His To Shatter (5 page)

“Where’s the interview?” Girard asked.

“Uh...Lexington and Fifty Sixth,” I said.

“Well, let’s get you a cab. That’s not too
far.”

“No,” I said, embarrassed, “I really don’t
have the cash...”

But Girard had already stepped up to the curb
and raised his arm to hail a cab. He was an impressive figure
against the endless stream of traffic. His body was perfectly
muscular, not like the swollen, gym-manufactured men I saw walking
around Manhattan all the time. His sharp eyes peered into the
oncoming flow of cars, and lit up as a yellow cab served toward the
shoulder. Girard smiled back at me and beckoned that I come take
the car. As I approached, he swung the door open for me. I nearly
laughed, it was so ludicrous that a man like Girard should be
attending to me.

I climbed into the cab and watched as Girard
slipped the driver a crisp twenty. As we peeled away from the curb,
I turned to take one last look at Girard. He stood on the sidewalk,
smiling after me. A rush of longing swept through me as the
distance between us grew. I was suddenly possessed with the urge to
leap out of the cab, run back to the stunning Frenchman, and give
him a proper thank you. But even as I watched, a disdainful Monica
joined him on the curb, clutched onto his arm, and drew him away
into the bustling crowd.

The full enormity of what had just happened
finally sunk in as I turned back around in my seat. I’d been
anxious about that day to begin with, but I never could have
anticipated such a horrifying, exhilarating experience. My mind
reeled as I remembered that terrible man on the subway. His foul,
deceitful spewing was almost as toxic as his pungent odor. But
worse than all that was how helpless he’d made me feel. Exposing
himself to me, threatening me, he had tried his best to take away
my power. That was something that I could not excuse, no matter how
pathetic the perpetrator.

Thank god Girard had been on that train with
me. If he hadn’t been there, would anyone have stood up to help me,
or would I have been left alone to fend off the drunken pervert’s
advances? I was filled with momentary fury at the inaction of my
fellow passengers. I’d always heard that New Yorkers stuck up for
their own. Perhaps, I allowed, they could tell that I wasn’t a real
New Yorker. Not yet.

I closed my eyes, remembering the clear-eyed
kindness that Girard had showed me. It tore at my heart to know
that I’d never see him again. I didn’t even know the man’s last
name. But it was probably for the best, I reasoned. He was clearly
a successful, wealthy, cosmopolitan man; I was a striving, broke
graduate student with no experience when it came to men. Parting
ways after our brief meeting was the best way our interaction could
have gone. Besides, it wouldn’t do to be distracted now, not when
so much of my future hung in the balance.

Drawing in deep, steadying breaths, I readied
myself for the interview. I’d been preparing for weeks, running
through every possible question that they might have for me and
then some. I was the right girl for the internship, I felt it in
the core of my being. Now all I had to do was convince them of the
same.

The cab pulled up in front of a gleaming,
pristine building. I stepped onto the curb and looked up at the
skyscraper towering above me. This was it—the meeting that could
alter the course of my life.
No big deal, right?
I thought
to myself. I paused before the revolving doors for just a second
before striding into the building like I owned it. Nothing—no bum,
billionaire, or jealous assistant—was going to keep me from what I
wanted.

* * * * *

Chapter Three

* * * * *

Stepping into the lobby of the skyscraper was
like being transported to another world. The moment I entered from
the revolving door, I knew that I had begun an entirely new chapter
of my life. No matter what happened next, I was now among the
people who walk into huge, shiny office buildings with a purpose. I
expected to feel like a fish out of water in the corporate
environment, but instead I felt emboldened. I had as much right to
be there as anyone else, and what was more, I had a destiny to
fulfill. I drew myself up and stole a glance at my reflection in
the front windows. For a second, I almost didn’t recognize the
woman standing there. She was confident, put together, and had an
air of determination about her. I smiled, wondering what my
fifteen-year-old self would have thought if she could see me then.
I had definitely come a long way since West Chester, and I knew
that there was so much farther to go.

Smiling pleasantly at the building’s security
guard, I made my way towards the elevators across the lobby. My
high heels clicked against the tiles, and the sound was music to my
ears. I felt like an adult for perhaps the first time as I headed
to my interview. Maybe it was simply the feeling of being in the
right place, doing exactly the right thing, that had me feeling so
buoyant. I was so relieved that the episode on the subway hadn’t
ruined my cool.

For a moment, I let the whole scene replay in
my mind. I remembered the deranged and disgusting behavior of the
drunk who had harassed me on the train; his acrid stink, the lies
he spewed, and the vile sight of his cock. I had been too mystified
by his exposure to react, but it turned out that I hadn’t needed
to. Out of nowhere, a stunning man had materialized and came to my
defense. His gorgeous face, impeccable clothing, and ballsy
handling of the situation had practically been super human. As the
drunk had become violent, my mysterious benefactor knocked him out
cold and whisked me off the train. The whole thing was almost like
a scene from a romantic comedy, except that it had taken such
disturbing twists along the way. That, and the fact that there had
already been a woman traveling with my savior.

She looked for the world like a movie star
from the fifties, and I had felt like a mousy little child compared
to her. Monica, as the man had called her, remained unimpressed by
his valiant rescue. They bickered like an old married couple while
I fled to get to my interview on time. Even up to the last moment,
the man had helped me—summoning a cab when I proved too distraught
to do it myself. Monica had called him Girard, a suitably elegant
and refined name for what seemed to be a perfect specimen of a
man.

I pressed the button to call the elevator, my
mind still caught up on this Girard character. Why had he been so
willing and eager to come to my defense? While I was being
harassed, not a single other passenger other than him had even
looked up. They’d all kept their eyes locked on their phones or
books, and pretended not to notice the fact that some horrible
drunk was whipping his dick out in order to humiliate me. But
Girard had leapt up straightaway, and truly saved me. It’s not as
if he were trying to seduce me, not in front of his beautiful
assistant. And he didn’t ask me for any kind of reward or even a
thanks. He’d simply done what any brave and decent human being
would have done. I remembered his slight but very sexy accent, and
I wondered if kindness were easier to come by abroad.

Maybe he really didn't have an ulterior
motive after all. Maybe he simply saw a person in distress and did
his part to help. I wished that I could have spoken with him for
just a moment longer. It would have been nice to thank him. If I
was honest with myself, I wanted to do a lot more than thank him. I
imagined what it would be like to get to know the man who had
rescued me. He could take me to all the best French restaurants in
the city, the most exclusive cultural events...and with a body like
that, he almost certainly would know his way around the sack. I
blushed, thinking of him in a way that was so explicitly sexual. I
was not the kind of girl who fantasized like that. I daydreamed
about romance, sure, but never anything so erotic. I was painfully
inexperienced with sex, and I never had the desire to gain more
experience with someone I’d just met, just for the sake of it.
How do French women ever get anything done?
I thought to
myself as the elevator door slid open.

One other passenger stepped onto the elevator
after I did, a man hovering around age fifty or so. He was a little
heavy around the middle, and not exceptionally tall, but his face
was much friendlier than I expected to see in such a corporate
setting. I suppose I expected everyone in the building to look like
they had just stepped out of an ad themselves, as silly as that
was. The man riding up with me had a perpetual little half-smile on
lips, like he’d just taken a sip of a very fine wine. His hair and
surprisingly bush beard were flecked with gray, and his eyes were
bright blue and very intelligent. He caught me observing him and
smiled a bit wider. I returned his smile, trying to remain as
confident as I had been the moment I walked into the building. I
had to keep up my morale through the interview, after all. So much
was hanging on that one short meeting.

“Don’t see many smiles in this place,” the
man remarked. “It’s nice to see a real one! Smiles are practically
an endangered species in the workplace.”

I laughed genuinely, feeling like I’d been
let into a secret club. “I’m sure there are some to be found,” I
replied. “Maybe you should keep one as a pet, so that you don’t
forget what they look like.”

“I think I already do!” he grinned.

We laughed together, and I turned back toward
the elevator doors. I didn’t want to take up his time with small
talk, but he seemed to be in a chatty mood.

“Are you new here?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m not even technically here yet,” I
answered, “I’m just interviewing for an internship.”

“An internship?” he said, “Isn’t that just
slave labor?”

“Some places it is,” I said, “But I’m sure
that’s not what it’s like here.”

“What makes you say that?” the man asked.

“I would just be really surprised, based on
Corelli’s reputation,” I said.

“Ah. What is Corelli’s reputation, do you
think?”

“Well...It’s the best,” I said simply, “There
isn't another international marketing firm that rivals it.”

The man smiled broadly, nodding his head. I
had simply told the truth—I wasn’t aware of a single firm that
could possibly compare to Corelli. But it definitely looked as
though the comment had made his day.

“What’s your name?” he asked me. “I
completely forgot to ask.”

“Oh,” I said, holding out my hand, “I’m
Madison. Madison Cleary.”

The man shook my hand firmly. “It’s nice to
meet you, Ms. Cleary. I’m Joseph. Joseph Corelli.”

It felt as though the bottom of the elevator
had fallen out from under me. I started at him, my jaw hanging
open. Could I truly be speaking with the man who had started
Corelli from the ground up? My heart began to race, and I tried to
remember if I had said anything silly or offensive. While sweat
began to bead on my forehead, he let out a light chuckle.

“Don’t worry. I’m really rather harmless,
unless provoked.”

“It really is a pleasure to meet you,” I
said, the words falling out of my mouth. “I just can’t believe my
luck! I would have thought that you teleported into the office, but
here you are.”

“Oh, no. I won’t have figured out teleporting
for at least another year or two,” he said. The elevator slowed and
came to a stop on the twenty third floor. The doors slid open, and
Mr. Corelli stepped out into his kingdom. I scurried after,
emboldened by having spoken with him. The office stretched out
before us, and I felt like Cinderella at the ball. Everything was
white and spotless, from the walls to the furniture, and even the
technology. The whole place looked like something out of the
Jetsons. I’d never seen a place that was so efficient and yet
glamorous at the same time. I was glad to have dressed up a bit for
the occasion, even if I was wearing black instead of white.

“Good morning, Mr. Corelli!” said the young
man sitting at the front desk. He looked for the world like a
fashion model—you could have split a hair in those cheekbones.
Corelli nodded and made his way into the office. After a few steps,
he turned back to me and beckoned me forward. I stared dumbly at
him for a moment and then began to follow. It seemed that he knew
what was in store for me at Corelli much more than I did.

We made our way through the gleaming white
office, and I tried very hard not to trip on my own feet as we
passed one high-tech wonder after another. Corelli turned down a
long hallway lined with doors and strode down it. He came to stop
in front of the farthest door and opened it without knocking.
Corelli strode into the room as if he owned the place—which, of
course, he did.

“Mr. Corelli!” exclaimed a voice inside.
“What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d sit in on the interview,” he
answered. I stepped into the room after him and saw three very
attractive people sitting behind a conference table, two men and a
woman.

“But, you’ve never sat in on an interview,”
said the woman. “You didn’t even interview me!”

“Well. Let’s just say I’ve taken a liking to
Madison, here,” he said, taking a seat beside his employees. The
three executive stared at me in wonder. I smiled gamely, but was
honestly mystified. What had I said to win Mr. Corelli over? We’d
just been joking around, trading pretty light banter. I took a seat
across from the impressive foursome and braced myself for a good
grilling.

“Do you know why I like you so much Madison?”
asked Corelli.

“I can’t say that I could pinpoint it,” I
replied, not wanting to sell myself short, but not wanting to be
presumptuous either.

“I like you because I can tell that you are
utterly yourself,” he said. “You’re not trying to be anything or
anyone that you’re not. And because you’re not constricting
yourself that way, you can be at your very best. Very few people
are able to be wholly themselves, I’ve found, but it’s an excellent
advantage.”