Page 14 of Drive
“He’s pretty blunt himself. You sure you don’t want to come back better prepared?” She glanced at my T-shirt.
I grinned. “You think a tie would dress this up?”
She shook her head with a chuckle.
“I agree, it’s abold statement.” I looked for any sign that she got myPulp Fictionpun and was disappointed when she missed it. “He wouldn’t happen to have a fetish for opinionated brunettes?”
“No, he’s more of a long-legged, silent but affectionate blonde type of man.”
I wrinkled my nose. “And a breast man, too, am I right?”
“Probably. Also, he’s close with his mom.”
“That’s a good thing. He might be a decent human.”
“He’s pretty much an ass,” she assured. We both smiled.
“NowthatI have plenty of. But I’ll just have to go with personality.”
“I’d hire you.” She winked as she picked up the phone and looked to me in question.
“Stella Emerson,” I announced proudly. “Estella for short.”
Her smile said she enjoyed my sarcasm. “Spanish?”
“Texican.”
She let out a loud laugh this time that caught the attention of everyone in the room behind her. I waved to those most aggravated faces with big eyes and dual-handed spirit fingers. Apparently, behind the reception desk is where happiness went to die.
“Nate, I have Stella Emerson here to see you. No, she doesn’t have an appointment—”
Before he could give an excuse, I gently gripped the phone away from her. She was more amused than upset. I liked her.
“Mr. Butler, I will only take five minutes of your time.”
Hesitance on the other end of the line and then, “Mrs. Emerson—”
“Miss.”
“Miss Emerson, if you’ll have Sierra make you an appointment.”
“Sierra?” I asked as I held my hand over the speaker. “I like it, good name. Your mother must love you more than mine.”
She just chuckled as I went on with my bullshit reverie.
“I’m here for my interview, sir.”
“I see.”
“We have an interview today—” I looked at the clock on Sierra’s desk “—at four thirty.”
A door opened behind one of the desks situated in the circular media room. I expected a bald man with wiry hair and a short temper to emerge. Instead, I got a copper-haired gent in a tailored suit who, across the desks, looked only a few years older than me. Phone in hand, he took one look at my appearance and sighed before he lifted the phone back to his mouth.
“Miss Emerson, I know full well you don’t have an interview.”
“Sexy voice,” I whispered to Sierra.
“I heard that,” he said, unimpressed.
