Death Layer (The Depraved Club) (2 page)

After everyone has cleared out for the night I am folded
over my laptop with a beer. I have three tabs open: my email for distraction,
my bank account for motivation, and craigslist for hope. Rachel appears,
leaning her chin on my shoulder.

“It’s late,” she rasps.

I take a swig of beer. “Just looking at jobs.”

“Don’t you think this site is a little sketch?”

“Meh,” I sigh, shrugging. “I’ve found lots of stuff this
way. Your bed, for example.”

“Gross. I didn’t need to know that.” Rachel pulls a face and
I laugh at her.

I scroll down the endless list of postings. “I just need to
find something good. And fast.”

“Mom and Dad could probably help if—”

“No.” I cut my sister off. It’s a sore point, and we’ve had
this conversation before. “I have to do this myself. Besides, I won’t always
have Mom and Dad to catch me. Might as well figure it out now.”

“Alright, alright. Have it your way, artsy pants.” Rachel
nods, her chin digging into my shoulder like a pointy masseuse. Suddenly she
pounces at the screen, pointing. “Ooh, look at that one: ‘Personal and
executive assistant—80k’? Eighty thousand dollars is a pretty good salary, no?”

“No, yeah, that’s really good. Crazy good. Maybe too good.”
I click the link and speed-read the description. “‘80k plus full benefits,
potential bonuses. Personal and executive assistant for CEO of major
Multi-national Corporation. Flexibility, discretion, confidentiality,
professionalism and creativity required, must have current passport and be
willing to travel. Serious applications only.’”

Rachel and I glance at each other. Her mouth quirks into a
grin.

“Well shoot,” she says, “You’re a serious, they want
serious—match made in heaven.”

“It sounds too good to be true. I wonder why the pay’s so
high?”

Rachel yawns and gives me a hug. “Some of the exec
assistants at Stanley make 70, 75 grand. It’s not that weird for finance,
depending on which multinational this guy runs.”

“Seems sketchy.”

“Does everything have to be shitty pay and shitty
conditions?” Rachel yawns. “God, you don’t have to suffer to be an artist you
know. I don’t know why you always have to make things so hard on yourself. You
might actually like having a real person salary.”

“You have a point,” I groan. What would it be like to make
real money, be a real person? All my time in New York City has been spent
waiting tables, scrapping together gigs, and living the struggling artist
cliché. I’m not going to lie; it’s getting old. “Ok, I’ll apply.”

I click the reply button on the job posting, attach my
resume, press send, and exhale.

“Alright that’s one down,” I mutter, stretching my back over
the chair. “How many applications will it take to get a job this time? Wanna
make some bets?”

“Five bucks you get this one,” says Rachel, standing. “And
I’m going to bed.”

“Wow, really? You’re supposed to be the party animal. Just
let me brush my teeth before you shower.”

I stand and start to walk away from the computer when the
sound of an email alert stops me. Curious, I turn to peer at the screen.

The address is one I don’t recognize, subject: “Interview:
Personal and Executive Assistant job.”

“Rachel!” I shout, making her jump. “It’s the application!
Oh my god, they responded right away! They responded right away!”

I force myself to stand still long enough to open the email.
Rachel and I crowd together, hunched over the dim blue light of my laptop
screen to read.

Ms. Clark,
After reviewing your materials, you have been selected to participate in the
interview process. Congratulations. Please arrive at 2211 Wall Street at 9am
tomorrow.
We look forward to meeting you and discussing the Personal and Executive
Assistant position in further detail. Please arrive prepared and in business
formal attire.
Amanda Johnson

Assistant Corporate Secretary

Skollz Corp.

2211 Wall Street

New York, New York 10005

Skollz Corp: change is the future.

“Skollz Corp,” I say, glancing at Rachel. “I’ve never heard
of them, but apparently their secretaries answer emails at two in the morning.”

Rachel nods slowly. “They’re big, like Unilever big. One of
those names that consumers usually don’t hear because they secretly own all the
labels you’d recognize.”

“So, they’re an umbrella corporation?” I frown. “Ruthlessly
sweeping the little guy under the rug, destroying rain forests and the free market
to monopolize the world.”

Rachel laughs. “You’re such a hippy. They’re called
conglomerates, not umbrella corporations.”

“I knew that.” I blink at the screen. “Yikes, 9am is really
soon.”
“Well, guess you’re not sleeping tonight.” Rachel yawns, shuffling toward our
shared bedroom.

“Yeah, guess not.” Nothing like a high stakes, tipsy Google
search. I collapse in front of my laptop, grinning. “Let’s you and I get to
know one another, Skollz Corp.”

Chapter Three

So many flagpoles line the courtyard that I could almost
think I’m at the United Nations but no, this is it; the Skollz Corp
headquarters, a sleek glass skyscraper housing the machine that makes the
economy tick. After my all-night googling, I know more about this company than
I ever wanted to. They have more international influence than the US President
and more money than God. Craning my neck, I can’t even see the top of the
skyscraper in the clouds.

I check my watch; it’s 8:45am. I take a deep breath and step
through the glass sliding doors, the clack of my stilettos echoing off the high
ceilings.

The walls, pillars, and floors are white marble. The only
pop of color is the suited woman standing behind the security desk, flanked by
guards and automated turnstiles. Her hair is red, a deep and shiny copper quite
like mine.

“Good morning,” I say, overly bright. “I’m Ava Clark, I have
a 9am interview that was scheduled through Amanda Johnson?”

“Identification.”

The redhead takes my driver’s license from me and assesses
the picture. She nods at me, expressionless, and taps a button or two. A
mechanical whirr under her desk ends with her ripping a newly printed nametag
and handing it back to me with my license.

“Sixty-sixth floor, Miss Clark.”

I try to keep my face relaxed. “Did you say six-six?”

Without looking up she points to the elevator bank furthest
to the left in the lobby. I gulp and go. My smile is twitchy by the time I
reach the elevator attendant and play a ridiculous game of fumble-fingers with
him over the buttons. He wins in the end. The doors click shut and we are
catapulted into the sky.

Good thing there are no windows. My stomach is churning.

I am petrified of heights.

The doors open on the sixty-sixth floor and I see that
unfortunately for my vertigo the entire eastern wall is a window. I avert my
eyes from the too-close clouds and see clear glass chandeliers dangling from
the high white ceiling, calla lilies in clear glass vases, and a secretary’s
desk built in to the wall to my left. The only door is next to her desk and shut
tight.

The elevator attendant holds the door for me because
apparently corporate people don’t know how to enter and exit elevators by
themselves. I step past him.

“Thank you,” I stammer.

He blinks at me, clearly unused to being noticed, and shuts
the doors.

Friendly staff.

Avoiding the window view at all costs, I stare intently at
the secretary typing behind the counter. She too is a redhead, more of a
strawberry blonde.

I am sensing a pattern.

“Hello,” I say, but before I can proceed she holds up a
finger to silence me and points to a white bench I hadn’t noticed floating out
of the wall. Three other girls are perched, their hair perfectly smooth and
blazers crisp. They all have briefcases and blank expressions. My smile
stiffens as I move to join them and carefully sit on the slim plastic bench.

Watch check. It’s 8:50am.

I am so nervous and only have ten minutes to get a grip.
Remembering my classical voice class back at University of Michigan, I take a
deep breath and let it out slowly in a barely audible hissing “ssss” sound. The
secretary glances at me sharply. I stare right back, eyebrow raised in
challenge.

I have to relax, damn it.

Something buzzes. The secretary picks up a phone.

“Yes sir?”

Silence.

“Yes sir.”

Click.

She peers over her horn-rimmed white plastic glasses at the
row of us. “Ladies, Mr. King will see you now.”

Uh-oh. I definitely didn’t mentally psych myself up for a
group interview. It’s hard enough to be nice and charming to one dude, let
alone a posse of competition.

But it’s happening anyway, happening now.

The secretary presses a button on the wall and the white
section of door slides to the side, exposing a long, low-lit hallway.

There’s a tall thin man in a pressed gray suit waiting for
us, a tablet in his hand. Surprise! Another redhead, or more like a carrot-top,
his face barely discernable underneath a confusion of freckles. He looks us
over and points to the girl on my left.

“Thank you for coming today,” he says, “That’s all we need.
You are free to go. The rest of you follow me, please.”

Confused, the girl stands with a gaping mouth, but the man
hasn’t stopped to wait for a response. With an impatient wave of his hand he
leads the remaining three of us away. I glance over my shoulder trying to
figure out what about her got her eliminated, and watch her shuffle dejected
back to the elevator.

After a few twists and turns, our carrot-topped guide has
led us into a conference room and motions for us to take places at the wide end
of a white plastic oval table. Thank god the walls in here are gray, not white,
otherwise I think I might scream.

“Thank you for your punctuality.”

The low, cool voice emanates from a man at the other side of
the table. He stands as we all shuffle in and offers a dazzling smile that more
than makes up for the brusqueness of the rest of corporate America. I feel my
lady brain glaze over the way it automatically does around handsome men.

“I am Vincent King, CEO of Skollz Corp. You’ve been screened
from over 1,500 applications and hand selected by my administrative staff to
interview. Congratulations. As you are applying for the role of my Personal and
Executive Assistant, I thought it best I oversee the selection process from
here. Welcome, ladies.”

He reaches across to shake hands with each of us. I’m last,
and as our skin brushes I feel an inconvenient bolt of attraction that
manifests as one small, dumb butterfly trying to fly out of my stomach. My
cheeks redden.

This is not a good time, body, damn it!

Mr. King is tall and broad with chiseled features and a
tailored five-o’clock shadow. He looks something like a cross between that
model Johnny Harrington and David Beckham, but in a perfectly fitted suit.
There’s something magnetic about him. Power maybe.

And yup, he’s a redhead. Flaming. Suddenly it all makes
sense. My lips twitch involuntarily a smile.

Mr. King catches it and quirks an eyebrow. “Something
amusing?”

“No, no,” I stammer. His blue eyes burn into me, my gut
clenches, and I fumble for something charming to say. “Just briefly wondering
if maybe we’re related. You know.”

I glance at his hair and he laughs, breaking the tension,
and tucks himself into the massive leather chair on his side of the table.
Carrot-top sets his tablet down on the table on a stand, and I realize he’s recording
us.

No pressure.

There are exactly enough chairs for each remaining
applicant, telling me they had premeditated eliminating one of us right off the
get-go. We all sit, and I look around. The brunette next to me has her eyes
riveted on Mr. King like a worshipful teenager. Ew.

“The position is demanding,” began Mr. King. “Long hours,
international travel. The ideal assistant will be able to transition seamlessly
from providing a discreet hand in my personal affairs to maintaining flawless
support in Skollz Corp. Once hired, my assistant will be subject to an
extensive confidentiality contract and our company’s standard non-disclosure
agreement. I’m very serious about protecting the integrity of our vision as a
company. I warn you now; I am ruthlessly exacting in my standards and somewhat
difficult to live with. But I make up for it with nice presents.”

He says this with a wink, and the other two interviewees
twitter. But I’ve done my homework and know he isn’t just kidding around; I
read that he gave his Vice President an Island in the Mediterranean as a
retirement gift. Only, the guy hadn’t wanted to retire and it was sort of a
mandatory
gift
. I feel his north-sea bright eyes curiously flit over my
face. His gaze rests somewhere around my lips. I feel heat rush to my cheeks.

“To offset the high level of commitment and intensity of the
job,” continues Mr. King, “I aim to make the interview as brief and easy as
possible. I’ve already run background checks and am impressed with your
educational credentials, so this is really just about chemistry. I have only
two questions for you. Let’s dive right in. Number one, it’s your first day as
CEO of Skollz Corp. What would be the first change you’d make? Let’s start with
Ms. Walker.”

Our heads all swivel to inspect Ms. Walker, the pretty Asian
girl on the end. She blinks. “Um, I supposed I’d look at consolidating customer
service centers to one of Skollz Corp’s overseas locations, probably Mumbai,”
She says. “All of Skollz Corp’s competitors are doing it and I would want to
make sure not to lose the edge in efficiency.”

Mr. King nods. “I can see you’ve read about our layoffs in
Illinois. How about you, Ms. Peterson?”

The brunette next to me puts on a thousand watt smile and
bats her eyelashes.

Ew.

“I wouldn’t change anything,” she says, her voice bouncy.
“I’d spend the first day really getting to know people here and listening to
what they have to say, their concerns. Their insights and experience would give
me a good idea of the needs and next steps to take.”

“A team player, always good. And what about you, Ms. Clark?
” Mr. King turns his full attention on me with an energy and focus that make me
feel naked. 

I meet his gaze, ignoring my flushed cheeks. I could say
something pithy about business. I know about the acquisition difficulties they
are having with ElectricCub software, and have some opinions.

But those piercing blue eyes don’t seem like they can be
outsmarted in their home territory. I shift tactics.

“I’d paint all the walls,” I say, looking around the room
pointedly. “More color, more energy.”

He blinks at me. “Are you insinuating my tastes are bland
Ms. Clark?”

My eyes narrow. I sense he’s toying with me, the way Rachel
does. “I thought I was the CEO now, Mr. King. Change isn’t personal, it’s the future.
I think maybe butter yellow for the offices and French Provincial blue for the
hallways.”

I put on my best business smile. Now I can see the ghost of
a smirk around his lips and know I read him right, but the other girls are
staring at me like I have two heads.

“Touché, Miss Clark,” he glances down at the folder in front
of him and writes something down. “Using my own company’s slogan against me.
All right ladies, next question: it’s your last meal on death row, what are you
having? Back to you, Ms. Walker.”

Wow, that’s kind of grim for corporate America. But then,
I’d read that Mr. King is famous for unconventional interview questions and
startling negotiation tactics.

Ms. Walker frowns, obviously thrown. “My last meal?”

This clearly wasn’t on the list of questions she’s practiced
answering. She glances pleadingly at carrot-top but he’s checking his watch,
and then she locks eyes with me briefly. I can see a glimmer of panic and I try
to smile encouragingly.

“Can I just ask for clarification as to how this question
relates to assessing my skill level and compatibility for Skollz Corp?” asks
Walker.

Mr. King is a perfect gentleman, but it seems to me his eyes
go a shade cooler as he scribbles something down. “I’m just hoping to get to
know you a little better, Ms. Walker. Since my assistant and I will be spending
a great deal of time together, it’s nice to discover a relatable human beneath
the professional.”

“Oh,” she says, still frowning. “I see.” She pauses for a
long second. “My favorite meal is Thanksgiving, so I’d have a Thanksgiving
dinner. Tur-turkey.”

“A classic,” Mr. King says, smiling. Ms. Walker sighs,
relieved. “How about you, Ms. Peterson?”

Peterson preens, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “My
last meal, oooh,” she laughs. “That’s such a hard choice, I just love food.”

I glance at her stick arms and can’t help but raise my
eyebrows.
Liar
. I feel Mr. King glance my way and force my features back
to neutral.

“Well I’ve been a vegan for about nine years now,” Peterson
prattles, “And it’s really changed my life and my relationship to food, so, it
would have to be something vegan. Fear-free food. People don’t realize how many
great vegan options there are, especially in New York City. I love them all,
it’s hard to pick! If I had to have just one thing, I guess it would have to be
a big vegan enchilada with guacamole and rice. And maybe some dolce de leche.”

“Wouldn’t dolce de leche be off limits?” Mr. King says,
smiling. “You like breaking rules?” He’s toying with her, too. I feel less
special.

She laughs a little too hard. “Sometimes, but I wouldn’t
have to break any rules with vegan dolce de leche!” She wags a finger at him,
playfully biting her lip.

Ew.

“Ah, made out of tofu or something?” Mr. King flashes a
smile. He’s so pretty. I look away from his perfect teeth to Peterson’s
uncomfortably flirtatious grin. “Okay. Interesting. And Miss Clark, your last
meal of choice?”

I’m still staring at Peterson.

“Hm? Oh. Last meal.” Before I can think I hear myself say,
“Definitely whiskey. I’d need it to be whiskey.”

Carrot-top starts to laugh but disguises it as a cough. Mr.
King turns and looks at him pointedly before riveting me again with those
burning-cold iceberg eyes of his, scratching his chin. I notice how strong and
manicured his fingers are, then try to un-notice so that I can concentrate.

“Yes, whiskey and maybe pizza.” I assert. “New York pizza,
obviously. But mostly just the whiskey if it’s my last meal, as I don’t want to
feel anything that’s coming next. A whole bottle of whiskey, maybe a whole
barrel, and go out with a bang!”

Mr. King stares at me for a long moment and I feel heat
swirling in my belly. The corners of his mouth twitch. I can’t read him. Either
he stifling a laugh like carrot-top or he is offended. I mentally curse myself
for being so un-corporate. That was probably an inappropriate answer.