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We head down the hall and into the breakroom to see a big cake with three names written on it. Then, Lisa insists we sing the birthday song to them before we cut the cake.
I feel like I’m in an episode ofThe Office. It’s so cheesy.
Carter comes in late, after the singing is done, of course, and Lisa offers him a piece of cake after she’s cut them all into neat little squares. It’s chocolate with strawberry filling and chocolate icing and I decide I’m gonna eat a piece because like Christa says, chocolate makes everything better.
I slice off a bite with the side of my fork and then shovel a big piece into my mouth while I make eye contact with Carter, who has refused a piece.
“This is really good,” I comment. “Happy birthday, guys,” I say to the three whose birthday it is.
Carter narrows his eyes at me and keeps his infuriatingly beautiful lips in a straight line, so I just lick the frosting off my lips while refusing to break eye contact. His jaw pulses like he’s annoyed or wants to say something, but I know he won’t.
“Hi, Mr. Lockwood,” I say in a tone that borders on flirtation. He wants to be a dick and treat me like I can’t keep it professional at work, then I’ll give him a reason.
He dips his head professionally at me in acknowledgment while I leave the breakroom with my cake, my mood a little bit lighter.
***
I’m going to throwup. I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.
I sit in my car with all the lights off, staring at some kind of warehouse-slash-massive office building. There are many luxury cars and even a few limos out here. What in the hell is this place?
I watch as finely dressed men and women go to the door, show something on their phones, and then walk inside. This area of town isn’t the best and I wonder what is going on. Some exclusive party?
Maybe it’s a Speakeasy?
I chew my thumbnail as I stare at the line of people waiting to get in. I have my window cracked and I don’t hear any loud music like it’s a concert or maybe some kind of Broadway-type show. Would be a weird location for one, anyway, but who knows what people are into these days?
I know I need a password to get in, but what do I do after I enter? What if it’s an awards banquet or something? But why would people pay $1,500 for an app and need a password to get into an awards thing? I quickly scrap that idea.
I guess I’ll never know unless I go inside. I’m dressed in yoga pants and a tank top after going to the gym, but I only did some weights and didn’t get too sweaty. I give myself a smell test and realize I don’t stink. I have deodorant and perfume in my gym bag, along with my work clothes, a skirt, blouse, and strappy heels. Guess that’ll have to do. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I want to call Christa so bad and have her be my wing-girl, but I’m already pressing my luck having hacked into the program to get this location and password to begin with.
I quickly change into the clothes in the front seat, pull the elastic out of my hair and hope it doesn’t look too bad as it falls around my shoulders, and put on some mascara and bright-red lipstick from my purse. After a squirt of perfume, I exit the car with just my wallet, phone, and keys.
There are about five people in line—all men. The one in front of me turns when he feels or hears me get in line behind him. His smile gives me the creeps and I feel icky when his gaze rakes me head to toe, lingering on my breasts longer than proper. A smartass remark wants to expel from my mouth but I decide to tamp down the attitude tonight. I just want to go inside and see what this is.
“I’m Tom,” he says, putting his hand out to shake.
I return his weak handshake and scramble for a fake name. “Jennifer.”
“Very nice to meet you. Where are you hanging out tonight, Jennifer?”
“Uh, inside there. You?”
He looks confused but says, “Well, I hope to see you in there.”
Then, he whispers something to the doorman, who’s dressed in a suit and tie, and then hands the guy cash, shows his phone, then goes inside.
What’s he looking at on the phone? What’s the cash for?
I panic a little but step up for my turn, plastering on a smile.
“Hi,” he says stoically. “Password?”
“Moorlove.”
“Awesome. Name?”
“Jennifer Smith.”
