I checked my phone for the time and decided to review my notes before heading to the office for my interview. Everyone assumed I already had the job in my pocket, which was mostly accurate, but I couldn’t completely blow the interview and make my father justify hiring me anyway. I also wanted to make sure I got the assistant CFO job and not some underling starter position, or it would take that much more time to become the head of the financial department.
Nepotism was certainly evident at my father’s company, but I also knew my shit, and I planned on proving that today.
I sighed. I needed to get moving so I wouldn’t be late.
I picked up my leather briefcase full of actual, physical copies of my resume—on linen paper, which I thought was ridiculous in this day and age, but my advisor told me to do it anyway. On the way down the hall, I dug for the fob to my Saab and tried not to fall over in the ridiculous shoes.
In the parking garage for Presley’s apartment, my slick black Saab near the back wall sat off on its own with the trunk partially open. Apparently, neither Presley nor I had realized we hadn’t closed it after retrieving our shopping bags last night.
I slammed the trunk and lowered myself into the driver’s seat, automatically placing my foot on the brake. It felt weird, and I realized the high-heeled shoes were going to interfere with my ability to drive. Reaching down, I bumped my head on the steering wheel as I tried to get the shoes off and then scraped my leg with one of the spiked heels as I sat up.
“Ugh!” I tossed the shoes onto the passenger seat along with my purse and briefcase, placed my foot back on the brake, and pushed the start button.
Nothing happened.
I pushed the button over and over again, but all I heard was a clicking sound. I knew I had filled up the tank earlier in the week, so I definitely had gas. My father insisted on regular car maintenance, and it had been in the shop for a tune-up within the last two months.
The car simply wouldn’t start.
I grabbed my phone, ready to call roadside assistance to come and fix whatever was going on, but the first thing I noticed was the time. I had given myself plenty of time to drive to Dragonov Financial but not enough time to wait for someone to figure out what was wrong with my car. If I left immediately, I would just barely have enough time to reach the office on foot before my interview.
“Shit!” I reached over, grabbed the heels, put them back on my feet, and abandoned the car. For a moment, I stood just outside the parking garage, noticing the sudden pain from my left heel. There was no way I was going to be able to walk in these things, but I also couldn’t take them off and head down the city street; my stockings would be ruined! There wasn’t any time to run back up to the apartment to get any other shoes.
Once again, I glanced at my phone for the time. I only had a few minutes to get to my interview on time, and there wasn’t a choice. I was going to have to walk.
In these shoes.
Quickly.
Chapter 2—Ride
Damn these heels.
I walked as quickly as I could, given the three-inch stilettos Presley forced onto my feet, mumbling under my breath as I went.
“I mean, seriously? It’s not like this is the sort of job interview where you don’t know if you are going to end up with the position. I mean, when your father already owns the company, chances of you getting the job you want once you graduate are really pretty good. Why are you so nervous?”
Halfway there, I considered smacking myself for not calling a cab or an Uber or something. The walk from my place to Dad’s office wasn’t really that far under normal circumstances, but contacting someone for a ride just hadn’t occurred to me in time.
“It’s only a short walk,” I muttered. “It not like the subway is a better option. I should have called a cab, but it was only a twenty-minute walk, and hailing a taxi usually took a half hour.”
I was babbling like an idiot, and some homeless guy with a pair of socks on his hands and a mangy dog curled up next to him looked at me like I was the crazy one. I shut my mouth and continued on.
“Holy shit, she is fuckhawt.”
I didn’t even look over at the group of boys on the corner. Every city seemed to have a group of such kids—tattoos, piercings everywhere, chain smoking and generally looking like they exist just to piss off their parents. Usually they were on skateboards though this group seemed to prefer BMX bicycles.
Of course, the light changed right at that moment, and I was stuck standing next to them, waiting for the walk signal. I refused to look over in their direction though I could still hear them talking and trying to get my attention. I ignored them and stared straight ahead at the red hand denying me access to the other side of the road. I wondered if there might be a proverbial chicken nearby so I could staple myself to it.
“Hey,” a soft voice said beside me. I startled. I hadn’t even heard him come up, but when I looked to my right, one of the boys was right next to me.
He was standing up on the bicycle with one wheel high up in the air, balancing on the pedals as easily as if he were standing on the ground. He was wearing a faded pair of ripped jeans with one pant-leg completely missing, making the garment a half pair of shorts. His shirt was also faded with the logo of some metal band on the front.
When I looked up at his face, I was surprised to see he was a little older than I had originally assumed. I always figured groups of boys hanging out on the corner ranged from about fourteen to sixteen, but this one had to be out of high school. He had a couple of days’ worth of stubble covering his cheeks and neck, long and unruly black hair tied up in a man-bun, and intense, bright green eyes. His full bottom lip was adorned with a pair of thin silver hoops through the left side, and a matching hoop went through his eyebrow. Three more hung from the lobe of his right ear. There was some dark, swirling tattoo wrapping around his left arm and something more colorful just peeking out of the collar of his T-shirt, but I couldn’t make out the details of either design. There was a thin, gold chain around his neck, the front of which was tucked into his shirt with the chain pulled tight at the front, the lump of a charm of some sort hiding underneath the fabric.
“Would you go to dinner with me?”
“Excuse me?” There was no way I had heard him right. I mean—guys with piercings and tattoos didn’t walk up to women wearing suits and heels to ask them out for dinner.