These rich people. I shake my head at the opulence while stealing glances beneath my lowered lashes. Even clothed in my new outfit, hairdo, and makeup, I stick out like a sore thumb.
Another man approaches from a small side door and nods in greeting to the oversized guards behind us. They relax their postures, losing a millimetre in height and absolutely nothing in muscle mass.
The new arrival greets Zach with a shoulder clap and inclines his head to me while his eyes scan me from head to toe. Not with the leer of an old lech, but with the proficiency of a checkout operator scanning through a code.
I wonder if my image now goes into some mental filing cabinet, ready to be retrieved at the touch of a button or by issuing a voice command.
“Stefan will see you now,” the man says, leading us back through the door he emerged from and standing to one side, gesturing for us to go ahead.
That suddenly seems like the worst idea in the world. I can leave school, get a job, support myself, and work back into my sister’s graces. That path is simple compared to the effort needed to steel my muscles and follow Zach into the office.
The first thing I see is a bank of monitors, colour images with diamond precision, showing a room from every angle. The people caught on the screens are dressed in luxury garments. Women drip jewellery while men sport chunky watches that are more an exercise in how much wealth you can stuff into a timepiece than the equipment necessary to tell the hour.
Judging from the number of drinks being handed around, time isn’t much of a factor for these people.
Then a shadow in the corner of the room moves and I can’t believe I hadn’t spotted the resident before. He hulks there, taking up more space than his physical presence occupies. Like some weird reverse tardis of a man.
His hair is dark and clipped short, likewise his beard, and his brow protrudes so far forward that his eyes are lost beneath them.
“Lilac, this is Stefan.” Zach steps aside, leaving me fully exposed to the man, and I want to scream at him not to. It’s too late though, and I force a smile on my lips. My legs have frozen to the spot, and it takes me pressing a knuckle into my thigh before I can unlock them enough to propel me forward two steps.
“Nice to meet you, Stefan,” I say, using the last of my reserves to raise my hand to shake.
“Sorry,” he says, raising both of his palms towards me. “I don’t.” My hand drops with such rapid relief that he smiles. “Zach tells me you need a job.”
I nod until my vocal cords remember how to strum together, and I reply, “Yes. I’ve worked retail and in hospitality before and have references.”
“What hospitality? Bars?”
Again, I nod, feeling more confident. “A few shifts here and there, but I’ve mainly worked as a waitress.”
“Close enough. How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Record?”
I stare at him, nonplussed, while my brain dances around, trying to work out what he could mean. Zach moves behind me and takes my hand, squeezing it. I expect him to let go, but he keeps hold, nudging me in the side. “He means have you ever been arrested.”
“Oh, sorry. No, I don’t have a criminal record.”
“Look over here.” Stefan points to a table where an attractive woman is dealing cards for blackjack. “Can you do that?”
“Deal? Sure.”
“What about poker?” He points to a different monitor. “Know the rules?”
I bite my bottom lip and Zach squeezes my hand again. “The basic ones, yeah, but I’m not an expert.”
“That’s fine. We’ll train you on what to look for. You can work nights?”
From the tone, he was stating a conclusion, not asking a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes. I can work any hours outside of school.”
“Ever done shift work before?”
“No, but I’m a quick learner.” The phrase pops out before I realise it doesn’t really apply in this situation. “I mean, I’m sure that’ll be fine,” I say, the words sounding lame even to my ears.
“We need clean, attractive young woman to work the tables. Not to deal, although if you want extra shifts, you can sub in occasionally for extra money.”
