The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

The Weirdest Job Interview Ever

Sophie

Iplop down on my couch with a sigh. After leaving Ava’s apartment, I stopped for a latte then made my way home to call the prospects on Ava’s list. I’d been at the table with a pen and the paper, crossing off each line as I called each one.

I left a few voicemails. Several people answered only to tell me the position had been filled. Two offered me an interview—one was a glorified nanny position disguised as a personal assistant job, and the other was a creepy-sounding old man who instructed me to wear something tight and revealing so he could assess my skills accurately. Yuck.

I told him to go fuck himself with a pogo stick.

Not my cleverest insult, but give me a break. I’m hungover and exhausted, stressed out, and jobless.

I need a miracle. I need some luck.

Digging into the pocket of my shorts, I curl my fingers around the penny I found in Ava’s parking lot as I walked to my car. I’d already been feeling lucky—I left my car at her place the night before when we hired a car to take us to the strip—and that’s when I saw it. A shiny new penny sparkling in the sun, Abraham Lincoln’s profile facing up.

It had to be a sign. A penny on heads, right in front of my car? It meant my luck was changing. I knew it did.

But several calls and just as many disappointments later, I’ve lost some of that faith. Sometimes, a penny is just a penny.

I look down at the list in my hand. Only two prospects left—a personal assistant position for a local author and the Hart Casino gig. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. The pay for the author’s assistant is included in the listing, and it’s only half of what I need to live comfortably and keep my apartment. I’d much prefer it to my other choice, but I just don’t see how it’s feasible. I’d have to find a second job on top of that one just to survive.

That leaves me one choice, assuming no one for whom I’ve left a message gets back to me...the job at the casino.

Why does it have to be that one? If it were any other place, I’d jump on it. The hours are long, but the pay is outstanding. I think it would be fascinating, learning the ins and outs of running a massive casino like The Black Hart.

But after seeing him there last night and the little scene I caused, I have zero fucking desire to ever step foot in that place. My eyes fall closed. It’s obviously full of bad juju. At least, as far as I’m concerned.

I open my eyes and read the listing again. Nibbling on my lower lip, I pick up my phone. I don’t have a choice. I can’t let this opportunity slip through my fingers, especially if it’s my only chance at not ending up living on the streets.

God, why do hangovers make my thoughts so dramatic?

I pull up the email address for the author and send an inquiry about the job, attaching my resume. I know the pay isn’t enough, but I can’t afford to ignore any prospects right now. If I don’t get hired at the casino, at least I’ll have a chance to work for one of my favorite authors. I could always get a night job waitressing tables, or something, to supplement my income.

Steeling my spine, I make the call to inquire about the job as Jared Hart’s assistant.

“Scotty Branson.”

“Hi. My name is Sophie Jameson, and I’m calling about the job listing to be Jared Hart’s assistant,” I say.

“Hi, Sophie. I’m Mr. Hart’s current assistant, and I’m interviewing applicants for my replacement this afternoon. I still have a slot available. Can you be at the casino by three?”

“Today?” I ask stupidly.

I know he said “this afternoon,” but it’s Sunday. Who conducts job interviews on a Sunday afternoon?

“Yes. I know it’s short notice, but I’ve been having trouble finding someone who’ll fit. I have to hire someone today, so if you want the job, you’ll have to make it work.”

I hear the test in his words. He wants to make sure any perspective applicants are flexible and willing to jump at a moment’s notice. I look at the clock on the wall. It’s one-thirty. I have plenty of time to get ready and be there by three.

“I’ll be there,” I say firmly.

“Great,” he says. “Bring your resume and a list of references, if you have them. Tell the security guard at the desk you’re here to meet with me, and he’ll lead you to the elevator that’ll bring you up to the executive suite.”

“Got it. Thank you, Mr. Branson.”

“Scotty, please,” he says. “See you in a bit.”

Ending the call, I leap up from the couch and rush into my bedroom. My lucky dress is still at the cleaner’s, and it probably wouldn’t be appropriate for a job interview, anyway. No. I need something that screams “I mean business.”