“You know you can’t stay there forever. We have to leave in twenty minutes to get you to your interview.”
I groaned and reluctantly shut off the water.
“How the hell am I supposed to bluff my way through an interview for a position I’m not qualified for while nursing a hangover?”
“Easy. Tylenol. There’s some in the drug cabinet. My hairdryer is under the sink, and makeup is in the second drawer. I’ve laid out some clothes on the spare bed. Don’t worry if you look a little unkempt, that’s rock and roll, baby.” Holding up her index and pinkie fingers, she winked and sashayed out of the room, leaving the door ajar.
“I hate you!” I yelled.
“Wrong! You hate to love me.”
The bitch was right. I loved the shit out of her.
“Take a seat.Mr. Whelan will see you shortly.”
The woman behind the desk was what you could generously term ‘petite’, and I wondered if she was sitting on a stack of telephone books behind the granite counter. Her face was all angles, exacerbated by the severe bun she had scraped her blonde hair into. Tiny hands with wickedly long manicured nails tapped in irritation as I took my time looking around before moving to a bench seat along one wall.
Behind me, Ruby’s band was pictured in various poses of ‘rocking out’. It was a comfort to feel like she had my back, even if the real Ruby had squirreled straight through the looming red double doors at the other end of the room with a hasty thumbs up andgood luck.
On the opposite wall was another band poster, and no offense to Ruby, but these guys were much more interesting to look at.
So this is Goats and Vandals.
Front and center was a dark-haired god of a man with piercing blue eyes and a wicked smirk on his stubbled face. In the image, his hands were tucked into tight dark jeans, loosely holding a microphone by the cord so it dangled suggestively in front of his zipper.
Calix Quinn, the nameplate read. I wondered if it was a stage name. Maybe his mother knew he was destined to be a rock god from birth.
Beside him was a slightly thinner man with similar coloring. Full-length tattoo sleeves turned his arms into a living canvas beneath a torn tank. Without crossing the room, I couldn’t see them well, and something about that seemed like a crime. He held a drumstick between his teeth and his pierced tongue, one eye closed in a vicious wink. Tobias Quinn.
Damn. These guys had seriously good genes. The brothers were flanked by two more delicious specimens, but before I had the chance to give them the attention they deserved, a buzzing in my purse stole my attention.
An irritated tsk and matching glare came from the mini tyrant guarding the interview room.
“Hey, Ma,” I answered my cell with a grimace, though I was thankful for the distraction.
“How are you this morning, sweetie? You’re sounding a little hoarse.”
“Just had a late night with Ruby, Ma. She got a big tour opportunity.” My head throbbed, as though reminding me that my hangover was muted, not gone, and I dug through my purse to reassure myself Tylenol was close at hand if needed. Pulling out my water bottle, I drank deeply.
Ma made impressed noises on the other end of the line. “Such a clever girl. I knew she’d go far. Give her my best, won’t you?”
“I will, Ma. Hey, is everything all right? I’m just—”
“Oh! Everything is fine. I had a call from that lovely girl at the nursing agency. I just wanted to check if the invoice had made it to your virtual mailbox.”
“It’s called an inbox, Ma.”
“I don’t want you to feel pressured if you’re busy. I know you have so many important clients who trust you with their money, and they have to come first, but if the letter didn’t make it to you, I can check your address and have them send it again.”
I flipped my cell to speaker and brought up my inbox while assuring Ma it was no problem. I felt a twinge of guilt about not having mentioned my current bankrupt status, but it would be a non-issue in an hour or so…provided I didn’t screw up this interview.
At the other end of the room, the huge red double doors crashed open. I jumped and fumbled my cell.
“Fuck you! Fuck this place, I’m done! You couldn’t pay me enough to make me stay on this sinking ship. Enjoy your trip to Hell, fuckers.” A tall woman, built like a ballerina and dressed in Prada, stormed through the doors, turned, and started walking backward, flipping a double bird as she continued to scream obscenities. Her face was almost as red as her perfectly coiffed hair, and I watched shamelessly as this goddess of a human being lost her mind.
My own brain melted into mush as the object of her ire came into view.
His hair is brown, not black, was my first thought as one of the Quinn brothers appeared in the open doorway.
