Madison's POV
"Okay. Okay. I might go for the interview. I'll keep you guys posted," I say, more than ready for a new topic of conversation. Brooke beams, but Stella only shrugs. I don't think there's any coming back from the "no longer calling the shots" situation for her.
"Now, enough about me. Let's get to the juicy part. Brooke, tell us about your disgustingly raunchy, sexy, luxurious honeymoon!" I playfully nudge her.
"I'll do you one better." Taking out her phone, she starts to scroll down for photos and videos. "I'll show y'all!"
For the next couple of hours, our corner is filled with gasps, squeals, and excited chatter.
I put off telling Jordan for another day.
It was great to get clarity from the girls, and I finally decided I would go for the interview, but I wanted to give it a few more hours before taking the next step.
Things that appear to be a great idea during a night out with cocktails often become ludicrous in the light of day.
It's ten o'clock on Sunday morning, and I'm sitting in my kitchen after my second cup of coffee. I still haven't changed my mind, so I call him.
"Hello, Madi!" I hear noises in the background.
"Hi, did I catch you at a bad time?"
"I'm on my way out of town, just about to hop on the jet, but it's always a great time for good news."
"What good news?" I question.
"That you changed your mind, of course!"
Seeing an opportunity to mess with him, I jump on it. "Actually, no…"
"Really?" Jordan interrupts, his tone filled with disappointment.
"I'm kidding! I decided to attend the interview, but I'll have you know that it was after a lot of arm-twisting from my friends."
"They sound like sensible friends; keep them," he replies.
I only laugh.
"Seriously, you made a good decision, Madison."
I hope so. "So, did you need a resume or something?"
I dread having to submit resumes. My education doesn't come across as great on paper when compared to others with shiny degrees from prestigious colleges, but my skills and creativity more than make up for it.
Unfortunately, a resume is often the factor that determines if you get a foot in or have the door slammed in your face.
"No, someone from IT will call to go through the preliminaries with you. His name's Sajid. It's just an informal chat, we won't be assessing you on that, so don't stress. Once that's out of the way, he'll email you other requirements to get you properly set up."
"Sounds good."
"And can I check that you're fine with real-time demo interviews?"
Seriously?I don't want to brag, so I simply say, "Yeah, I can do those."
"Sweet. In the meantime, if you have any questions, you can text me or Sajid."
"Alright, thanks, Jordan."
"No, Madi. Thank You,"he says and I disconnect.
That wasn't too bad for a boss, now was it?
Is it going to be too much to ask that Calhoun Kennedy and Mike Waldrow and all the other fifty thousand and one bosses I'll have at Acercraft have the same sunny disposition?
****
Clonmel, Ireland, 10 years ago…
The sounds of the incessant drip, drip of water into the nearby muddy puddle is comforting. Proof that time is passing, and it will soon be morning. I haven't eaten in almost two days. I shiver and huddle closer to Twiggy's sleeping form, but I'm too cold and hungry to sleep. I pull on the corner of the tattered, smelly blanket we share, waiting for sunrise, and then, it's a couple more hours' wait for people to start milling around the busy O'Connell Street.
Yesterday was a bad day. The stores closed early, and Nuba's, the pastry shop that saves leftover orders for us, doesn't open at all on Sunday, which is why we didn't eat. Thoughts of croissants from Nuba's and coffee keep me sane.
All too quickly, the day warms and it's time to go searching for our next meal. Then, we'll be off to find a fat pocket to pick. And depending on our luck, the next hit might be closer than we think. Twiggy is better with the pockets, but I'm great at getting free food from shop owners, something he says has to do with people not being able to say no to me.
The day suddenly becomes unnaturally bright and warm. I'm no longer cold. It's now sweltering hot under the blanket, like a furnace. The smell of freshly baked bread makes hunger gnaw on my stomach. I know it's too soon for the shops to open, the whatever I'm smelling is just a figment of my imagination, conjured by my hungry belly. Still I leave Twiggy and run into the street, searching frantically for the source, my black curls falling all around my face. I ignore the alarmed and disgusted looks aimed at my disheveled state.
Suddenly, the people on the street fall away, leaving only one tall, smartly dressed man walking slowly and eating a sandwich, his wallet peeking temptingly out of his back pocket.
As I follow my quarry with purpose, the day seems to get warmer, melting my misgivings. The mouth-watering smell grows stronger in my nostrils until I bump right into him, and in the next moment, his wallet is in my hand. He freezes as if somehow aware of what I'd done. I expect him to turn around, but he doesn't, so I look up. And the man is suddenly looking at me.
Which is impossible because I'm staring at the back of his head. His horrific, bright yellow eyes narrow with hatred and disgust, and before I can run, his fingers close around my wrist, twisting into grotesquely scaled talons. I look back up, and his head morphs into Calhoun Kennedy's distorted face, complete with an evil grin.
He opens his mouth, and a horribly loud beeping starts, getting louder with every second. I scramble backward in fear, screaming untilI'm jarred awake by the impact of my shoulder on the hard floor of my bedroom.
The loud beeping of my alarm clock continues.
A fucking nightmare. Panting and slick with sweat, I squint at the offending alarm clock.
And fly up from the floor into the bathroom.
Holy shit! I slept through my first three alarms. And now, I'm late for my interview at Acercraft.
The interview is supposed to be in two stages. In the first stage, the challenge is to find and fix a bug, and the second stage happens precisely thirty minutes later, which is the actual presentation of the debugged version of the code.
I brush my teeth in record time and splash water on my face. Eyeing the dark patches of sweat on my shirt, I already know I'm too sweaty to get away with not having a shower. Crap!
It's the stupid Clonmel dream again. Happens every single time I have something important going on. And what the hell was Calhoun doing in the dream this time? It must be because I know I'll be seeing him today.
Yeah, why not fuck with my head a bit more, Calhoun Kennedy?
I'm in and out of the shower and drying my hair in under five minutes.
I run back into my room and hurriedly pull on clothes, stopping the still-beeping alarm clock as I pass by it.
It's 8:20 now. My interview slot is at 9:20, which means I'm fucked.
Because it takes forty minutes on a good day to get to Midtown Manhattan, even on my motorbike.
Still, I keep it moving. Remembering Brooke's advice, I pick a dark green, fitted shirt, and flared leather skirt paired with sheer tights for warmth and cycling shorts to avoid flashing everyone on the I-495.
My skirt is probably shorter than office folk would like, but hey, I'm not employed yet.
I lace up my boots but throw black suede pumps in my backpack to change into upon getting there. A quick dab of moisturizer and a swipe of my favorite burgundy lipstick, and I'm set. I pause at my reflection, wondering if Calhoun would look at me like I don't belong in his company.
You, on the other hand, ought to invest in a truth filter and a sober stylist.
I remember how his eyes bored into the innermost part of my soul, making me feel like an impostor.
I shake off the feeling. He's just a spoiled, rich boy. What does he know about me? About having one's life reduced to ashes and building it back brick by painful brick?