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Alex
There’s no way in hell I’m going to fit in at Shadowvale Industries. The building looms in front of me and towers up into the skies of Ruby City. Ryan Shadow, CEO, is sitting at the very top of this building, and he’s waiting for me.
Why?
Well, there are a lot of reasons why, but it comes down to the fact that I’ve run out of money, and I’ve run out of hope. My parents are dead, my roommate probably wishes I was dead, and sometimes, I feel like I’m dead.
So, I’m here.
There’s a security guard standing by the front entrance of the building who notices me standing here like a total weirdo. I give him an awkward wave, but he doesn’t wave back. He also doesn’t smile. The dude is big – at least 6’5” – and probably ex-military in some capacity. There’s a rumor that the people at Shadowvale all have shady histories, and this guy definitely fits the profile.
He’s staring at me like he’s waiting for me to leave. Considering I just walked three blocks from the bus stop, there’s no chance in hell I’m leaving without actually getting this interview. I’m not scared of someone who thinks they’re intimidating. Most of the time, the people who think they’re the scariest are the softest, anyway.
“Buck up,” I whisper to myself. That’s what my dad used to say to me before he passed away. Even when he was lying in the coldest, most clinical-looking room I’d ever been in, he smiled at me and told me to buck up. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he promised, but it’s not okay. Dad had so many surgeries and so many health problems, but it was a random car accident that claimed his life. I still remember the hospital visits, and I remember the stories he told me when I’d sit with him.
Now he’s dead, Aaron is gone, and I’m here.
None of this is okay.
Slowly, I make my way to the double doors at the front of the building. They’re glass and perfectly clear. Someone definitely polishes these every day. The absence of fingerprints speaks wonders. No little kids have been pressing their noses against this glass. That’s for damn sure.
“I have a meeting with Ryan,” I tell the guard. He cocks his head and jerks it toward the door, but I can’t make myself move. Suddenly, my feet feel like they’re glued to the floor. I start to shake, and I realize that I can’t do this. I’m panicking, and what comes after a panic attack? An asthma attack.
Fishing my inhaler out of my tiny black purse, I bring it to my lips and puff once. I count to ten and then take a second puff. My pulmonologist wants me to wait three minutes between puffs and to use an aero chamber, but I’m not doing either of those things.
The guard is still watching me. He no longer looks annoyed but concerned. He clears his throat.
“Are you okay, miss?”
“I’m fine.”
“A bit of advice, if you like?”
I nod.
“Call him Mr. Shadowvale. Never Ryan. Don’t question him and you’ll be fine.”
Interesting. I stare at the guard for a moment and nod. I can handle that. Mr. Shadowvale. The title feels stuffy, but I can suck up my pride for money. People have done far worse for money. This isn’t my dream job, I remind myself. It’s just something I’m doing to get cash to find Aaron. Plus, I can’t keep looking for my brother if I’m behind on rent. Beatrice could kick me out at any moment, and then I’d be beyond screwed.
“You’re going to be okay,” the guard repeats.
“Can I ask you something?”
The guard nods. He turns, keeping his face straight ahead at the street. He watches, as though another person is going to show up to give him half as much trouble as I am. I wonder if this is for the cameras. Maybe he doesn’t want people to know we’re having an awkwardly long conversation instead of him booting me away like he probably should.
“Is he as big of an asshole as everyone says?”
He laughs.
“More.”
Awesome.
THE RECEPTIONIST IN the front lobby is tall, thin, and beautiful. She has long blonde hair that lays just over her breasts. She’s wearing a white blouse that shows just a hint of cleavage, but not too much. Something tells me that everything about her appearance is carefully curated. She knows that she’s dressed to kill. She’s done this on purpose.
I’ll never be as pretty as girls like her.
She glances up when I approach, but she doesn’t paste on a smile or pretend to be interested in me. I know exactly why, too. A girl like her knows that I’m wearing a blazer I got at the thrift shop, a red blouse that’s slightly too small, and a black skirt that I’ve had in the back of my closet since high school. Nothing about me says “fashionable” or “put-together.” In fact, everything about me screams that I’m a broke-ass bitch who is here begging for a favor.
