The Intern: Tyler, The Creator

4. Not My Name

The Next Day

It was the same thing over again.

This time, they didn't have a meeting, so they were all in their offices.

"Kim was literally in there for so long. Like, we know she's fucking Daniels but like, during lunch?"

I turned my head a little to hear what the group of three assistants were talking about.

"Girl shut up. You were literally flirting with Tyler the other day. Like you wouldn't fuck him during your break." One of them laughed.

"I was just being nice!"

"Mhmm. And all the arm touching wasn't flirting?"

"Okay so? he didn't stop it."

"So you'd fuck him?"

There was silence for a bit before I realized why.

"Shut up he's coming."

My eyes shot up at him, Tyler, which I'd also just found out his first name to be.

"Maribel, you get the contract I sent yesterday?" He asked of them.

It was the first time I noticed his voice; deep, a little raspy.

I looked over hesitantly.

She nodded.

"Forward it to Mercedes." He started walking out the office.

"I will! Have a good lunch!"

He looked back at her, a slight smile.

"Oh my god, do you think he heard?"

"If he did he's not making it obvious."

I rolled my eyes, chuckling to myself as I finished my fries. Work wasn't as boring when I had all this drama to overhear.

"Oh, you're the intern that spilled coffee on Tyler the other day–am I right?"

I looked up at a man I had seen in the meeting, I think he was the Daniels guy.

"I really didn't mean—,"

"Relax. Interns first week are always that bad. You'll get it," he smiled.

He was actually handsome.

"Thank you."

"Nia right?"

I nodded.

"Nia." He smirked slightly, saying the name to himself. "I'll get used to that. You don't have a face that's hard to forget." He made his way out.

I looked around me to see if anyone had heard, but no one had.

...

I completed setting the files in order, alphabetically. As I began to get up, a paper fell to the ground. I reached down, scrunching my eyebrows as I realized what it was; a check.

Pay to the order of: Tyler Okonma, Creative Director
Amount: Two hundred-twenty thousand dollars———$220,000.00
From: Mercedes Benz Advertising

"Lia?"

I looked up startled, immediately inserting the check back to where it had fallen from.

"I need you to add these contracts to the system, mark them paid."

It was Mr. Okonma—Tyler.

He didn't even get my name right. Who the fuck was Lia?

"Oh, I don't think I know how to do that yet—,"

I looked around for Emily, but she was gone. The office was pretty much empty, just some people on the phone around me.

"You can figure it out right?" He asked, sternly.

I was stunned, I didn't want to seem like I was incapable of anything.

"Mhmm."

He nodded, starting to head towards the door.

"Mr. Okonma?" I asked.

He stopped slightly, turning.

"It's Nia."

He raised a brow, "Ain't that what I said?"

"You said Lia."

Suddenly, his phone began to ring, and he answered it, leaving. He ignored me once again.

...

"Like what the fuck? Lia? It's not that fucking hard. Nia. Nia, it's three letters," I stammered across my room, talking to Aaliyah on the phone.

"Girl relax, it's your first week, they'll remember."

"It's like...they just make me feel so small. Like I'm stupid or something," I sat on the edge of my bed.

"Well...was the cute at least?"

I scoffed at the phone.

"Who?"

"Your boss!"

"I don't even see him that way," I yawned lightly, the tiredness taking over me. "But this other guy, Daniels. He was kinda flirting with me."

"Mhmm," she laughed on the other side.

"No I'm forreal. He said I had a face he wouldn't forget. And he was fine."

"You're stupid," Aaliyah chuckled. "He probably got a wife and kids too."

We laughed for a minute before I heard her yawn loudly over the phone.

"Call me when you get done with those midterms."

"Fuck...I know. Keep me updated."

I hung up.

I looked over at the pile of shoes next to my door, they were all thrown together messily. I walked over, fixing it. That was totally normal though, right? anyone would color code their shoes so they're perfectly in tact.

I made my way to the bathroom, washing my hands—next thing I knew, I had already washed them five times. Without even realizing it, I opened the tap, turned it off, opened it, turned it off again, just to make sure it was off—fuck.

I stopped myself, my OCD creeping up again. It pissed me off when I realized I was exhibiting those behaviors again. I bit my lip, cheek, trying to combat the desire to wash my hands for the sixth time.