His Accidental Personal Assistant

Chapter 2: P L E A

The place was overrun by noises all coming together at once to make an incoherent song. Amidst the ear-splitting cacophony of horns, squealing tires, and conversations in a dozen different languages, there was a constant clatter of feet striking concrete.

Billboards and tacky looking neon signs were everywhere, covering the towers that rose into the sky. Without regard, people carelessly hurled through the traffic lanes.

Amaris's chest tightened while she searched for a breath. Her insides sloshed around like a smoothie with chunks of fruit still left in it.

Behind the stack of signboards was an advertisement for a car accident lawyer, with an image of a woman in an impeccably crisp suit with her arms crossed. Every time she'd go to Amanda's, Amaris would pass the sign. It was awkwardly tilted at an angle so that you wouldn't be able to fully see it until you stepped a few inches back. It practically acted like an arrow to Amanda.

In the direction of the sign, Amaris began her journey westward. She went through the dense street, setting her sights on the curve ahead, determination streaming through her veins. She weaved between the people walking along the sidewalks,

She looked up at the towering, dusty terracotta-brick apartments, searching for Amanda's place. Finally, she saw a little wrought-iron balcony with a dead plant crawling over the bars. She knew this was it.

She rushed through the apartment complex door. She stumbled forward, flailing her arms in an effort to slow down her quickening pace. Her gaze panned the hallways ahead of her, desperately searching for what she was looking for.

"216, 216," she muttered to herself.

Suddenly she stopped, her heel pressing firmly against the ground, as she spotted the number 216. Finally, she found it.

She hesitated for a brief moment before lifting her hand to knock. Gently, she banged at the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

Silence.

She knocked once more, harder this time, with doubts and anxiety racing through her mind.

Knock, knock, knock.

Silence, again.

A pit of endless despair burdened her stomach, bloating her head. She felt like she was about to get a headache.

Did Amanda already go out? Was Amaris too late?

She ran her fingers through the roots of her hair. Her cheeks flushed with unbearable amounts of pink, puffing up toward her eyes.

This felt worse than when she didn't get the job or when Mr. Galloway told her off.

Suddenly, the door creaked open.

"Oh my goodness!"

Amanda swung the door wide open.

A soft scent of shea butter mixed with the heavy smell of grease followed her. She had bold eyes that had eye bags. Her waitress uniform, which was uncomfortably folded against her body, was held by loose belts and clothing pins cinched at her side.

"I almost thought you were my landlord!"

Amanda wrapped Amaris in an embrace, the warmth of her body radiating through the fabric of her blouse. She stepped back and opened the door wider, welcoming her in with a gentle smile.

The door led to the kitchen. It was a bizarre, tacky suburban kitchen overtaken by the scattered mess overflowing the room.

"I tried calling you like eight times—nine, even. What happened?"