Page 42 of Touch Me

“See? Don’t get discouraged.” She tilts her head in that pitiful, empathetic way I’ve come to hate so much. “We’ve got time.”

Do we? Have time? How long? How long before you realize I’m a freak of nature that will never be able to please you and you run away so fast, you leave a trail of smoke in your wake?

I nod. “Right. Baby steps.”

“Exactly.” She tries to give me a reassuring smile, but only succeeds in making me feel like a toddler that peed in his big boy underwear for the first time.

“I’m not that hungry, actually. I’m just gonna head to bed.”

She bites her lip and nods. “Okay. I’m not really hungry either.”

We put the food back in the fridge, and I turn the lights off, heading down the hall. Henry drags his big ass slowly off the couch and follows. We part at her door, and Henry looks at me, then back at Cassie. She opens her door and turns to say goodnight.

Henry follows her, and she smiles. Henry 2, Jace 0.

Fucking traitor.

TWELVE

SNITCHY BITCH AT SIX O’CLOCK

I’m here.I made it. The Marshall Building. Well, I guess I haven’tmade itmade it. I’m not getting paid. But I am standing here, looking up at thirty stories of glass, giddy on the inside for what’s to come. On the outside, I’m stoic and professional. You’d never be able to tell I have a million butterflies wreaking havoc on my insides. So much so, they wouldn’t allow even the smallest of breakfasts.

It feels good. It feels right, standing in my gray pencil skirt and matching jacket with a cream-colored halter blouse, all girlfriend-approved, of course. The main lobby is all-white marble, potted plants, and soft lighting. A receptionist desk sits in the front, with a bank of elevators to the right.

“Hello, can I help you?” The receptionist sings, a tiny pixie of a girl with blonde hair, a red dress, and too-bright pink lips.

“Hi, I’m Cassie Sinclair. Today’s my first day.”

She runs her finger down a logbook and smiles when she stops on my name. “Yes, of course. You can take the elevator to the sixteenth floor and, Julie will greet you at the desk. She’ll show you where you need to be.”

“Great, thank you.”

As much as I would like to leave the butterflies in the lobby, they enter the elevator with me as I select the correct floor. The door opens to a smaller lobby with an elongated desk housing three receptionists. Plush carpets and dark woods surround me. A woman in black struts from behind the desk and greets me.

“Miss Sinclair?”

“Cassie, please. Yes, that’s me.”

“Follow me. I’ll take you to your direct supervisor. She’ll show you to your workstation and help you with anything else you may need.”

“Thank you.”

We pass through double wooden doors leading to a huge open space. TV screens line the left wall, stacked two or three high in some places. Different news channels play on each, the volume down on most of them. The rest of the space is taken up by clumps of desks strewn about, some private-ish cubicles, and the wall down the right side of the room houses private offices.

The space is buzzing with activity, people milling about, fingers tapping keyboards, and papers being shuffled. Julie takes me down the right side and leads me to an office door that readsSamantha Rae - Floor Supervisor.

What a great journalist name. I wonder if it’s her given name or if she changed it for the industry like so many do. Should I change mine? Cassie Sinclair. I guess it’s okay. I haven’t had anyone suggest otherwise.

Julie speaks, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Mrs. Rae, this is Cassie Sinclair. Your new intern.”

“Yes, yes, right.” She’s perched behind a disorganized desk, pen in one hand, phone in the other, hair a mess, and lipstick smudged down her chin. Her head moves in quick, violent motions like an angry chicken, looking from her desk to Julie to me and back to her desk. “I, umm, have papers here for you to go through for HR. Where did they go?” She shuffles stacks of paper, knocks over her pen cup, and drops her phone. “They were just here. I left them out on Friday so I would know exactly where they are, and now they are nowhere to be found.” If I squint and picture a baton in her hand, I would swear she’s conducting an orchestra from behind her desk.

Well, that explains the hair.

Julie paints an uncomfortable smile on her face when our eyes meet. After what feels like an eternity, she interrupts the increasingly erratic display, probably in fear of hearing bones crunching when Mrs. Rae’s head gains enough momentum to spin fully around her neck. “Why don't I print off a new set and show Miss Sinclair to her desk.”

“Yes, yes, that would be fine.” She continues to shuffle around, but I think the threat of decapitating herself has passed. “I’ll come and find you soon and show you around.”

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