This time, he actually smiled at me. “My pleasure, Ms. Kent.”

  * * *

  When I arrived at Blackwell’s office, she looked up at me, took in my hair and suit, and then she held up a hand. She was on the phone again, just like the last time.

  “Max, here’s what you need to know, which is what you already know, but which you can’t seem to get through that thick head of yours, so I’ll do you the favor of repeating it again. Charles isn’t getting my money. I’m getting his money. Got that? God! He’s the one who screwed around on the living room floor with that slut from Saks. That was documented by our nanny cam and I have the footage of it. What more evidence do you need to nail this down? What’s more damaging than what I’ve already given to you? Nothing! I suggest you man up and get the job done, or I’m firing you and going with another lawyer. Don’t give me attitude, Max. Don’t sigh. Don’t grumble. We both know what’s in this for you. We both know that you’ll make a killing off this. So, just shut up, grow a pair, and get me out of this marriage by the end of the week. You’ve got until Friday. If you screw it up, I’m going elsewhere. Lots of lawyers would like me to go elsewhere. Oh, good day to you, too, you son of a bitch. Get it done!”

  She hung up the phone and looked up at me not with the irritation I was expecting, but with an exhausted look on her face. “Don’t ever get married.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “But you don’t want to hear that,” she said, looking up at me. “You’re here to see Mr. Wenn.”

  “I am.”

  She pushed back her chair and stood. “You look nice today. I like the suit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Looks expensive.”

  “It was.”

  “And here I thought you were poor.”

  “I am. But credit cards can alleviate that.”

  “A momentary illusion. Can I give you a suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you mind if I touch you?”

  “You need to touch me for a suggestion?”

  “Just your hair. Trust me on this.”

  Trust the Kraken? “OK....”

  She plucked a shiny black stick from the silver-plated pen-and-pencil holder in front of her, came up behind me and lifted my hair off my back. With a twist and a curl, she raised it up, flipped it over, turned it again, and speared my hair with the stick, creating what felt to me like a tight chignon.

  “There’s a mirror there,” she said, pointing to the wall at my left. “Have a look.”

  I was right—it was a chignon. And it looked good. As much as I liked my hair loose around my shoulders, this look was more polished and sophisticated.

  “I like it,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Another tip?” she said.

  I looked at her.

  “In the middle of the interview, when you understand the situation and you know the moment is right, pull out the stick and let your hair fall behind you. Do it naturally. Do it absentmindedly. Do it while you’re talking to him, and make it seem as if it’s the last thing on your mind. Keep your eyes on his while you do it.”

  “What do you mean by ‘understand the situation’?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “What’s the point of letting down my hair?”

  “You’re about to get the point, Ms. Kent. I’m just trying to help.”

  “So, I have to ask the obvious. After our last exchange, why would you want to help me?”

  “Because we all make mistakes. Because I was having a rough day when we first met. I took it out on you, and I apologize for it. I’ve been where you are now. I understand what’s coming.”

  “What’s coming is just a job interview,” I said.

  She smiled at me, and behind that smile was a mystery that was reflected—but not revealed—in her eyes. “That’s right. So, how about if we go and see Mr. Wenn now? I know he’s eager to meet you.”

  CHA

  PTER ELEVEN

  We left her office and walked down the long hallway to the bank of elevators. Ms. Blackwell pressed the down button. The elevator door opened after a moment, I stepped in after her, and she pressed the button for the forty-seventh floor.

  Nothing was said between us. I touched the back of my hair and felt almost faint with anticipation.

  There was so much riding on this interview. I could feel my heart ram against my chest. Worse, my father was in my head: Good luck, girl. You’re going to need it.

  What I needed to do was focus. What I needed to do was to believe in myself and not mess this up. Lisa was right. At this point, I was a master at interviewing, even if I’d yet to land a job. The questions were almost always the same: “What’s your greatest weakness?” “Why is this job for you?” “What are your personal goals in life?” “How does this job complement them?” Mix in a handful of other questions, and you’re shown the door with a quick smile and brisk, “We’ll be in touch.”

  I took a breath, collected my thoughts as the elevator slowed, and straightened my back when the doors began to part.

  “This way,” Ms. Blackwell said.

  We entered a floor that was completely different from the floor where Ms. Blackwell worked. It was beautifully decorated in masculine browns, from the walls to the furniture to the hardwood floors. There were no cubicles here. No areas where people were typing away or collaborating. In fact, as we moved through the quiet space, there appeared to be no people, period. At the tall windows were massive shades, which blocked out the daylight so the artificial lighting—strategically placed around the space—could create a more intimate, welcoming mood.

  This is his floor, I thought. He doesn’t have a corner office like other executives. He has an entire floor. And why not? He owns the joint. Please, don’t let him be an arrogant prick.

  Ms. Blackwell turned a corner and we came upon an elegantly dressed young woman with blonde hair. She was perhaps my age. Maybe a bit older. Late twenties or so, but completely pulled together and professional looking. She smiled up at us when Ms. Blackwell and I stopped at her desk.

  “Ann, this is Jennifer Kent. Jennifer, this is Ann Collins, Mr. Wenn’s executive assistant.”

  Her title surprised me, but then I figured she must be staying on until a replacement was found for her position.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.

  She stood and held out her hand with a smile. “The pleasure is mine, Ms. Kent. It’s good of you to come. I’ll let Mr. Wenn know that you’re here.”

  She brushed past us.

  “Thank you, Ann,” Ms. Blackwell said, watching her go to the only office on this floor. At least it appeared to be an office—there was a closed door there. The rest of the floor was a wide-open space broken up by the sitting areas. It was unconventional, to say the least.

  Blackwell turned to look at me, and in her eyes was a sense of urgency. “The rest is in your hands. Keep a cool head and an open mind. Think ‘big picture.’ Think ‘future.’ Don’t be a fool and think too much about this. And best of luck to you, Jennifer. Remember the pin in your hair. Use it at the right moment. Use it instinctively.”

  Without another word, she walked away, leaving me alone to wonder what she meant about not being a fool and not thinking too much about this. Why did she want me to keep an open mind, to think ‘big picture’ and ‘future’? What did any of that mean? And why was she so focused on my hair? At that moment, I wished Lisa was with me. She’d see through the undercurrent of what wasn’t being said. I was naïve in these sorts of situations, which was probably part of the reason why I hadn’t scored a job
in this town. People likely could smell my lack of life experience.

  “Ms. Kent?”

  I looked over to where Ann was standing beside an open door.

  “Mr. Wenn will see you now,” she said.

  I smoothed my hands over my suit, checked my chignon a final time, and started to close the distance between us.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked before I stepped inside. “A glass of champagne? A martini?”

  “It’s only noon.”

  “Your point?” I must have had an odd expression on my face when she said that because she put her hand on my arm and laughed. “Let me get you a martini. One as smooth as silk and as cold as January. A martini never hurts anything.” She stepped aside. “Please,” she said, motioning toward the room beyond. “Mr. Wenn is waiting.”

  CHAP

  TER TWELVE

  When I stepped into the dimly lit room, I could smell the faint scent of leather and the even fainter smell of cigar smoke, neither of which was unpleasant. In fact, the effect was almost calming.

  There were no windows here, just paneled walls with paintings on them and a Tiffany lamp that cast warm florid hues sitting upon a table directly to my right. Across from me, the shadowy figure of a man moved into the light as Ann closed the door behind me.

  “Mr. Wenn?” I asked.

  “It’s Alex,” he said. His voice was deep and soothing. “I’m glad you decided to come, Jennifer, especially after your experience with Ms. Blackwell the other day. I apologize for that. I hope she was kinder to you today.”

  When his face came into view, time seemed to slow, and then it morphed into a shape I didn’t recognize. It couldn’t be him, but it was. This was the man who helped me on the street, when my briefcase was knocked out of my hand the last time I was here. This was the man who ran down the sidewalk to retrieve whatever he could of my flyaway resumes. This was the man I instantly was attracted to when I watched him walk toward me with that sheen of sweat on his chiseled face, which was covered now with the same dark stubble I remembered from two days ago. I thought he looked like the designer Tom Ford, only better.