I can start in ten minutes.
Put up or shut up.
I read it back.It doesn't sound like a woman wrote it. Perfect.
Without another thought, I roll the dice and hit send. Then continue scrolling through the long list of jobs to choose from.
Five minutes later, my phone dings. I open my email to find there's been a response to my snarky application.
The Offer:
Penthouse floor.
You have nine minutes and counting….
Holy shit!I jump up, and my chair topples over backward. The couple next to me looks like I've been shot, and they look around, trying to decide if they should run or duck for cover.
I grab my shoes, set the chair upright, snatch my empty coffee cup off the table, race to the trashcan, and drop it in. Then I'm sprinting down the sidewalk, dodging people, and shouting into my phone, "Hey, Siri. Set an eight-minute timer."
My heels in one hand and my phone in the other, my track coach's voice echoes in my ear about form and stride. "Sam, pump those arms. Lift those thighs. Dig in hard. Run like a pride of lions is chasing you to eat you. Don't be their supper."
As I sprint down the block, I feel my hair slipping out of the tight, conservative bun I took extra time this morning to do to counter the red dress I had to wear because all the washing machines in the laundry mat were taken when I went down, and I fell asleep on the couch, exhausted from the miles I have walked all week in search of a job.
At least it has a full skirt so I can stretch out my stride. So what if I'm flashing my matching red lace panties? I don't know any of them anyway, and even if I did, I don't care. I need a superlative salary, plus a substantial signing bonus. Plus, the fresh breeze swirling around feels good.
As I approach the building, I notice a doorman posted outside. He's scanning the crowd. Obviously, given a heads up that a man will be charging the building. When he sees me, I wave to him, and he moves to open the door. As I rush up, slowing only to maneuver through the opening, his grin is from ear to ear.
"The penthouse elevator is the last one." He says, "Good luck, little lady."
I throw up my hand, sprinting through the empty lobby. "Thank you!"
The doors are open, so I rush in. Hit the Penthouse button, stuff my phone in my bra, and slip my platform shoes on. Fiddle with my hair and decide to leave it. There are too many bobby pins to deal with. I say a little desperate prayer it's not too lopsided. I straighten my dress, pull my panties out of my crack, and straighten it again. Then take my phone out of my bra. I have one minute and fourteen seconds.
I'm fidgeting like a spirited racehorse in the gate, staring at the door, waiting for it to open. When I catch a glimpse of the poster on the back wall in the reflection on the door. It's a picture of three muscled-up, half-naked gorgeous dark-haired men and a litany of book covers wearing suits. The title reads, Precious Kitty Publishing is proud to be representing Jessika Klide, Romance Author of Hot Billionaire Romcoms.
I whirl around, stunned, and absorb the other posters. Pictures of lovers in various suggestive poses with romance books and headphones…and adult toys!
Oh, my gosh! They publish mommy porn on steroids? Not cute, cuddly kittens?
The elevator dings its arrival, and I whip around. A job is a job! I glance at my phone. Forty seconds! The doors slide open, and I wedge my way between them as soon as the opening is wide enough.
A startled gay guy, based on his flamboyantly rainbow vest, jumps startled at my arrival.
"Sam?" His voice squeaks.
Yep, I'm supposed to be a man.
He gawks as I streak past, crossing his huge office space that takes up at least one-third of the length of the building to the only office. As I barrel down on the beautiful walnut double doors with an inlaid sunburst design, I read the etched gold, not gold-plated, placard: Sebastian King, CEO.
Not wanting to miss my deadline and give Boss Dick any legitimate reason not to hire me, I turn the knob, shoulder the door, expecting it to be heavy, and crash through it as it swings effortlessly on its well-oiled hinges.
My phone blasts BLACKPINK - 'How You Like That' as it sails from my fingers haphazardly when they flex to cushion my fall. I land hard on my hands and knees, bowing at the altar of the CEO. Not a good first impression, Samaera, but you made it on time.
I hear his massive chair collide with the credenza when Boss Dick rises. Understandably shocked that I barged in unescorted, unannounced, without knocking.
'How You Like That' continues to play, which makes turning it off my top priority. Laying my cheek on the floor, I scan the carpet in his vast space, looking for my phone. While Mr. Flamboyant steps inside and briskly announces in what sounds like an English butler's voice, "Mr. King. Sam Mathieson is my replacement."
"Get out!" He growls his displeasure, and Mr. Flamboyant retreats like a puppy with his tail between his legs, backing out of the door.
