Contents
Copyright Information
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
If You Enjoyed This Book...
Other Books by Christine Pope
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
FRINGE BENEFITS
Copyright © 2013 by Christine Pope
Published by Dark Valentine Press
Revised 2013 edition. Originally published by Pink Petal Books, May 2010.
Cover design and ebook formatting by Indie Author Services
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher, Dark Valentine Press. Permission is given to make one backup copy for archival purposes.
Please contact the author through the form on her website at www.christinepope.com if you experience any formatting or readability issues with this book.
One
The number glowed on the computer screen, its pixels flickering in front of my tired eyes. I resisted the urge to reach up and rub my eyelids. That wouldn’t change what I was looking at.
One hundred and sixty-seven dollars. Oh, and let’s not forget the fifty-nine cents. That fifty-nine cents could make all the difference when the rent came due four days from now.
The familiar panicky sensation started somewhere in my midsection, followed by a tightness in my throat. It was a feeling I still associated with those hideous moments back in my high school geometry class when I had to work out a particularly knotty theorem on the board. Back then, though, the worst thing that happened to me was a sneering remark from the trollish ex-Marine who taught geometry at my school and who made my sophomore year a nightmare. Unfortunately, landlords can threaten you with a whole hell of a lot worse than sneers.
I couldn’t give in to the panic. There had to be something. Anything.
I sat up a little straighter and tried to ignore the rivulet of sweat trickling down my back. The ceiling fan overhead did its best. It was no match for Southern California in late August, though. We’d had hot days back in Billings, but nothing like this. The last week felt as if Glendale had somehow slipped into one of the outer circles of hell. My apartment had a pretty decent wall A/C unit, but I just couldn’t afford the electricity right now.
To distract myself, I drank some of the ice water I had gotten from the fridge a few minutes earlier, then turned back to my laptop and typed in the URL for a well-known free site that offered everything from patio furniture for sale to high-end tech jobs. Of course I wouldn’t bother to look for anything in the tech sector—my brother Alex was the family’s one computer genius—but the site did have a “gigs” section. Maybe I could find something there.
There wasn’t much. Places that asked for “hostesses,” but I’d heard that was just double-speak for escorts. Someone wanted an artist’s model for forty an hour, but when I clicked on the link, I only found a note that said the position had been filled. Too bad; somehow, taking my clothes off didn’t seem quite so offensive if I were doing it in the name of art.
Then I saw it. Office Assistant, $2K per week. I blinked, sure I’d misread the entry. After all, I’d been staring at the screen for what seemed like hours, and my eyes felt as if someone had run over them a few times with twenty-grit sandpaper. The ad had to have said two thousand per month, not week. Why the hell would anyone pay more than a hundred grand a year to have someone file their papers?
My fingers shook a little as I clicked the mouse. Sure enough, that seemed to be pretty much what they wanted…at first glance, anyway. Basic office work, typing 40 wpm, Microsoft Office, light phones. Nothing harmful there. But then the last phrase of the ad stopped me short: Additional duties as required.
Well, that sounded innocuous enough. But was it? “Additional duties” could cover a pretty broad range, after all. My suspicions seemed confirmed when the instructions told me to send a photo along with the resume. Come on—if the ad were legitimate, would the person who’d placed it give a damn whether I was homelier than the backside of a mule as long as I could do the work?
I knew I should just hit the “back” button and move on. But something stopped me. For a long moment I just stared at the computer screen. A hundred grand. I would have been happy with a third that amount. With that sort of salary, I could work one week and then quit if things got weird. At least then I’d have enough to get myself past the first of the month. After all, how much could I really do to compromise myself in just a week?
And I did have a good head shot, one I’d had taken when I thought I might try to make some quick money as a model. Unfortunately, I’d found out quickly enough that unless you were over five foot nine or more and weighed about a hundred pounds wringing wet, the legitimate modeling agencies didn’t want to talk to you. Also, whenever I told someone at an agency that I was twenty-four, they sort of shook their heads and gave me a pitying look. Scary that I was already considered over the hill before I even hit twenty-five. And even if I’d been brave enough to go the swimsuit route, most of the places booking those sorts of models wanted typical California blondes. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, I just didn’t fit the profile.
My failed foray into modeling had at least left me with a few good photos, and copies of them stored in jpeg format on my hard drive. I selected what I hoped was the best one, then pulled up my resume and gave it a quick scan. Everything looked all right. Before I could lose my nerve, I clicked on the “reply to” link on the ad, plunked in my standard cover-letter verbiage, and attached the resume file and the digital copy of my head shot. Then I hit “send” and closed the response window so at least I wouldn’t be faced with physical proof of my idiocy.
Great move, Kat, I thought. Probably all you did was give some creep jerk-off material.
Talk about an easy way to get free photos of pretty girls. Well, all I’d sent was a head shot; it wasn’t as if I’d given whoever had placed the ad a picture of me in a bikini or something.
I pushed my chair away from the desk and stood up to get myself some more water. The bareness inside my refrigerator seemed to mock me, but I tried not to look at the empty spaces between the containers of yogurt and the one slim quart of milk as I reached in to pick up the pitcher of purified water that sat on the bottom shelf. Even though the filters for the pitcher weren’t cheap, in the long run it was still more economical than buying bottled water. I refilled my glass, then replaced the pitcher on the bottom shelf. Thank God I’d never acquired a taste for diet soda. Water was a lot cheaper.
I hesitated, pausing between the dining room table that held my laptop and the crowded area which passed for a living room in my studio apartment. A neglected paperback mystery waited for me, laid face down on an arm of the sofa, but I knew I’d never be able to concentrate on its contents. No TV, unless I was willing to put up with the slightly staticky local channels; I’d had the cable turned off two weeks ago. The hum of
the refrigerator and the whir of the fan weren’t enough to fill up the emptiness of the little apartment.
What the hell had I been thinking? Was I really desperate enough to have answered the sort of shady ad that would have been right at home in the back pages of L.A. Weekly, next to the ones where couples trolled for the missing third of their threesomes and “massage therapists” advertised their dubious services? Had I completely lost my mind? Well, maybe the person who placed the ad wouldn’t even get my reply. Things got lost in cyberspace all the time. Or even if he’d gotten it, I probably wasn’t the type he was looking for. A few of the modeling agencies had accused me of being too “girl next door,” whatever that meant. At any rate, I knew Los Angeles had to be full of young women who were much more likely candidates for the position than I was.
The phone rang and I started, spilling some water on my hand from the over-full glass I held. I muttered a curse under my breath, set down the glass, and picked up the handset, giving a quick glance at the readout of the caller I.D. as I did so. Pyramid Imports, it read, and gave a number in the 323 area code. I tried to recall if I’d submitted a resume to a company with that name, but even though I’d been applying all over the place lately, it didn’t sound familiar.
“Hello?” I said.
A man’s voice, precise, with just the faintest hint of an accent I couldn’t place. “Katherine Wheeler?”
“Um, yes.” Wow, that sounded brilliant.
“I received your resume and photo, and would like to schedule an interview. Are you free tomorrow morning at ten?”
Gee, let me check my busy social calendar, I thought, but even though my heart had begun to beat faster as I realized who the mysterious caller must be, at least my voice sounded calm enough as I responded, “Yes, I’m free.”
“Good. Let me give you the directions.” He gave me an address only a few miles from where I lived, in an area dominated mostly by warehouses and light manufacturing outfits. Well, that made sense, if he really was running an import business.
“I’ll see you then, Mr.—” I trailed off; he hadn’t told me his name.
“Van Rijn,” he replied. It rhymed with “wine.”
“Ten o’clock then, Mr. Van Rijn.”
“Excellent.” And he hung up.
I continued to stand there for a moment, staring at the handset I held, until it began to emit an irritated-sounding busy signal and I slowly replaced it in its cradle. Well, that appeared to be that. It seemed the mysterious Mr. Van Rijn didn’t have any problems with brunettes, at least.
Now all I had to do was select an outfit for the interview that would convey just the right mixture of responsibility and style. The weather was too hot for a suit, even if I had owned one. If nothing else, scrutinizing my meager wardrobe might help to distract me from thinking I had just made a very big mistake.
There was only one other car in the parking lot when I pulled up to Pyramid Imports at five minutes until ten the next morning. I didn’t recognize the vehicle; the crown logo on the rear roof pillar meant nothing to me, since I’d never been much of an expert on cars. Still, it didn’t take an expert to figure out that, whatever it might be, the shiny dark blue automobile was European and obviously very, very expensive.
I swallowed, then released the seatbelt and brushed at my silk blouse, hoping it hadn’t gotten too wrinkled on the short trip over. This job had more than just its salary going for it—the commute was only about four miles. And in Los Angeles a short commute was just as valuable a perk as a good dental plan.
My faded silver Corolla looked even more decrepit in contrast to the gleaming piece of machinery that sat two parking spaces away, but at least it was reliable. When I first got it, my parents had given me grief for not buying American. Typical. Despite its shabbiness, the little Toyota had never given me a moment’s trouble, which was more than I could say for the Chevy Silverado that was my father’s pride and joy. That thing seemed to be in the shop for something or other every few months.
Clutching the little vinyl portfolio that held my resume, I forced myself to exit the car and approach the front door. The building itself was quite nondescript, just a one-story structure with a tinted plate glass window and a plain dark green door. A matching awning shaded the big window. The words “Pyramid Imports” were set into a brass plate next to the door, but other than that, the place gave no hint of the sort of business which might be conducted there.
Just the kind of place that’s a front for illegal activity, I thought. Maybe he’s a drug smuggler, or a weapons dealer. Or, given the nature of the ad I was answering, it seemed entirely possible to me that Mr. Van Rijn of Pyramid Imports might be the leader of a gang of white slavers….
I gave a mental shake and told myself to stop being an idiot. Besides, I’d made a point of emailing Leslie Silverman, one of the few friends I’d made here in L.A., to tell her about the interview and to set up a tentative date for later that night to watch a rom-com DVD and share some cheap takeout. If I didn’t show up, I knew Leslie would be on the case at once. Her sleuthing abilities rivaled the LAPD’s for thoroughness. She seemed to know everyone.
The entrance to the building had a buzzer set into the stucco beneath the brass nameplate, and I pressed it. An electric chime sounded somewhere within the interior. After a few seconds, during which time I practically had to grind the heels of my stilettos into the cement walkway to keep myself from bolting for the car, the door opened.
Bright blue eyes bored down into mine. That was my first impression of him—eyes of an intense azure shade I hadn’t seen since I’d left Montana. Fair hair, cut close. Features craggy rather than handsome.
He did not smile when he saw me. “Miss Wheeler?”
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded and stepped aside, allowing me to enter the reception area. I wasn’t sure what I had expected—the standard-issue putty-colored office furniture that had been pretty much universal at the places I’d temped during the past few months—but this place was anything but standard. The receptionist’s desk was a huge mahogany monstrosity that looked as if it had been airlifted directly here from a chateau in France, and landscape paintings hung from the walls. Instead of the usual overhead fluorescent lights, art glass sconces glowed between the paintings, and a green-shaded banker’s lamp sat on the desk, set off a little from an enormous cinema display.
“Your office is lovely,” I said, since even the short silence that had sprung up felt awkward. Then I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. I was here on a job interview after all, not making a social call.
He merely nodded again, then said, “Your resume?”
Feeling relieved that he’d gotten down to business almost at once, I undid the little piece of elastic that held my portfolio shut and pulled out my resume. Of course, he already had a copy, but it was just standard etiquette to give a prospective employer a better version printed on nice paper.
A diamond winked from his pinky finger as he took the resume from me. Nothing ostentatious, unlike some of the rings I’d seen men sporting around town—just a simple band of white metal that looked like silver but was probably platinum, set with that single bezel-mounted diamond. It spoke of the kind of money that didn’t need to announce its presence, just like the expertly tailored dark suit he wore. I hoped he wouldn’t be able to tell that my cream silk blouse and brown tweed pencil skirt had been purchased off the clearance rack at Loehmann’s.
He gestured toward the oversized monitor on the desk. “A simple test in Office, if you please.”
I looked at the computer. My heart sank a little. “I’m afraid I’ve never worked on a Mac before.”
“You will find that the Microsoft Office software is virtually identical to the PC version.”
Knowing it would only look bad—well, worse than it already did—if I continued to protest, I sat down on the leather desk chair and followed the prompts on the screen. Van Rijn was right; except for the buttons to minimize windows and h
aving to use the Command button instead of the Control one the way I was used to, there did seem to be very little difference. And, thank God, the test was simple enough, since it covered basic document setup and word-processing functions, none of the messy mail merge I’d had to struggle through at my last temp job.
As I worked away, Van Rijn watched me silently, arms crossed, his impassive expression giving me no indication whether my efforts met his approval. Even when the automated test finished and flashed a score of ninety-nine percent, he showed little reaction, save a brief nod.
Not knowing what else to do, I folded my hands in my lap and waited. Maybe next he’d want a typing test. He certainly didn’t seem too inclined to conversation.
The linen paper of my resume made a whispery crinkling sound as he turned it over in his hands. “So you have been doing mainly temporary work?”
His English was very good, but I could tell from his clipped accent and the way he phrased things that he was not a native speaker. I’d never heard his last name before, but I’d Googled it the night before and determined it was Dutch. I’d also attempted to research Pyramid Imports, but all I’d found was a starkly elegant single Web page with the company name, address, and phone number in shimmering gold letters against a black background. There was a secondary address in Amsterdam, along with one of those strange European phone numbers that seemed to contain far too many digits for my eyes, but nothing else.
“Yes, I worked mainly with Apple One,” I replied, naming the temp agency that had been recommended to me when I first came to Southern California. And they really had done as good a job as they could; it wasn’t their fault the economy seemed to be taking taking up residence at the bottom of a dumpster. “I’ve been a receptionist, and I also had a six-week placement as assistant to the vice president of marketing at a local furniture company.” That had been a great gig, and I had hoped the girl I was covering for would decide to extend her maternity leave. No such luck, though—these days, most people needed two incomes to get by, and Courtney had come promptly back to work as soon as her state-mandated six weeks were up.
Fringe Benefits Page 1
