CHAPTER 1
BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!
I sometimes forget to take into account, that my phone's vibrate mode, sounds a hundred times louder and more obnoxious when I leave it on my wooden nightstand.
To add insult to injury, it's not like I set up my alarm or anything. I was hoping to sleep in today and catch up on my work at a reasonable hour. Nope. It has to be a text.
Texts at this time in the morning are the cock block of my goodnight's rest. Perhaps I should've seen that coming before I signed up to work with this media production company: A.B.C. Studios.
I groaned and picked up my phone.
06:32 am. September 28th.
My text message icon has the number "1" in the upper corner. I opened it up.
Of course. My roommate and colleague: Courfeyrac.
Hy 'Ferrre uhg hangvero plz help!
I've gotten so used to his drunken slur of texts that solving them became a second nature to me. In thirty seconds I cracked his code.
Hey 'Ferre. Huge Hangover please help!
Usually, our Graphic Designer, Grantaire is the one who should be associated in this matter. But I think it's safe to say he has actually grown immune to hangovers. I know it sounds impossible, but you have to keep in mind; we live in a world where kids' ideas to go outside and play, are only to catch the rarest of Pokémon with that data-ruining app. Or that we have presidential candidates that make Panem from Hunger Games seem like a more stable form of government. Anything is possible, and therefore, Grantaire can grow immune to hangovers.
BUZZ!
I didn't even look at my phone. I huffed and got out of bed.
I exited my room and walked across the hall to Courfeyrac's room. I've dealt with his personality before…come to think of it I seem to have dealt with EVERYONE's personality before. I knew exactly how to walk around the bullshit and just be blunt.
I pounded on the door.
"OW! Do you have to knock so loudly?!" His voice moaned from behind the door.
I didn't even ask to open the door. I just walked right in. It's gotten routine by now, so I didn't really care.
"That's what you get for waking me up just to take care of you!" I said in a normal tone.
"Ugh! Why are you yelling?!" Courfeyrac grumbled, holding his pillow to his head.
"Yelling? Oh, I'm sorry. I did not realize I WAS YELLING!" I said, my voice growing louder.
For his part, Courfeyrac clutched his pillow with one hand, and presented the middle finger with his other.
"Well, it serves you right! Getting wasted the night before you have that big interview…Call me old fashioned, but people usually go out drinking AFTER they've nailed the interview. And before you can nail anything, you had to go get hammered!" I said.
"Look man…" Courfeyrac said under his pillow. "I forgot I had the interview today! How was I supposed to know the interview would happen right after our wrap party?"
"Wrap party? For what?! We produce mediocre web shows!" I pointed out.
"Hey! You know we're working on that!" He finally lifted his pillow off of his face.
"Our latest commercials are not making us enough money, Courf. You know that!"
"Hey! You knew what you signed on for when you agreed to run this studio with us!"
"Technically, no I didn't." I said honestly.
"Well, at least you did me a solid. After all, I had Prouvaire give your office a brand new makeover!"
"Which I did NOT ask for, nor want as I have mentioned in the past!" I pointed at him.
"Well can you do me a solid today at least?!" He asked, with his usual puppy dog eyes.
How the hell can his hungover brain function enough to produce his puppy dog face?!
"Courfeyrac, it took Feuilly months to secure an interview with this potential new client. Having them as a sponsor could really get us out of this pickle we're in. There is no way I am cancelling this interview!" I said.
"Wait…I'm not asking you to CANCEL per say…ow!" Courfeyrac said, clutching his head after emphasizing the word "cancel"
That's when he did his puppy dog stare again. "…no. No!" I said, backing away. "I do not do well with interviews and you know that!"
"Hey, Marius had the questions prepared! You can read off of a list can't you?"
"Did you check with him and make sure the questions are presentable?" I asked him.
"Yes, 'Ferre. Now can you please just do me this one solid?" He pleaded.
I tilted my head back and mouthed "Why me, God?" before looking at him again and saying "You owe me Big time for this."
He smiled and it looked to me like he was about ready to pass out again.
That's when I walked straight to his window, and drew the curtains open in one fluid motion, causing the patient to scream and shield his eyes in pain.
"Now we're even!" I said as I walked out of the room.
After I showered, got dressed, brushed my teeth, combed my hair and adjusted my glasses, I went over to my closet to see what I should wear.
I decided on a blue buttoned down shirt, black dress pants, my nice shoes, and a dark-brown suit jacket.
So much for my gym shorts and sleep T-shirt I grumbled.
Meeting Feuilly in the kitchen, I asked him what time he scheduled the interview for. I was hoping perhaps it could be 11:00 am so that I could make my grilled cheese sandwich and savor it before getting into my car.
When he said it was 8:30, I sighed and made my sandwich and had a brown paper bag ready.
When Prouvaire came into the kitchen I asked him to give me a run-down of what I was involuntarily getting myself into.
He explained that this is a corporation that funds non-profit organizations. The CEO apparently is extremely influential; whatever idea or proposition they offered, it happened no matter what. They turned heads in the political world with the amount of change they bring.
Whatever.
So I grab my sandwiches and put them in my bag, collect my binder which has all of the notes I need, and head out the door.
As long as I'm driving to the place now I might as well tell you what each of us does.
Courfeyrac Jackson is our Producer; Feuilly Woychek is our Talent Booking Agent; Jehan Prouvaire is our Social Media Guru; Marius Pontmercy is our Researcher and Content Writer Grantaire Ramirez is our Graphic Designer; Bahorel Westbrook is our set designer; Bossuet de Maux is our Cameraman; Joly Burns is our Editor.
Enjolras Travis is our talent whenever we aren't able to find any. He hosts his own show where he goes into these obnoxious political rants about local government and how corrupt it is. Imagine a watered down version of the Daily Show with Jon Stewart.
And as I have been seen to these guys as their Guide, they've selected me as their Director for the shoots. God only knows why they'd want ME to lead. It's not like anyone has respected me before, or have taken me seriously enough…
…sorry.
Anyway, we have an extremely small space. I don't even know how we were able to convince Mrs. Houcheloup to let us set up the studio down in the basement of her cute little coffee and tea shop called the Musain Café, but it's the best we could do.
Besides Enjolras's political agendas, we also are big on giving not-so-well-known people their limelight on our website. That is provided as long as they show up to do their talk shows.
I would be greedy if I said that they come around 20% of the time. Maybe they're too disheartened by our space, or how our videos come out.
Fuck! I thought to myself. I'm sounding a lot like Grantaire!
Well, another forty minutes of travel time later, and I finally arrived in the city.
Damn! I keep forgetting it's easier to take the bus into the city. But then again, how far of a walking distance is it from Port Authority to whatever building the interview is in?
So I pull my car into the first parking garage I could find. It was the Icon Parking System on North End Ave in the Tribeca section.
When I pulled over to the gate, the parking attendant asked me how long I was going to be here.
I wasn't sure how long this interview was going to take. So I just guessed at the top of my head and said "I'll try to be back here within the hour."
He nodded and handed me my parking voucher stub. I thanked him and exited the garage. I walked in the direction of the World Trade Center Tower. Enjolras likes to maintain his patriotism by calling it the Freedom Tower. I took a couple of moments to stare up and admire its beauty.
I stopped at a corner and opened up my portfolio binder, and looked at the information that Marius put together. Jeez…I sure hope it will be enough to get the sponsor.
If we managed to get the opportunity to collaborate with them, it would be pretty straight-forward: They fund our studio, and we advertise them via our made commercials.
I turned right away from the WTC, and walked along West St. I checked the Google Maps on my phone to give me the directions to the address I gave it.
When the little automated voice told me I have arrived, I looked to my right.
This building did not look like it was up for long. Stainless steel…windows that look like they're the length of the building yet no wider than a door's frame. From the layout of the building, compared to its' neighbors, this really belongs on the Avenue of the Americas by Rockefeller Center or Fox News.
I took in a couple of deep breaths and walked straight in.
I approached the receptionist.
"Excuse me? Hi, I have an appointment with…" I looked at the information Marius gave me. "Thenard Inc.?"
"One moment, sir." The receptionist said before picking up her phone. "Can I get your name please?"
"Well the appointment is registered for a Courfeyrac Jackson, but he actually had food poisoning last night…" I'm laughing on the inside. "…so I'm filling in for him. I'm his colleague, Combeferre Sanderson."
"Okay." The receptionist said hesitantly. Why the hell do receptionists/secretaries always have to have hesitation when they try to confirm things? And why do they always look at you as if you have two heads?
"Front desk, I have a Mr. Combeferre Sanderson here for an appointment with Thenard Inc.?"
I shifted from my toes to my heels in awkward silence. "Yes, but Mr. Jackson is reportedly unable to keep the appointment, so he sent his colleague in…okay. Alright! Great!" And with that she hung up.
"32nd floor." She said, motioning for security to let me through. I approached the third row of elevators, and entered "32" on the keypad, and waited for the elevator to arrive.
As soon as I stepped through the doors, I could've sworn I heard somebody mutter "Another one, huh?"
I turned around and saw they were looking in my direction. I didn't have time to ask what they meant before the doors closed tight.
The elevator moved a little faster than I anticipated. I nearly lost my balance. Before I knew it, the doors slid open right on level 32.
I approached the receptionist's desk.
"Mr. Combeferre Sanderson?" she asked. I nodded. "If you can just have a seat, I'll let Miss Thenardier know you're here."
I thanked her and walked over to the row of seats by her desk as she picked up her phone.
Miss Thenardier.
Interesting. Is the business name a take on her last name? Eh…I guess I'll never know. Judging by the looks of this place, there's no way she'll want to do business with us. This lobby alone was pretty much marble everything. It seemed to have a Ritz appeal to the interior design.
I'm sure Bahorel would go nuts over this place, and could be inspired to replicate our sets to imitate this lobby alone.
"Yes, ma'am. He's here…and I thought maybe you'd be interested to know…" I heard her talking quietly on the phone.
That's when I noticed there was a camera in the upper right corner by the elevator. It swerved towards my position and stopped.
"Yeah I definitely think so." She said before hanging up. She then stood up and looked in my direction. "Miss Thenardier will see you now!" She smiled.
I got up and thanked her. She walked with me to the hallway…where at the very end were to very large doors.
"Just go right in!" She motioned for me before returning to her desk.
I put a hand on the large door…it had a material of leather to it…strange. I twisted the doorknob open and peeked around the corner.
Holy. Shit.
The whole office was windowless. Whereas the lobby and the hallway were marble, her office was covered in rich mahogany.
In the center of the wall facing me, was her desk.
When she swiveled her large in my direction, I felt like my breathing pattern skipped a millisecond.
I was anticipating a much older woman, possibly in her late forties; perhaps the "Miss" came from a divorce I thought.
This woman couldn't be a day older than 24. She had her hair pulled back. It was straight and black. Her eyes were a cold black. She had on red lipstick, the shade of red that appeared intimidating. Her whole appearance was intimidating. And also, extremely hot.
What kind of tricks could she have pulled to become a CEO? And one as successful as this one?
"Mr. Sanderson?" She said.
I adjusted my glasses, and slowly approached her. "Yes. As it may have been brought up, my colleague was supposed to make this appoint…"
"You don't have to lie to me, Mr. Sanderson. He has a bad hangover, doesn't he?" She said with a firm authoritative tone.
My heart dropped. Did she do a background check on us?
Strike One.
I knew I couldn't try to cover for him nor explain myself. And there was something in her voice that told me I do NOT want to try and cross her, whether or not I needed her sponsorship.
"How did you know?" I chuckled nervously.
Her gaze did not reply with a chuckle…
Strike Two.
"If you were the original candidate for this interview, you would've shown more confidence in your entrance. You're clutching your portfolio binder rather tightly. The person that was supposed to come in this morning, as I've been told, has been described as perhaps an over-confident gentleman. I've also had my secretary do a brief background check on Mr. Jackson. He's quite the frequent bar hopper, isn't he?"
I was too paralyzed with fear to try and cover for Courfeyrac any longer. So I tried to soften the blow, knowing at this point the interview's botched and I can't save anyone any longer. Not this time around… "Well…" I began. "I'm afraid I'll have to admit that my colleague has a tendency to become the life of a party when he isn't working. But rest assured, when there's a job to be done, he's the man for the job!" I swallowed.
Her eyes lowered…what was she looking at? Was she seeing right through my panic?
"I don't think it's necessary for you to talk about your colleague's background any longer." She said flat out.
I involuntarily nodded. "Have a seat, Mr. Sanderson." She ordered. It took me enough courage to walk forward and to take the seat in front of her desk.
That was when she got up from her chair and I was able to get a good look at her. She was wearing a tight maroon buttoned down blouse in a black blazer, and an extremely tight pencil skirt.
Like when I say tight, I mean it looked as if it was painted on her lower body.
When she circled around her desk, I began to feel myself slide upwards against my one thigh. I quickly covered myself up with my portfolio binder. She stopped in her tracks. Shit…did she catch that?
"So let's get to the point shall we?" she asked as she leaned her body against the desk facing me. "Why should we here at Thenard Inc. hire your company to produce advertising for us?"
I swallowed hard. I opened up my binder without picking it up. Why the hell did I have to wear dress pants? Those just love to showcase erections.
"Well, at A.B.C. Studios, we believe in giving people that have never been heard of before, their own spotlight. We're a non-profit production company, just like Thenard Inc. is a corporation that specializes in non-profit organizations. We believe that we have what it takes to make sure your company is presented in a presentable way. Our social media expert, Jehan Prouvaire, has researched your company, and noted that there isn't really any video content available on your Facebook and Twitter pages. So we have a proposition that, we are sure will direct more people to your company, and see what you have to offer.
"Videos are a sure way to grab someone's attention in the world of the Internet. YouTube ads can be one man's worst pet peeve, but another man's inspiration. If you allow us to work with your staff, we can guarantee you quality that can turn heads."
I probably put on a little too much sugar coat on that, but I didn't know what else to do.
"Why don't you just be up front with me, Mr. Sanderson?" she asked me.
Is she seeing right through me? Am I that obviously nervous?
"You're lacking confidence. You're trying to sugar coat your profession. And yet I can see in your eyes and your voice that you do not feel confident about your skills." She placed her hands on her hips. "What are you doing after this interview?" she asked me.
My heart dropped again. If this happens again, I'll feel like my body is the Tower of Terror.
"Nothing that I know of. Probably catch up on some work at home."
"Do you have any future appointments to take care of today?" She returned to her desk.
"No. Why?" I asked. Why did I ask?
She pressed a button on her intercom. "Jane? Cancel my 9:00 today."
"Yes Miss Thenardier." The intercom replied.
My palms were beginning to sweat. "Oh please don't let me be in the way! That could be a far more important meeting!" I said nervously. Why do I keep talking! I must be sabotaging our chance!
"It's not important. And if it is, they can deal with it. I'd like to talk to you more."
That's when I remembered…which could save me a little face. "But I can't stay. I drove into the city and I didn't bring enough money to pay for longer than the one hour."
Combeferre, you have to be the biggest babbling idiot that has ever walked the planet! Hasn't Prouvaire taught you anything about TMI?
"Where did you park?" She asked me.
"The Icon Parking system on North End Ave."
She pressed the intercom again. "What's your car model and license plate?"
"Uh…it's a red Chevrolet Cavalier…license plate V24601…"
"Jane? Contact the Icon Parking garage on North End Ave. Tell them we're covering the charge of a red Chevrolet Cavalier, license plate V24601."
"No, really Miss Thenardier…" I tried to protest.
She held up a hand to me. I silenced right away. "Yes, tell them whatever time Mr. Sanderson gets out, they will put it on our tab." She looked at me directly, paused a moment, before continuing. "And tell them to put a VIP sticker on his windshield."
I was so eager to just run away…if only to keep her from seeing the panic attack I felt like I was going to have. This was nearly too much!
"Good." She said before releasing the intercom. "There. Now you have no obligation to leave just yet!"
The way she delivered that line…it almost sounded like a command.
"Now, let's talk about you, Mr. Sanderson." She continued.
"What…?" I stuttered.
"You're not confident. You're hesitant. There's something pulling you back when you talk about your profession. Is there something that's preventing you from expressing praise over your company?"
I completely froze. What could I say? She's seeing right through me and there's nothing I can use for cover…
"I've cancelled my 9:00 and I arranged for your car to have a VIP pass, allowing for you to keep your car in any garage you want in this city, for however long you want. I'm not letting you leave this office until you come right out with it and tell me."
Jesus Christ.
I've already hit two strikes, possibly more than that at this point. My escape plan was compromised with the garage. I had no way out. The only thing I could do was to take a deep breath and admit the flaws that I knew we had.
"I guess there's no way out of this…" I said to myself.
"Alright." I began aloud. "Although we are well supplied with the necessary equipment, it is all extremely basic. Our videos are not precisely top quality in terms of things like high definition, nor do we apply the world's greatest graphics. Our studio space is small; we practically film in the basement of a coffee and tea shop called Houcheloup's Musain Cafe. I'm surprised we were able to produce as much as we have in the past. What is stopping us from purchasing the right equipment you may ask? We are on a tight budget, we're only about less than a year into this business, and if you really want to know the truth, I honestly have no idea why I signed up for this…I feel like I was roped into it."
Strike Three…hundred.
I took a few deep breaths after practically rushing through that little rant. My heart must've obtained the Guinness Book of World Records for the fastest beats per minutes…
"There." She said, after clicking her pen closed. "Was that so hard?"
I was still panting…what the fuck just happened?
I was trapped into admitting the truth…something that I was sure would lose the sponsorship. I felt…violated.
My hands were shaking.
"Now let me ask you. If the obstacles you mentioned were taken care of, do you believe you will be more confident in your profession?"
I looked down at my portfolio binder. That's when I felt her presence come closer to me. She took her pen and used it to lift my chin so that I would meet her gaze.
God Damn it. I thought. Why does she have to be so menacing…and why am I being attracted to it right now?
"I do not like to repeat myself, Mr. Sanderson."
"S…sure. I…I guess it will make us be able to expand…and be recognized, like those we try to help." My voice cracked.
I could've sworn I saw her smile.
"Excellent." She said softly. She released her pen's grip of my chin and returned to her seat.
She took out her notepad, and tossed it to the front side of her desk.
"I want your name, email, name and address of the studio, or your residential one will suffice. And I want your cell-phone number."
Why…why, oh why did I not invest in an inhaler?!
"Does this mean…don't you want to look over our content and decide…"
"I've already seen it. Otherwise I wouldn't have agreed to the interview. And as far as my verdict, I want your contact information so that I may let you know if we can move forward."
Which could be a nice way of telling me she wants nothing to do with us at all…
"Am I going to have to ask you twice?" She huffed.
I quickly grabbed the notepad and filled out my information. What just happened?
That was when she stood up, reached into her blouse and pulled out a card.
She has pockets in her suit jacket and skirt and she's using her bra to store her cards?!
"If we do decide to move forward, expect a call from this number." She handed the card to me. I took it with a trembling hand. "Call it beforehand, and I will decide if I can allow you and your colleagues to work in your industry ever again. Understand?" she said sternly.
I silently nodded.
"Excellent. That will be all, Mr. Sanderson." She stood up. I got up quickly and walked with her to the door.
When I opened it and walked outside, she stopped me.
"And by the way, my name's Eponine."
I fast paced out of the elevator, ran to the garage as fast as I could, ignoring the VIP sticker that now seemed to have a permanent attachment to my window, and sped out of the city as fast as I could.
I didn't go home right away. I went to the closest L.A. Fitness I could find.
After parking my car, I hustled to the front desk, showed them my membership card, and jogged to the locker rooms.
I went straight to the showers, stripped naked and took a nice cold shower. I rinsed my hands, my chest, my body, my face. I don't even remember how long I was in there for. Eventually, I think I was simply catatonic. I held my hands against the wet wall, closed my eyes and just stayed in this position for God knows how long…
I have no words to describe what I was feeling. But it was far from ok. I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to vomit in the shower right then and there. It wasn't just the idea of fucking up the interview like never before…but it was the way that I felt pressured…forced…threatened…intimidated.
That woman was probably the most notorious, vicious, threatening and demanding human being I have ever met in my life.
And I am seriously turned on by her.
What the hell is it about her?! It cannot be just the looks. I don't stoop that low. There was nothing about her personality that should legally get me aroused.
So why do I still have a hard-on?!
And it didn't help the fact that I was in the middle of a men's locker room.
I turned the faucet off, grabbed my clothes, and got dressed, completely ignoring the fact that I did not have a towel, and just let my suit get damp and cold by the time I returned to my car.
As soon as I opened the front door, I closed it shut, fell back against the door and slid down to the ground.
"Holy shit, 'Ferre!" Joly exclaimed. "You O.K.?!" He asked worried.
"I…I don't know." I stuttered.
Bossuet heard the commotion and rushed over to me. "Jesus! What happened?"
"I don't know!" I repeated. "I just need a drink before I can answer any questions!" I said.
That was when Grantaire made his entrance. I swear, the guy has a sixth sense or something. "Sounds like my department!"
Eventually, when the whole group gathered, and after I've had maybe one or two glasses of whiskey, I've explained to them all what had happened. There were breaks in between, thanks to my panic attacks from bringing up the subject.
"Damn…" Courfeyrac said. "Does this mean we don't get the sponsorship?"
Everyone groaned at him. "That's kind of a dick thing to say don't you think?!" Marius said.
"Sorry! It's just with everything he's told us, it feels like the results could go both ways!"
"I don't see how…" I muttered. "I really must've fucked it up this time. I'm sorry guys…" I said, ready to hold my face in my hands. Prouvaire rushed to my left side on the couch and pulled me in for a hug.
"It's ok! From what you told us, Combeferre, it seems to me that she could've intimidated even Courfeyrac. Or any of us. You did what you could."
"Courfeyrac…" Enjolras said, with a glare. "If you ever put him on the spot again, I will kill you."
Courfeyrac only nodded and did not try to defend himself. His sense of guilt seemed nowhere near mine.