Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“The assistant thing you mentioned at work? Oh right.” There’s a rustle as she adjusts the phone. “Yeah, did they ever say who the client was?”
I shake my head although I know she can’t see. “Nope. It’s all super hush-hush. They gave me a name, Sam Smith, but I know that’s just a fake name. But get this—they already paid me. Like, as a signing bonus or something. Three grand. Just for going through the interview process.”
Dead silence.
“Wait. Really? Three grand for almost nothing?”
“Yup.” I pull the comforter tighter, wishing it could block out the weird sense of unreality creeping in. “I’ve been watching the money trickle in in stages. And they’re legit, Mart. They have a real office, actual staff, all that.”
My friend pauses delicately for a moment.
“Kat. I didn’t want to say, but as you get deeper and deeper into this …”
“What?” I demand. “What have you heard?”
My friend sighs over the phone.
“Well, I’ve heard about Sweet Lies. That it’s not an agency. It’s a front. Like, for rich guys who want arm candy. Or even more.”
I try to laugh. “No, no, it’s not like that. I met the manager, and she was all business. She said she’s placed dozens, if not hundreds, of personal assistants in the past.”
Marta makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff. “Okay, but did you read the comments on reddit? There are forums. Girls post about getting flown to Dubai and stuff, and meeting rich dudes. And then the comments disappear like magic.”
I swallow. The comforter is now a strangling device. “This isn’t that. It’s just a personal assistant gig. I’ll be living in some mountain cabin, reading this guy’s drafts, making sure he eats food. He has a job, and isn’t some feckless Arabian prince spending Daddy’s money.”
“Uh huh.” Marta’s voice is soft. “So why’d they make you change your hair then?”
My body goes rigid. Even over the phone, I feel her eyebrows raise.
“I don’t know. Maybe the client doesn’t like pink. It’s not like I’m the only one who’s had to go corporate for a job. Lots of people dyed their hair crazy colors during the pandemic, and then once they were called back to the office, it was bye-bye. Besides, my natural color is easier to maintain, and if I’m gone for two months—”
“No, Kat,” Marta says in a gentle voice. “The pandemic’s long since over. And I just think it’s weird, like it’s a sex thing or a power thing.” She pauses. “Did they make you do anything else?”
I stare at my ceiling. The old water stain has bloomed into a kind of Rorschach. I see a bunny, and then a flower, and then a cloud. Go figure.
“No,” I say, too quickly. “Just some photos for an ID badge,” I fib lightly, leaving out the questionable parts.
“Okay, that’s good,” she says in an encouraging tone. “Although if you’re at a cabin, I’m not sure why you need a security badge.”
“They’re just taking precautions,” I insist. “And I have to be realistic. This is the most money I’ve ever seen. I can pay tuition. I can help my Mom. I’ll be safe. Don’t worry.”
She sighs, and the line goes quiet. “I know you need the money,” she finally says, softer. “Just promise me you’ll text every day. And if something feels off, you walk.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Yeah. Okay.”
“No, say it. Like, out loud. Promise you won’t get killed by some psycho with an axe and a novel about murder.”
I almost smile. “I promise not to get murdered. Or trafficked.”
Marta nods and then giggles. “That’s the spirit.”
I twirl a golden curl around my finger. “You know, I actually think I look nice with my natural hair, judging from all the attention I was getting on the bus. I’d forgotten what it was like to be a blonde. Maybe I’ll keep it after this.”
Marta makes a mock-gagging sound. “Ugh, they’re already brainwashing you. Don’t let them change your eyebrows too.” Her voice grows serious again. “Listen, Kat. You’re smart. You’ll figure it out. Just remember you’re worth more than whatever they’re paying you.”
“Yeah.” The word comes out as a puff of air. My eyes prick hot. I wish I didn’t need the job so badly.
We say our goodbyes and hang up. The apartment is back to its fishbowl stillness.
For a minute, I sit there in the dimness, knees to chin, staring at my closet door. The nude heels from Camille sit at the bottom, toe-to-toe, sexy even in the stillness. They look somehow vampy, yet innocent, and on impulse, I slide off the bed, cross the room, and slip my feet into them.
The transformation is immediate. The shoes arch my posture, make my calves flex, tilt my ass up. My reflection in the full-length mirror is all legs and blonde tresses—barely recognizable as the girl who used to scrawl poetry on takeout napkins.