I look at my watch, noting it’s 7:53 a.m..
Shit.
“Well, I’d prefer to start this day off on the right foot, so perhaps you can show me where I should retrieve Mr. Pierce’s coffee.”
She smiles, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Oh, but then who will give you the tour?”
“Maybe a tour can be something that helps us… get to know each other,” I say, hoping she will not deter me and my mission. The last thing I need is to start this fake job—fake persona—off on the wrong foot. Robbie told me Sloane can be quite difficult when he doesn’t get his way. Like a petulant toddler.
“Why, that’s a lovely idea, Oliver,” she says as the doors open. I glance at my watch. 7:54 Shit.
“This way…” She motions for me to follow her down a long, dark, black glass corridor.
“Is the whole building made of black glass?” I ask.
“Just the lobby and the executive suites. Information Technologies and the Labs are much less dramatic.”
“Dramatic is one way to put it,” I say as I take in the sight of glowing blue LED cracks spread throughout the black glass walls and the black marble floor. “Looks like something straight out of Tron,” I say without thinking.
“You know Tron?” she asks as she leads me to a large kitchen that looks surprisinglynormalamidst all the black. It’s white and grey, all marble and clean, crisp design. In the center of the counter, is a large espresso machine.
“Of course, it’s—”
I stop myself, the memory tickling the back of my brain, threatening to drag me under.
Tron was my father’s favorite movie. And for a long time, it was mine, too.
But now I can’t watch it without thinking of all those nights spent on the couch, getting lost in the terrible graphics while my father spent his nights tapping away at the computer, oblivious to the child in his midst.
Oddly enough, even though he barely acknowledged me, I still consider it a fond memory. Because he wasthere.Next to me, even if he didn’t realize I was. Now he doesn’t even remember who I am at all.
“ —a great movie,” I say, shoving the thought down in the pit of my stomach.
“That it is,” Chicora notes, giving me a smirk. “It’s Mr. Pierce’s favorite movie,” she says with a shrug. “Do you need a run-down of the machine?” she asks.
I take in the sight of the elegant, high-tech-looking machine. I shake my head. If I can work the espresso machine at Starbucks, I can surely work this. No matter how ostentatious it may look, it works the same, producing the same result.
“I’m good, thank you.”
I head for the cups and attend to changing out the grounds. Thankfully, everything is close by. I’ve got barely five minutes, but I can do this.
I have to do this.
“Steamed almond milk.” She opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of almond milk. “Mr. Pierce is lactose intolerant,” she whispers.
“Oh,” I note, surprised. “None of the articles mentioned that.”
Neither did Robbie.
“Mr. Pierce is a… private person. It’s not something he casually shares, but if you’re going to be working for him, you should know his limitations and his needs.”
“Right, of course.” She steams the almond milk as I prepare the espresso, and when it’s done, hands me the silver pour.
I carefully pour it atop the espresso, the scent of rich beans and vanilla invading my lungs. My stomach grumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten yet.
Shit.
