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"Johnny!" Cecile yelled as she burst excitedly through the door, a bunch of stapled A4 sheets waving carelessly above her body within her pale hand. He knew the sound by now of her heels from a mile away; they click, click, clicked along the tiled floor of her office.
My eyes rolled in annoyance. "You know how much I hate being called that," I reminded her, sifting through the scattered papers of my own.
Cecile giggled—something I find her not doing overly often. She often had too much of a professional facade on to even crack a grin, and yet here she was.. "No matter!" the woman said in somewhat of a sing-song voice, "Your favourite agent just got you a new gig!"
My fingers interlaced and elbows placed atop of the desk, "What? How did Lillium get me a new gig? I thought I put you on the job?" I asked, sounding serious but only joking.
Lillium didn't even work for me.
Cecile just rolled her eyes—knowing what I was implying.
Ignoring that, she went to sit on the desk in front of me, pencil skirt slid a little up her pale thigh. "All the details are right here," she said, sloppily planting the stapled sheets on top of my table and looking smugly over my face as if she had just presented me with a million dollars.
I raised an eyebrow and reached out to grab them off the desk, but as I did, they were shunned out of my reach.
"Cecile!" I yelled, reaching out again for one, quick, reflexive try before retracting the outstretched hand back to my person, a little pout on my face.
Cecile put on a quaint smile, clearly knowing that she was striking a nerve. She kicked her legs like a little dancer.
"You can have it . . . ifff . . . you promise not to have a hissy-fit when you find out where it's being filmed— and you also have to say that I am indeed your favourite agent. And not Lillium . . . because she doesn't even work for you."
I sighed, leaning my cheek on a clenched fist of mine. "You're technically my only agent," I said, unamused, "So that means that you're both my favourite and least favourite; always remember that."
She just simply lolled her head to the side and casually pushed the stapled papers back toward me with one finger, voice returning to a somewhat serious tone. "Don't say I didn't warn you, Johnny. You won't like where it's being filmed."
"John."
I took the paper from under her finger atop the table and hastily flipped the top sheet—reading, 'A Tale of Two Worlds', the title—to the side.
