Modus Operandi

Chapter Two: Room 404

Room 404

I check my straightened hair in the visor mirror of my Mini Cooper for those pesky flyaway strands. It is still the same way it was when I left the house- straight. And I don't know what I would have done if it wasn't. I probably would never get out of the car. Honestly, I probably won't get out of the car now. I check the dashboard clock. 7:30. I'm half an hour early for my meeting with Demitri and my underarms are tingling with nervousness. I need a pep talk, but noone is around to give it, so I guess that just leaves me.

I already have the job, I shouldn't be so anxious. But from here, the only place I can go is down. How embarrassing would it be to be fired on the first day on the job by Demitri Hunter? Too embarrassing. I would be deemed unhireable. Undesireable. I would never find work in the state of Georgia ever again. Not even Checkers would hire me if they knew I was fired by Hunter.

Maybe it wouldn't be too embarrassing, even if he does fire me. After all, he is Demitri Hunter. The Demitri Hunter. People are out there, grovelling at his feet for an interview, a sighting, an in at this firm, and here I am, looking my gift horse in the mouth, what ever a "gift horse" is. What is a "gift horse," anyway? A horse that's a gift, or horse that gives gifts? Athena, cut it out! Focus!

Headlights flash by in the dark morning as a black Chevy Camaro pulls into the parking lot, gleaming in the street lights. I check the clock again, and my heart races with alarm. 7:43? When did that happen? It must have been while I was thinking about "gift horses..." Still, "gift 'horse'?" Why not "gift 'monkey'?" "Gift 'walrus'?" Uggh...

Before I can think of anymore stupid things, I snatch my satchel backpack from the passenger seat and shut the visor before exiting my little car. Good old Coop was a graduation present from my Godfather, Boppy (long story), and I love it and him dearly. Its shiny red paint makes me smile as I remember how he told me yesterday that Demitri Hunter is only a person, and he won't eat me alive. My confidence rises as I recall Boppy's encouraging words: He told me that I am an amazing, likeable girl, and that if Hunter doesn't like me, then he is not worthy of my presence.

With that pleasing thought, I slip my black 3-inch pumps onto my bare feet, straighten my black pencil skirt, and adjust my white bodycon long sleeved blouse. I leave my blazer in the car- its a bit warm out- and swinging my satchel over my shoulder, I began to stalk confidently up the cobblestone pathway toward the tinted glass doors of the firm. Once I am actually in sight of the doors, I can see my reflection, and I'm impressed. I start slowing down a bit to take in my appearance and search for any flaws I can quickly fix, when suddenly I'm joined by another figure on the pathway.

A young man, in about his 20s, fit and tall, wearing an expensive-looking suit, in one hand a briefcase, and in the other, a bundle of cloth that he pressed to his chest. His walk is brisk and his face is void of expression as he nears me from behind. I speed up a little and keep my eyes on him via the doors. He slides the briefcase to the crook of his arm and takes out a cellphone, on which he begins tapping furiously, unaware of my watching him closely. My eyebrows arch, and on reaching the door, I hold it open for him. He glances up from the device and does a little jog to catch up.

"Hey, thanks," He says when he gets to me, his deep voice just above a whisper. "I appreciate it."

He looks down at me, his hazel eyes like deep pools of honey, and gives me a once over. I cough a little. What the hell? Why is he looking at me like that? You have to be kidding me. I literally just got here and already there's a cute guy? I can't be distracted. "You're welcome, " I mutter, ducking my head and entering the firms large, spacey lobby.

The center of the lobby is occupied by a long oak reception desk surrounded by dark red and earthy woodland tones. The firm's logo, 3 intersecting Hs and an imposing Q, all a brushed silver, hangs on the wall above a older, red- headed receptionist's head. I approach her.