Tis eight a.m.
Ortega switched off the annoying alarm clock. Went back to sleep. It rang again. Not even a two-second power nap? Fine.
He rolled outta bed, stretched on his feet, and did butt-naked push-ups—fast.
By fifty he was already breathing hard but kept going till he reached a hundred.
At that, he stood up. Time was going, but he just picked up a water bottle, opened it, and refreshed.
Then he made his way to the mirror. Paused to look at his unmade bed, then was like—meh, I'll do it later.
After a bath, he toweled his black hair.
No lotion, just action as he wore his socks and slipped his legs one after the other into his slacks—ironed the night before. Then he buttoned his shirt, smirking and raising his shoulders at how dominant he looked.
After the last button, he raised his shirt and even flexed his abs!
Back to the wardrobe. He ignored the tie. Still angry he bought it. Today was a big day, and he thought it'd make him look professional. Ties weren't his thing though everyone else wore them. So he slipped his socked heels into his boots—gleaming with premium polish, and that meant polished by himself.
He draped his crossbody bag over his torso and left his apartment, speeding past his landlord's door opposite his. Before it opened, he was out of the block and speed-walking to the road to hail a cab. That was when Mr. Yugo called from his window...
"I see you, you young bastard. Think you can run away?"
Ortega scowled and entered the cab—thankfully, no one saw. And the cab driver wasn't a pokenoser. He owed rent, yes, but still, the man could at least be respectful about asking. He thought—even though he never greeted the man and had been in debt long enough that asking respectfully had died of old age.
Ortega's face was by the window as the beat-down parts of his neighborhood breezed past and gradually morphed, after turns and minutes, into upscale blocks. The taxi zipped past tall skyscrapers and billboards gleaming with the next big thing.
He didn't bother to check the time; he knew he was already late.
The vehicle parked in the driveway of a large, rich-ass, magnificent company. You could see Ortega's face perk up a little as he shifted in his seat.
He stepped down from the vehicle and looked up, taking in the sight before him.
Then he walked to the grand double doors.
The entrance was another world entirely, and Ortega had to shift aside as a woman tapped him to pass—he'd been too disoriented. His neck hurt from craning to see all the levels and floors looming above.
His breath shuddered as he surveyed the space.
Posh, glossy mannequins modeled the latest designs, and a giant flat screen displayed products for sale. He was in the lobby, and the receptionist's desk wasn't hard to find—a mahogany shelf ahead, manned by a slim, tall woman.
Ortega approached her.
"Hi, good morning," he greeted.
She was buried in her typing, very focused—and that soured Ortega. Greatness was before her and she didn't even glance up?
"Name?"
"Ortega Dyke. I'm here for the interview."
At that, she finally looked up. "Oh," she said—and Ortega sensed a tiny flicker of interest.
More keyboard clacks before she handed him a card tagged 6.
Ortega took it like it carried bad karma.
"I'm—can I have a better number… like 8? Definitely 8."
The receptionist just looked at him blankly.
"Lobby's on the third floor. Wait till your number's—"
Ortega had walked off, cutting her off. Then he remembered he was getting a job here and had to make an impression, so he turned back to correct that—but stopped himself halfway. Nah. He pivoted to the elevator.
He'd do with the six. Not getting eight still pained him though.
At the elevator he stopped, studying the mathematical array of buttons. Too many, too long—and he realized he was stumped. He thought of going back to ask the receptionist, but that'd minus points from his aura. So he waited for someone to come use it.
He'd make the first move then. What a chore.
Just then, a strong scent passed him, and he had to take a secret extra whiff. Then he gaped—the beauty beside him pressed the elevator button. He was already next to her, and they made eye contact.
If it could be called that. She wore shades.