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I’m still working on the baked goods angle. She sells them and I’m not sure how legal that is. I let it slide, confident she’d crumble long before. But I make a note to up the ante on that front. On all the fronts.
And as for the Sinclair fucking game my dead father’s playing, I’m setting up some charities. Heart. I have one. It’s in my chest. Pumping blood. The sentimental interpretation is utter bullshit, but yeah, I’ll play for my brothers. And even for me, I suppose. The legacy looks good. It helps with my clout. And though I don’t need help with that, there’ll come a time when I might, so I’m interested in building all my blocks, strengthening everything I can.
There’s a small sign that’s been in her window for ages, according to my people. For a job. They’ve scared off all potentials, stolen the ones that have promise. I figured if she couldn’t find someone to fill her sign for a position offered, then it would weaken her. So far it hasn’t.
But now… now it’s perfect.
I’m going to apply.
And undermine her from within.
But I need the right approach. Whimsical name of her store. Cookies and other crap on offer along with the old books. I’ll bet she’s one of those people with a perpetually bleeding heart.
I’m not going in dry. Literally.
I collapse the umbrella and I give it to a woman hurrying by. She’s soaked, but after a quick, suspicious look, she takes the umbrella and I stand there, letting the water soak into me. Pushing my now wet hair from my face, I open the folder I have with my fake resume and I let it get soaked. Then I fold it and slide it into my jean’s pocket.
Bedraggled, harried, in need of a job. That’s me. Or the me Zoey’s going to meet.
If I’m right, she’s going to give me the job without seeing the resume.
I take a beat to get myself into my new role, and then cross the street, dodging traffic. Outside, I take a breath and then I push open the door and step inside.
I drip on the floor in the cool and fairly quiet air. Just the traffic from beyond and the low strains of some classical piano fill the empty air. There’s no one here. I frown, looking around, and from the back someone emerges.
A woman. Small, compact, with curling black hair stands there behind the counter. Her face bursts into a sunny smile.
“I’m Magnus Simpson,” I say. “I’m here about the job?”
Chapter Two
Zoey
Relief. That’s relief I feel that someone’s actually asking about the job.
They haven’t in a while. And I’m sure if there wasn’t pressure from the evil empire, aka EMS Group, the billion-dollar development company that are bullies in suits, I’d have found someone by now.
Yes, that rush of blood that washes through me is that, and nothing to do with the drop dead gorgeous man standing there.
He’s tall and lean, with dark hair and onyx eyes, and beneath the T-shirt is a killer body. I know that because he’s soaked; the shirt sticking to him, his wet hoodie draped over one strong arm. The worn but clean jeans and boots on his feet compliment the look. I almost want to pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming.
It if were me, I’d look like some kind of bedraggled subway rat. This man? Oooh, boy, he’s like some pin up supermodel god from the ocean.
As the water drips down a thick strand of black hair and trails his face, the sheen of the rain brings focus to those high cheekbones, a freshness to his beautiful, sensuous mouth. And those eyelashes. I need a fan. Possibly smelling salts. Therapy for my pheromones and punch drunk hormones.
Someone print a label and slap illegal on this man.
Of course, there’s also that possibility I’m dreaming. I might be. Last night I barely slept with worry and the latest onslaught from the Sinclair corporation. The name is all over the place and in the fine print of the contracts given to other businesses who’ve been priced out or sold out.
Not me. Those bullies can scrape my dead body from this spot. And if they do, I’m going to come back and haunt them.
The man—Magnus he said his name was—isn’t the usual for the area. He’s a little too well dressed. Even soaked to the bone, I can see that. He’s white, and looks like he should be in one of the gentrified areas, maybe Williamsburg or Park Slope. He’s not hood or working class. I’m not judging… okay, I’m totally judging, but I grew up here, and he doesn’t have the look.
Then again, the man hasn’t got an umbrella and he’s looking for a job in a rundown barely above water secondhand bookstore, so what do I know?
But he’s not the usual fare for this place. At all.
A few blocks east and it’s hipster enclave Bushwick, but here? It’s one of the small hole in the wall places where people work to make ends meet. There are a few gangs and projects and warehouses around. It’s no frills, this place, and bodegas dot the landscape, not the fancy ass twenty-four-hour fresh juice and kale delis. The ones here sell lotto tickets, cigarettes, cans of 40s malt liquor, baseline groceries in cans, and Wise brand salted snacks.
