Bossy Daddy(5)

By: Mia Madison


“Yes Sir, human resources have her details and they'll invite her in to sign an intern contract.”

“No.”

“No? Sir?” All sixteen faces around the table look confused and I can hardly blame them – I'm treading close to the edge of irrational here and I know it.

“Just. Get. Her. Back.”

I spell it out for them all, slow and clear. And I don't care if they raise internal eyebrows. If they've got something they wanna take up, they can do it direct to my face. Which of course they won't. They'll just settle in together at lunch or the water cooler and chew over every last detail of my personal life. I don't give a shit. People have always gossiped about my exploits. They've always gasped at the outrageous stuff I've done in my pursuit of real living. I just wanna experience every last thrill this bleak world can give me.

Let them talk.

All I care about is capturing my next thrill – the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, back in my life at last.





Chapter FOUR


Carly

“You can come in now, Miss....”

The assistant doesn't even know my name. I'm just one of about a hundred girls sitting outside the boss's office, waiting to be given the once over by the human resources department. All this, just for a lousy intern job with no promise of full employment at the end of the three month term.

But like I said, I'm determined.

I'm not a sponger or a brat. I want a job but it's damn hard to find one in this economy. Maybe my dad has fallen on harder times that he's so anxious to get me out of the house and set up independently. Or maybe it's just Amanda's influence. Either way, I'm ready to savor sweet independence.

“Thank you, we'll be in touch.”

That's how fast it was until I was kicked back out to the street.

The human resources woman looked completely unimpressed by my work history, as well she should be. Barista, grocery store clerk, hmmm. Hello, shame.

“So have you ever worked in shipping sales before?”

“No,” I replied. Maybe too honest for my own good.

Doesn't everyone enhance their resume now? As in, lie big time.

“No office experience at all?”

“Um, no. Not really.” At all.

Looming up ahead I could see the only other job I'd been offered a trial at. Working the stripper pole was my future. Maybe they wouldn't be so picky. It was my father that had pointed out a wet tee shirt contest advertised outside a bar he parked in front of. I'm not completely convinced he was joking either.

But at the bottom of the poster there was a 'staff wanted' line. I'd thought that interview was for a club bartender so finding out it was for a dancer on a seedy stage came as a shock. But at least that interview only consisted of some guy in a tight suit ogling my tits (definitely not wet tee-shirted). That was the only prospect on my horizon. Maybe I didn't deserve any better.

“Well, thank you for your time,” the HR person said, not even looking up from her notes.

So much for determination. If I had any money I'd have gone to a bar to drown my miseries with a few cosmos. But cocktails are a luxury for working girls. Not drop outs.

So what now? I'll have to go home and face a disbelieving look from Daddy who'll assume I'm trying to wriggle out of getting a job, so as to sit around the house and attend to my pedi. People just don't understand that if you aren't a computer nerd or a banking dynamo, there aren't so many jobs to choose from.

I go into a 'Bucks and have to face the rolling eyes of the cashier as I count out enough change to pay for a latte. She knows nothing's going in the tip jar and I give her an apologetic shrug that doesn't go down favorably.

Ugh, I hate being in this situation. No one should be forced to count out pennies. The third time my table gets brusquely wiped down, I know my welcome in the cafe has expired. Nothing else to do but go home and wait for my father's disdain.

I'm half out onto the sidewalk when my phone rings. After digging around frantically in my purse, I pick up.

“Hello,” I say breathlessly, anyone would think I've been jogging instead of suffering missed call anxiety.

“Miss Tinder?”

“Yes, this is Carly Tinder, who's this?”

Are we always so suspicious of people we don't know on the line? It's not like she's calling to announce the end of the world. I'm still nervous about getting a call from strip club guy.

“Sharla James at Stack Industries,” the officious voice says. “We'd like you to start tomorrow if you're still available.”

“Oh. Yes, I am. Available.”

Like I'd have been offered another job in the last hour.

“Should I come in to sign-?”

“The job isn't at Stack,” she cuts me off. “It's at one of our subsidiaries.”

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