Big Leagues (3 page)

Tamela tapped the book three times. “Says right
there on the book jacket.”

As Cat read aloud, she made no attempt to hide
her indignation. “A skirt suit in navy, gray or black with a crisp
white or beige blouse is the most appropriate attire for a woman’s
first interview.”

Cat grimaced and answered Tamela’s smug grin
with a shrug of surrender. Raising her palms toward the skirt rack,
she said, “Okay, okay. I’ll never doubt you again. You’re in
charge. Do your magic.”

“Bland is the new black.” Tamela reached out
and grabbed Cat’s ponytail, inspecting the strands of hair. "Are
you going to wear your hair up or down? Up is professional but this
red hair is too pretty to hide ... Oh! I know. Maybe halfway back
with a cute barrette. Still very working girl but with an air of
working it
.” Dropping the hair, she ran over to a clothing
rack and clapped her hands together triumphantly. “This one’s
perfect. The pinstripes will create the illusion that you and your
little five-foot-six butt are one very tasty Amazonian. Try it
on.”

Cat took the jacket out of Tamela’s insistent
fingers. “Whoa! Did you see the price tag? For just a jacket and
skirt? That’s outrageous.”

Tamela peered at the small tag on the jacket’s
label that Cat held between her fingers. “Oh. Actually, that’s just
for the top. The skirt comes with its own phone number.” She pulled
the tag forward to show Cat the price.

Cat hung the jacket back on the rack and
stepped back cautiously, eyeing the hanger as if its satin-covered
wire was holding her up at gunpoint. “Not in this
lifetime.”

Tamela surveyed the aloof salesclerk across the
room. “Chillax, Cat. All you do is keep the receipt and return the
swanky suit tomorrow after the interview.” Her tawny eyes twinkled
with specks of gold rebellion. “Ta-da, free rental!”

Cat’s eyes widened. “No, no, no.” She pointed a
sharp index finger in Tamela’s direction. “I’ve watched enough
sitcoms to know that’ll never work. I’ll end up spilling shrimp
sauce or strawberry syrup on the collar, and then I’m stuck with a
bill I can’t afford.”

Tamela raised an eyebrow, and her mouth curled
into a smile. “Please explain why you’ll be dining on shrimp puffs
and strawberry crepes at a job interview?”

The index finger shot back up, aiming directly
into Tamela’s amused face. “You know what I mean.”

Tamela leaned against the rack and took a
gentler tone. “Sweetie, if you want people to treat you like a
professional, you have to look the part. You cannot go into this
billionaire’s office wearing a suit that cries ‘polyester pauper.’
Dress to impress, remember?”

Cat eyed the beautiful pinstriped jacket with
longing. She reached out and caressed the soft, silky wool of the
matching skirt. “I guess I could use my emergency life-or-death
credit card.”

Tamela bounced on the balls of her feet and
grinned. “That’s my girl! Now go try it on so we can head over to
shoes.”

Cat opened her mouth to reply but then closed
it. Green daggers would suffice. She gave her best friend one
futile glare before trudging to the fitting rooms.

Cat whipped her left leg over her right and
leaned back in the chair. Squinting at the clock, she uncrossed her
legs, tapped her feet on the floor and crossed her legs again. She
looked down at her swanky new red shoes, yet another item she
couldn’t afford. Tams had insisted that men notice shoes. If so,
they would certainly notice these, which in Cat’s mind rivaled
Dorothy’s ruby slippers. She raised one foot and twisted her ankle
back and forth to better admire the effect. If she got this job,
maybe she’d be able to afford to pay for them some day. She glanced
at the clock once more and frowned.

In the distance, Cat heard the humming of slot
machines and the jingling of a lucky winner.

Who goes gambling at two o’clock in the
afternoon? Apparently a lot of people.

She’d circled the massive parking lot twice
before sneaking her Jeep into a compact spot.

People with a lot less worries than me, that’s
who.

She nibbled on her bottom lip and followed the
swirled maze in the burgundy carpet’s pattern. She snuck another
peek at the clock.

That can’t be right.

She swiveled her head toward the exit
doors.

I could leave now. Beats the humiliation that
waits behind the wall.

Lynette in person had been as unenthusiastic as
on the phone. From the way the assistant had peered up from her
desk and adjusted her lime green glasses, Cat knew what she was
thinking behind those framed apathetic eyes.

You’re in over your head, kid. This is a job
for a real journalist. Not a girl whose writing accomplishments
consist of scribbling the Soup of the Day on a
chalkboard.

Cat clutched her chest. Everything made sense
now. She’d only been half joking when she saw the book in the
bookstore and scooped it up to show Tamela, who’d read the title
with glee.

“Iss-Yous!
A Guide to Your Own
Neurosis
. If ever a book was written just for you. They forgot
the rest of the subtitle:
The Catriona McDaniel
Story
.”

“Iss-Yous?”

“Iss-Yous, issues? As in, you’s got
’em?”

“It’s lame.”

“But it’s you.”

Cat knew it, too, so she’d bought the self-help
manual along with the three guidebooks Tams swore would win her the
job. Last night she’d been too busy trying to absorb the interview
techniques to bother with her bargain bin afterthought. After
tossing and turning for the thousandth time, Cat had rolled out of
bed for midnight reading, despite violating interview rule number
one—always get a good night’s rest. She had ignored the flashing
alarm clock and nestled into bed with the fresh book; the smell of
its pressed inks had been more invigorating than a steaming cup of
coffee. Cat had cruised past the first chapter after recalling the
morning’s flattering conversation she had carried on with the
mirror. Tams was right, she had many issues, but poor self-esteem
was not one of them.

Cat had scanned the passage about superiority
complexes but felt those pages would be a waste of time. She
reminded herself that anyone who spent the wee hours of the morning
in flannel PJs, self-diagnosing mental disorders with a five-dollar
paperback, could only feel so superior. She’d skimmed past the
sections on obsessive-compulsive disorders, all the manias and
phobias regarding nearly everything—except for job
interviews.

When Cat reached the last chapter, she heaved
the book across the room, declared it useless and snuggled in for
what was left of the night.

Now here she sat in the executive waiting room
of Hohenschwangau Palace und Kasino, fidgeting in a tapestry
armchair and cursing the section she finally realized had been
written especially for her:
Iss-Yous!
Chapter 3.

Anxiety.

Cat had all the symptoms. The room was spinning
like a cement mixer slider. She felt like a catcher was crouched on
her chest and digging his cleats into her heart. She was sweating
worse than a September call-up in his first at-bat.

She tried to remember the calming techniques
suggested in the book.

Take a deep breath.

Smile.

Another deep breath.

Smiling tightly, Cat tapped her foot against
the wooden chair leg.

She wished she could blame this pent-up energy
on the five and a half hour drive from Porterville but it had
started well before her eight a.m. trek. She had no doubt relief
would come the second she was out of city limits, that is, if she
didn’t take Lynette up on the offer of free hotel
accomodations.

Waiting.

She placed the palm of her hand on her stomach.
The book hadn’t offered advice for nausea and the casino’s fancy
carpet didn’t need a new pattern.

I should go.

Her panicked eyes darted to the emergency
exit.

I could sneak out the side door and hit the
stairs.

Lynette’s phone chirped. She murmured into the
handset and stood up. “Ms. McDaniel, Mr. König is ready for you
now.”

Cat’s heart pounded in her ears. Her stomach
stopped churning and jumped into her throat. She smiled at Lynette
through gritted teeth. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and
stood up.

Stupid book.

“Ms. McDaniel, welcome.”

Erich König rose from his oversized chair as
she entered the lavish office suite. He walked around his grand
desk, which Cat estimated to be twice the size of the twin bed in
her downtown Porterville studio apartment, and clasped her hand in
a firm shake. “I am delighted to meet you.”

She hoped he hadn’t detected her sweaty
palms.

Talcum powder! Why had none of those damn books
suggested that?

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. König.”

“Oh, please, call me Erich.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder and escorted
her to a sitting area across the room. “Have a seat, wherever you
would like.”

Cat had never encountered the infamous Erich
König during one of his few trips to Porterville, but she knew what
to expect. The female staff around the ballpark gushed over the
owner’s gray eyes and chestnut hair, and they melted over his
boyish good looks. Cat had verified their descriptions for herself
and now believed photographs didn’t do the handsome man justice.
His eyes weren’t just gray. They were smoky and smoldered with a
provocative intensity. His chestnut hair was as thick as steel
wool, and yet each strand looked silky to the touch. If it were any
thinner, his chiseled face might be considered gaunt. Instead, his
alabaster skin stretched over a pair of marbled cheekbones and down
to a prominent jaw. Add in a slight German accent and an air of
European charm, and Cat could see why Erich König had remained,
incontestably, one of Vegas’ most eligible bachelors, year after
year.

“May I offer you something to drink, perhaps
tea or coffee?”

“Um …” A vision of the salesclerk’s sneer as
she tried to return the swanky suit with a giant coffee stain
adorning the jacket’s lapel popped into her mind. She shook her
head quickly. “No thank you.”

Good looks aside, Erich König had taken her by
surprise. In her dutiful Googling, Cat had discovered old clips of
Hohenschwangau Palace commercials starring the casino’s founder in
his younger days. “
Geiz ist geil! Geiz ist geil! Check out our
specials to save some Grün!”
Standing in front of his brand new
hotel, Erich König had uttered the catchy slogan with a thick
brogue she couldn’t detect today. Growing up in a small Illinois
farm town, the only German culture Cat had been exposed to was
reruns of
Hogan’s Heroes
and a dog-eared copy of
Charlie
& the Chocolate Factory
. However, Erich didn’t sound like
Colonel Klink, and as her eyes trailed down his physique, she saw
he didn’t take fashion advice from Augustus Gloop, either. Instead
of cloaking himself in clichéd
Lederhosen
, Erich wore the
fanciest suit Cat had ever seen. In comparison his jacket made her
own ensemble—despite costing two dear paychecks—look like a rosin
bag. She held back an urge to reach out and pet the silky fabric
hugging every inch of his lean body.

I bet it’s Armani. No, Gucci. Definitely
Gucci.

She’d never trusted a man in a suit. The police
detectives who’d crashed her thirteenth birthday party with a
search warrant had worn suits. The bank manager who’d deemed her
grandmother too high a credit risk had worn a suit. The scholarship
committee who’d regretfully informed her she was the runner-up had
worn suits. She’d been on a different team then, though. Now she
donned their prestigious threads of elitism.

Cat tore her eyes away from the man’s flashy
suit and surveyed the grand room, which was triple the size of the
office she and her ten staff members shared in Porterville. Her
eyes fell upon the many empty chairs surrounding the marble coffee
table in front of them. Erich followed her gaze.

“I thought I would keep our interview one on
one. To be perfectly candid, the final decision will be made solely
by me, so why bother with spectators?”

He chuckled and she nervously joined
in.

‘One on one.’ Great. So no witnesses if he
begins caressing my knee, asking me exactly how badly I want this
job and what I’ll do to get it.

Erich sat in the smooth leather chair across
from hers and picked up a pen and a legal pad from the coffee
table. Cat gnawed on her bottom lip as she envisioned the same
yellow paper surrounded by a team of equally slick-suited lawyers
in front of a judge and a jury.

Oh sure, the trial will begin with him as a
defendant, but the verdict will end with me on the stand,
vehemently swearing I did nothing to lead him on. The twelve jurors
will cast judgmental looks upon me and share a knowing glance with
one another. My case will be lost, along with any hopes of working
in the sports industry again. Desperate to make rent, I’ll end up
serving cheap beer in nothing but tassels at the Boom Boom Room.
One night, while working a double shift, I’ll look across the room
and see Erich König entertaining clients in the VIP section.
Suffering from pangs of regret and an agonizing nipple rash, I’ll
stomp across the shag carpet and throw everything in sight, tassels
included, at his snooty Gucci—or was it Armani—suit. We’ll face the
jury again, this time with me on the left side of the courtroom,
and I’ll wind up serving five to ten upstate for assault with a
slutty weapon.