“You won’t be buying anything. You’re working for me in a role that requires a certain look. My part is to pay for that. Your part is to accept it. That’s going to include a haircut.”
I’m quite abruptly overwhelmed. I’m not used to talking this much, and there are too many things to think about, too many new pieces. I manage to mutter, “Okay,” but that’s all I’ve got.
I half expect Andre to realize that I can’t handle this, pull over, and kick me out, but he allows me the silence I need instead.
I glance at him a couple times to make sure he doesn’t look angry. Once, he catches me. I cringe inwardly at being caught, but he gives a slight smile that says everything’s okay.
He’s so strange. He’s intense and a little scary, but sometimes I feel like he’s … almost taking care of me.
I know that’s ridiculous. It makes me feel pathetic because, maybe, a little bit, I want that.
He drives us through the crush of Midtown and into Lower Manhattan. I don’t know this area well enough to know how close we are to The Axis until suddenly we’re pulling into an underground garage. My heart skips. We’re here.
This can’t be the main entrance because it wasn’t marked and there’s no traffic. We drive only a short distance to a private parking area. Andre pulls the Jag into a spot between an Aston Martin and an Escalade.
I grab my backpack and follow Andre to an elevator. I watch him punch in a code, then we get inside. As the doors close, he asks, “Did you see the code I put in?”
I angle my head down and away. Shit, he caught me.
“Elias. What’s the code?”
I could lie. I probably should. But I admit, “1-4-7-8.”
He chuckles. “Very good. Next time, though, just answer me.”
“Oh. I-I thought you’d be mad.”
“Why would I be mad? This is exactly why I chose you. You pay attention. And if I hadn’t wanted you to see the code, I would’ve blocked your view.”
I take a deep breath, relaxing a little. “Okay,” I say, then, “Oh my god,” as the doors open onto a huge, luxurious office.
Andre leads the way out. I follow, but his long strides leave me behind as he walks toward the sleek, multi-surface desk nearthe floor-to-ceiling windows. I’m slow, looking around at the beautiful leather furniture and crowded bookcases. Above, glass tubes twist and twine to form a modern chandelier. A wall of mirrors reflects it all, seeming to double the space.
At the sound of a desk drawer, I look at Andre and find him watching me. He summons me with a casual but commanding gesture. As I approach his desk, I notice that it’s actually two desks. The second is set perpendicular to the first, forming an L that juts out into the room. The workspace has its own chair and computer. But it’s the chair waiting in front of the main desk that Andre points to.
I set my backpack on the floor and perch on the edge of the chair seat. Andre slides a piece of paper and a pen my way. I brace myself for a background check or at least a W-9, but it’s just a direct deposit form. I relax a little. The less paperwork there is, the less likely that I’ll have to cut and run. It doesn’t make much sense, though, at a place like this. Maybe this is a trial period. Maybe I’m not an official employee.
When I slide the form back toward Andre, he holds out a debit card and says, “Your starting bonus.”
I stare at it. There’s no name on the front. It’s a prepaid card. “But … I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Yes, you have. You gave up your existing job and apartment. You took a risk, and this is my thank-you.”
Given the salary he said he would pay and the fact that I will, apparently, have an apartment here, even a week of this job would pay back my risk. But Andre just keeps holding out the card.
As I take it, I mutter, “I would’ve settled for a fifty-dollar gift certificate for a haircut.”
“I already told you that your needs would be covered, and that’s 10K.”
“Jesus!” I drop the card like it’s on fire. It clatters to the desk. I gape at Andre, but he’s busy putting my banking form in a drawer.
“We’re doing the haircut first,” he informs me, shutting the drawer, “then clothes. Put that card away.”
I scramble it off the desk and bend down, fumbling it into my backpack.
Andre gets up from his chair and tells me, “Leave that here. No one will bother it.”
I pop up from my chair and follow him back to the elevator. We descend to the ground floor, where the doors open onto a small foyer marked “Private” then out into a spectacular, high-ceilinged lobby with a marble fountain. I glimpse the elegant front desk and a number of well-dressed guests, but Andre leads me away from all that and down a wide corridor to the double doors of what is clearly a spa.
