Page 3 of Hooked on Dallas
The question catches me off guard. If I say no, will he fire me? I don’t want to stay until ten every night, especially sinceI am the only assistant on record that has to do so. The only way that is happening is if I get another raise. “Can we discuss a raise? I have worked very hard for Mr. Curran, but with more hours, I should be compensated fairly.”
De La Cruz interlocks his fingers and leans on his desk. “I show you just got a raise six months ago.”
This is where I need to lie on my charm and know my worth. Companies will not pay you more unless you prove to them why you are worth it. “If you look at my schedule, I have worked late every single night since that raise. Also, I could never use all of my vacation time since starting here because of the importance of keeping the clients happy. If we will be working later into the night and adding more hours to my schedule, then compensation is required.”
I try to keep my face straight, even though my head is telling me I’m getting fired. This man doesn’t know me from Eve and I’m here telling him it is imperative that he give me a raise. What the heck am I thinking? I don’t backtrack though, because being weak isn’t my thing.
De La Cruz pulls something up on his computer and clicks a few buttons. “It looks like I have some extra money on my AOP. The most I could do is a 7% increase.”
I place my hand on my knee and think about it. The increase is more than I got last year and will help me afford the apartment on my own, but I don’t want him to know that. You never take the first offer. “I was thinking more like 9%.”
He leans back in his squeaky chair. “You were, huh? How about we meet in the middle and do 8%?”
I stand up and extend my hand out to him. “That’ll do. If you’ll excuse me, I have many emails to answer and the phone has been ringing nonstop since I walked in here.”
If there is one thing no one at this office has ever said about me, it’s a lack of work ethic. I have worked hard for everythingin my life, and this is no exception. Without this job, I wouldn’t have a place to live or clothes on my back.
“Of course, we will have another sit down later.”
I stroll out of his office and sit down at my desk, squealing inside. Mr. Curran would have never given me another raise, so maybe I like my new boss a little more now. He doesn’t seem to be all that bad, so maybe the rumors are wrong.
He doesn’t seem so bad, but maybe he is keeping his crazy under wraps for the first couple of days.
“I heard he made his last assistant cry every day for a month before she quit,” Jenny says.
“Utter slave driver.” Mark babbled. “No lunch breaks, no personal calls. I’d start looking for a new job if I were you.”
I swallow hard, clutching the box of files to my chest like a shield. So much for my perfect attendance record and employee of the Month awards. According to the stories, these meant nothing to the likes of Mr. De La Cruz.
The walk down the hallway to his office is like heading to the gallows. My hands are clammy, and my mouth has gone dry. You can do this. Just keep your head down, don’t cry, and try not to hyperventilate.
When I step through the doorway, Mr. De La Cruz glances up from his desk, blue eyes peering out from under heavy brows. I brace myself for the barrage of insults and unreasonable demands.
Instead, he gives a curt nod and says, “Take a seat.”
I hesitate, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it seems the worst is over. At least for now. I sink into the chair across from him, clutching my box like a life raft in a churning sea. My new boss may have been less awful than expected, but surviving at Shark Island is going to take a lot of luck.
Mr. De La Cruz leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he studies me. My heart thumps wildly, like a caged bird desperate for escape.
“Let’s see if you live up to the hype.” He nods at the box in my lap. “That contains the Wilson file. I want it organized, cross-referenced, and summarized by the end of the day.”
My mouth falls open. The Wilson file is legendary, passed down for decades and containing enough documents to fill a small library. Organizing that in a single day is impossible.
Panic surges. This must be some kind of test. But what is the right response? If I argue, he might fire me on the spot. If I agree, I’ll fail and be fired, anyway.
Honesty is the best policy, even if it means walking into a trap.
“Sir, that file contains hundreds of thousands of pages. Organizing and summarizing it in a single day is impossible.” My voice shakes, but I hold his gaze.
One eyebrow rises. “Is that so?” His tone is mocking, challenging.
I grit my teeth. “Yes, sir. I’m afraid it is.”
He watches me, unblinking, and then the corner of his mouth quirks up. “Good. I want assistants who tell me the truth, not what they think I want to hear.”
I blink. Did I pass the test then? But his stern expression didn’t change.
“Get to work,” he barks. “I’ll expect a report on my desk by five, and it had better impress me.”
