The Position 3 (8 page)

I throw my purse on my desk and collapse into an armchair. “Just tell me what you’re talking about. Seriously. Give me a little context here.”
 

Devon sits on the arm of my chair. “Chance called and said…”
 

“The project is off,” I interrupt.
 

“No way!” Nate shouts, waving a hand at me. “Are you kidding? That guy is creaming himself over your idea. He’s not letting it go that easily.”
 

“He said he doesn’t want to deal directly with you anymore,” Devon explains. “He either wants to go through me, which seriously sucks for me, or through one of his assistants. Of course, he wouldn’t say why. I can only guess.”
 

I lean my head against the cushion and close my eyes. Just the thought of it all makes me exhausted. “Fine. Let’s just say, Chance isn’t exactly a gentleman.”
 

“I knew it!” Devon yells at the ceiling. She points at Nate with a look that’s half angry half smug. “Didn’t I call it? Before we even pitched him! You can predict this shit. See it coming a mile away! I know my man types.”
 

“And he is…?” I ask wanly without opening my eyes.
 

“Grade A Narcissist. With over the top sexual entitlement. What did he do? Now I have to know.”
 

“Don’t worry about it,” I grumble, half opening my eyes. “Just be satisfied with knowing that you were exactly right. So, I’m still on the job?”
 

“Not only are you on the job,” Nate gushes. “The press has been calling wanting to talk to you. Word is out that Chance Monroe is going to open a nightclub in Denver and the entire world is falling on its knees. And when they found out that the designer is a kid fresh out of college, you became the insta-story of the mo.”

“The mo?”

“The moment! Mickey! You’re going to be the It girl for the day. The local celeb du jour. They want to interview you this afternoon for the Channel 4.”

My stomach does a backflip. “Are you kidding me?” The thought of being interviewed on TV is the most exciting and terrifying thing I can imagine. “Today?”
 

“You’ll talk about the butterflies,” Devon blurts out excitedly. “And don’t forget to mention the firm! I mean, we’re the ones who set your own little butterfly wings free.”
 

I nod stupidly. “Where is this happening?”
 

“TV studio,” Nate calls over his shoulder as he turns to go back to his desk. “I’ll chat over the address.”
 

Devon ruffles my hair and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “Don’t let it fluff up your ego too much. You’re too young and new to become insufferable already.”
 

“Gimme a break,” I mutter, already lost in thought. I’m going to be on TV, interviewed as a real nightclub designer. It’s surreal. Everything is beginning to turn around for me. I catch a glimpse of myself in the dark computer screen. “Jesus, I better go home and shower!”
 

I promise Nate and Devon I’ll be back later, grab my purse and head for the door. Just as I step out the door, fumbling through my purse for my bike lock key, I run into someone who is standing, unmoving on the sidewalk.
 

“Oh, sorry,” I mumble, barely looking up.
 

“Sure you are.” The voice is so familiar. I snap my head up in surprise. Travis is there, arms folded across his chest, grinning at me. “Already turning into one of these automatons who walk around the city without ever looking up?”
 

“Hey!” I step forward hesitantly, wondering if he’ll allow a hug.
 

He scoops me into his arms and spins me around. “I wanted to see you.”
 

I nod, hoping that everything has gone back to normal between us. “Oh, yeah? What’s up?”
 

Travis gives me his fake angry face. “What do you mean, what’s up? You’re my best friend, aren’t you?”
 

“I…” I squint up at him through the brightness of the morning. “I guess I’m not that sure anymore.”
 

Travis hooks an arm through mine and pulls me down the sidewalk toward my bike, which I know he would recognize anywhere. “Don’t be an idiot. I wondered if you’d be up for having dinner with me and Liz tonight. She’s dying to see you, too.”
 

I arch my eyebrows. “You two back together?”
 

Travis is grinning ear to ear like a sheepish little boy. His dark curls are mussed up in the stylish way Liz always liked so much. “I just may be hitting the end of my long run as a bachelor and a cad.”
 

I give him a genuine smile. “Well, I think that’s great. And I’d love to see you both. But I can’t tonight. Will you call me?”

“I think I can manage that.”
 

I grin happily. Travis helps me unlock my bike and then gives me another hug. He beams down at me with his usual sweet openness.
 

“It’s so nice to see you, Mickey.”
 

I ride home with a million thoughts colliding off the walls of my brain. The TV interview, which terrifies me but I know will be awesome. Travis coming back into my life. Chance not firing me from the project…well, not really. And of course, Lazarus. Lazarus, Lazarus, Lazarus. It feels like that moment in a jigsaw puzzle when everything starts to fall into place, and every piece that goes in just leads to another. My life is very nearly complete.
 

As I pedal past the design and dev shops with their charming red brick facades, I become vaguely aware of a car tailing along behind me. I glance over my shoulder. It’s a black town car with tinted windows. Even the windshield is tinted, which I thought was illegal. Whoever is inside is completely obscured.
 

I make a right, even though it’s not the way home. My heart leaps into my throat as the car turns right as well. I begin to zigzag up and down streets at random, choosing the most unlikely routes, but sticking to increasingly busy streets, just in case. The town car follows me. At last I turn onto Colfax, which is jammed with traffic. I weave in and out of the lanes, passing all the cars. I chance a look behind me. The town car is stuck a half block back, totally locked into the traffic.
 

I take advantage of the opportunity and haul ass. I cruise through a red light, nearly getting myself killed, duck into alleys, and speed down the last street until I reach my apartment. Without even stopping I leap off my bike and throw it over my shoulder. I unlock the downstairs door and dash inside.
 

When I turn around a look through the glass doors, the street is empty. I race up the stairs until I’m inside my apartment. And I flip and chain every lock.
 

Chapter Fourteen

Devon picks me up to take me to the television studio just before three o’clock. I try to act as normal as possible, even though I’m feeling paranoid as hell. My eyes can’t stop flicking back and forth out the window and checking mirrors. Is somebody following us? Will the town car be back? Did I really manage to lose them in traffic? Do they already know where I live?

But I don’t say anything to Devon about it. There’s a niggling fear inside me that I imagined the whole thing. When my mom was in her early twenties, she first starting showing signs of mental illness. Whatever it was, she never fully accepted it. She’d go off on bouts of insane paranoia and irrational rage. Of course, she didn’t see the purpose of any medication, outside of booze, of course. And believe me, that didn’t help a friggin’ thing.
 

More than anything else, I fear going insane like her. Mom’s delusions and episodes come and go, and could probably be managed by medication.
 
Still, I don’t want to turn into her. And now all I can think is that I imagined the whole car chase. That it’s starting. Just when things are finally coming together for me, my sanity is beginning to slip away.

“Nervous?” Devon glances over at me, smiling warmly. “You’re pretty quiet.”
 

I nod and return her smile. “I guess. I’ve never been on TV before.”
 

“You’re the perfect face for our film right now,” she assures. “Young, beautiful, hip, confident. You’re feeling confident, aren’t you? Because you should. Your idea is aces, the project is going to be amazing, and your presentation was charming enough to convince a movie star.”
 

I roll my eyes. “Don’t remind me.”
 

She laughs. “Just remember, you earned it. You belong in that interview chair.”
 

The studio is a lot smaller than I expected. Beyond the waiting room is a news set and a weatherman platform, and a back area behind a series of thick glass windows where a crew mans the controls. It isn’t time for the live local news for a couple of hours still, so the receptionist leads me in to a part of the set that is just two chairs in front of a dark backdrop.

“You’re kinda shiny,” she squeaks in a little girl voice. “Let me get you some powder.”
 

I sit tensely in the chair and cross my legs. First one way. Then the other. Neither feels natural or right. And my face starts to twitch self-consciously. All of my gawky, geek-girl habits seem to be creeping back. What am I doing here? I’m a strictly behind the camera kind of girl.
 

The receptionist returns with an oversized poof that she uses to tamp down the shine with powder. She cocks her head as she works. “Do you have lipstick? You’re going to want some color or your face will just wash out.”
 

I nod and nervously dig through my purse. With shaky hands I put on a layer of color and rub my lips together. “How’s that?” I ask.
 

She dabs at a few places along my lip line with her index finger and smiles. “You look gorgeous! The camera is going to love you!”
 

She takes my purse to hold behind her desk and gives me a wink. Just then, another woman strides out from the back room. She’s in her 50s and dressed in a smart navy skirt suit. She has black hair with an elegant white streak at the front. Pressed against her chest is a clipboard. She extends her hand as she crosses the room.
 

“Diana James,” she announces in a husky voice. “Producer. We’re so excited to hear that Chance Monroe will be opening an exclusive business here in Denver. You must be thrilled to be chosen as architectural designer. Being such a pup, and all.”
 

I shake her hand, wondering if she notices that my palms are sweaty. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. And yes, I am thrilled.”
 

“Mark should be out any minute. We’ll be editing the interview so don’t be nervous. We can take out any stammers or mistakes. Just relax and have fun.”
 

I nod and watch her leave the room. She’s one of those classic professional women born for this world. The kind you can’t intimidate. She strides when she walks. She’s a strider. And that’s what I want to be. I’m getting closer, but I’m still not a strider.
 

I feel the phone buzz in the pocket of my suit jacket. I glance around, wondering when the news guy will come. Then I fish out my phone and look at the message. My stomach flips with giddy excitement. It’s from Lazarus.
 

“Looking forward to doing it all again. See you tonight.”
 

I feel the dopey grin stretch across my face and I can’t make it go away. Just then, the news guy, Mark Ableman, comes in. He’s wearing a brown sports coat with a beige tie, his hair lacquered into a swoop across his forehead. His nose is buried in his smart phone as he zombie walks across the room. At the last second before reaching my chair, he looks up.
 

“Michaela Clark!” He gives me his cheesy local news guy smile. “Great to have you in! We’re all so excited about the club!”
 

“Thanks.” I try to say it loudly, but it comes out pretty quiet. “Thanks for inviting me.”
 

Mark Ableman settles into the other chair, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Which camera is starting?” he seems to ask to no one.
 

Then from somewhere in the control room, a voice comes over an intercom. “Camera left, Mark.”
 

He nods and gives me his phony smile again. “Ready to rock and roll?”
 

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I am.”
 

After a little camera set up and back and forth jargon, the camera light glows. I take a deep breath. And then we rock and roll.
 

By the time it’s all over, I’m so spent I turn down Devon’s offer to go to dinner to celebrate.
 

“Come on! You were amazing! Smart, articulate. Gorgeous. I mean, Jesus! Live it up! You’re young! Know how to recognize your triumphs, no matter how big or small.”
 

But I can only think about one triumph, Lazarus in my bed. And all I want to do is go home and wait for him to arrive.
 

“I promise,” I mutter. “Next week. We’ll bring Nate and do a proper cocktail hour. But I need to get home and chill out.”
 

Devon shakes her head with disapproval. “So true what they say. Youth really is wasted on the young. At least it seems wasted on you sometimes, goody two shoes.” She gives me a wry smile and a wink. “Go chill out. Next week, we party.”
 

When I get inside my apartment at last, I lock the door and collapse on the sofa, truly exhausted. But happy exhausted. It’s the kind of fatigue I’ve always longed for. The kind that comes from hard work and success. After a power nap, I get up and check the refrigerator for wine. Check.
 

I take another quick shower to be sure I’m smelling nice. Then I brush out my hair and fix my makeup. I throw on a tight body tank top which accentuates my boobs and a pair of jeans. My heart won’t stop racing. I sit on the couch and watch TV, but all I can think about is Lazarus’s hands on my body. His mouth. His body. The waiting is excruciating.