BadBoy Carter

Chapter 3: Avery

I fire off a message to Neil—Shit. Shit. Shit. I don't got this! I don't fucking got this!—as the taxi pulls to the kerb in the drenching rain. Horns are already blaring behind us in the type of impatience only a deluge siphons out of people. To avoid being the target of further beeps and volleys of cusses muttered behind closed windows, I scramble out of the taxi so quick:

     a) I almost forgot my purse inside,
     b) my right damn heel catches on the edge of the car door and almost sends me sprawling onto the rain-battered sidewalk. Thank god I hold the door frame in time,
     c) I have ten minutes to get up to the thirty-fifth floor for this interview, the interview I've been preparing for a whole week now—curse Syndey traffic and my damn decision to cab it here, and
     d) the minute I step out, sans an umbrella—thank you unreliable weather app—I'm drenched, down to my underwear. Yep. Of all the days to misplace my nude bra, today wasn't it!

The ominous clouds haloing the building seems to laugh at me. Can this day get any worse?

My phone vibrates in my hand and glance at it.

Neil: Tits up, Harlow. You got this!

I itch to fire back, 'Tits up?' how old are you? But I'm so late I fear they won't even let me in the building let alone interview me. I rush across the wide footpath until I'm under the large cement sail-like awning of the building in question before I'm swept away in the rain.

I don't know who Neil's smooched up there to ensure I will be one of the top candidates, but I feel my luck runny out. Lateness isn't going to win me favours but—

I peer past my soaking white shirt, at the unfortunate black lacy bra underneath and pout. Neil said to make an impression, and if what they say about Carter Thebes is true, my turning up in this odd version of a wet T-shirt contest will surely win me his attention. And that's what I want. His attention.

It's worth a try.

I groan. It's not like I have a change of clothes tucked away in my bag anyhow. So this is what Thebes is gonna get. A head-to-toe, soaked Anna.

Avery. You're Avery now. AVERY.

I glance at my watch—4:49. I have exactly eleven minutes before I'm officially late.

Without further ado, I dash madly for the main doors, almost slipping on the cobalt tiles. I bet I look like a foal on ice. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Inside, I carefully run across the tiled lobby, leaving a trail of droplets in my wake, and slip into the lift just as it empties. People are already heading home for the day and here I am, hoping to bag Nina's old job looking like I'm late for a Coyote Ugly The Musical audition.

The air inside the lift is cold and I try not to shiver, tapping my foot to the house music that plays in fancy lifts. Warm thoughts, Avery. Warm thoughts.

"After all this effort, at least let me get interviewed!" I pray under my breath till the lift stops and the doors open. And the moment I see the woman's face in her expensive champagne-coloured skirt-suit, I know it. This interview is doomed. Forget about being one of the main candidates, I'm barely hanging onto the bottom of the ladder.

"You must be Avery." Her pretty face briefly contorts into a sour lemon. To say the woman is unimpressed by my tardy arrival with five minutes to spare might be an understatement. Not only have I arrived last minute, but I've arrived looking like I'm the entertainment for a bachelor party. My white shirt clings to my body, spelling out the contour of my bra like a neon sign in the middle of King's Cross. Great. Fucking great.

"I'm sorry. It's raining, and the traffic is horrible," I blurt nervously when she asks me to take a seat, scanning me from my wet toes to my wet head. "I hope I'm not late."

"No. But bear in mind this is only a preliminary interview, Miss Honey. Not everyone makes it to the next round." Her disdain for me is plain on her perfectly frozen face. "And normally, Mr Thebes wouldn't even be interviewing you, if he hadn't insisted he needed to sit in on these."

"Of course." I try to smile, to smooth out my skirt, to not look as awkward as I approach the fabric-upholstered seat.

"So count yourself lucky." She disappears into the huge office behind the opaque glass and my stomach turns sickly.

Tits up, Harlow.

The thought almost has me chuckling like a loon in that empty waiting area, because my tits are very up, thanks to the damn push-up bra.

I wait for nearly ten-fifteen minutes. By the time that door opens and that razor-straight brunette bob pops back out and says, "Come in," I'm no longer dripping rain like I'm made of water, but I'm freezing, and shivering has set in.

I gather my bag as quickly as possible and plaster a smile on my face. I hope my lips aren't blue beneath the lip balm, or the goosebumps riveting my arms are too obvious, because ready or not, here I come, Carter Thebes. And I hope to god you'll like me.

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