Note: Please bear with us. From the next chapter onward that hot and sexy Cajun will be a major player. And you will not be disappointed. We promise :D
Mix 'n' Match
(2) Looking Forward
It was just another beautiful, frosty, sunlit Thursday morning, disrupted as usual by the alarm going off at 7:00 on the dot. Jean groaned, rolled over, and reached out for the clock on her bedside table. Why was it so difficult to turn the damned thing off? In the end she could only resort to giving the contraption a hefty smash of her fist. The alarm died with a withering croak.
"Owww," she muttered under her breath, nursing her aching hand. Memories of the previous night came flooding back to her – a party at Rogue's place, fuelled by maybe a little too much alcohol… This was not going to be a good morning.
Beside her, her fiancé was stirring.
"Jean?"
"Morning, Scott," she murmured, leaning over and giving him a dutiful kiss on the cheek.
"You're up early," he commented when she had pulled away from him.
"Gotta be at the surgery early today," she informed him as she reached for some underwear and her clothes. "I have some patient's files to sort out."
"Thought you were going to do that yesterday evening," he replied, sitting up slowly to watch her as she went to turn the shower on.
"I was otherwise occupied last night," she explained. "Didn't you get my message? Me and the girls went over to Rogue's for a get-together."
"Again?" Scott frowned at her as she went to retrieve a band to tie up her hair. "You met up with them last week."
"So?" Jean asked a little irately, as she tied back her long, flaming red locks. She knew by now that Scott hardly approved of her choice of friends, but that didn't mean she was going to stop seeing them.
"So, I worry about you," he returned. "You didn't get back until midnight yesterday. And you smelt of drink when you came in."
Jean stopped, passing him a marked look through indignant green eyes. "What? I thought you were asleep when I came in last night. You mean to say you really stayed up to check on me? Scott, I can't believe you!"
Seeing how much he had annoyed her, Scott pulled aside the bedclothes and walked round to face her. "I'm sorry, darling," he apologized, enfolding his arms snugly round her waist. "It's just that those girls are rather wild…And I get worried they might lead you astray…"
"Scott…" Jean sighed, wanting to tell him once and for all that her friends were really none of his business, but she felt too tired to do so. And besides, he really was so gorgeous with that tousled brown hair of his, and that lean, muscular torso… And those arms that just made you want to melt into them… "Scott," she started again softly, "you know me better. I'm the one who keeps those girls in check. Besides, I only had a couple of glasses of wine, and then me and Betts and Emma took a cab home. See? Nothing to worry about."
"Okay, okay," he finally conceded, kissing the tip of her nose affectionately. "You know I just can't sleep well at night unless my gorgeous fiancée is lying next to me…"
He kissed her, and Jean responded with all the passion she could muster. She just wasn't in the mood for being all lovey-dovey – it was far too early in the morning and she really needed a shower to wake her up.
"Listen," she murmured, breaking the kiss and disengaging herself from his arms. "I've really gotta go get ready, honey. But how about we meet for lunch? I should be free by one O'clock."
"Sounds great," he whispered, leaning forward for another kiss. Jean gave in, glancing over his shoulder at the clock as she did so.
It was going to be a long day.
-oOo-
Now this is sweet.
It's already eleven O'clock and I'm still in bed. There are definitely some advantages to being unemployed – unfortunately, the hangover I have right now isn't one of them. The pain is throbbing between my eyes like a jackhammer crashing against my skull. Grumbling under my breath, I slide out of bed to be greeted by my hideous reflection in the mirror across the room. Did I really forget to take my make-up off last night? I have mascara streaked across my cheeks and lipstick stains on my chin. A lock of white hair is matted over one eye. I look terrible. I feel terrible.
I grab a shower and stumble downstairs feeling somewhat better until I notice the list I'd put up on my fridge the night before. It takes me a minute or two to remember what it is. While I'm putting the coffee machine on, I read it over a couple of times. Geez, I really must've been drunk last night. As I survey the mess my friends and I had made of the living room, I decide that the second point on my list – namely, tidying the apartment – doesn't seem very appealing right now. I'm in two minds as to whether I should just tear the whole damn thing up, but on the other hand, I feel a lingering sense of resolution and decide this is one list I really ought to follow. Maybe.
After breakfast I lounge on the couch and switch on the TV. It makes me realize just how much crap they put on in the mornings. Jesus Christ, no wonder that housewife in the apartment below me has gone insane! I switch off the TV in disgust. I start to tidy up the living room, but decide I really can't be bothered to do the washing up so I leave that in the sink – along with the past couple of day's worth of already dirty dishes. I stare at the list on the fridge again. It's torturing me. So I get out a book about a murder mystery in a fashion house that Betsy had lent me about a year ago. After two pages I remember why I gave up reading it in the first place. Damn.
Okay, it's day two of being unemployed and I'm already as bored as hell. Sure, I'd originally thought that this was going to be a lovely break from the working world. I'd have time to find myself. I'd have time to get in touch with the natural surroundings and perhaps take up painting or photography or something artsy along that line.
But after an hour of attempting to draw a dog and coming up with something that resembled something more like a cross between a duck and a cow, I realize that this art stuff just isn't me. Besides, this whole spiritual crap about 'finding myself' is really a bunch of bull. I mean, I already know who I am. It says so right on my driver's license. Is there really anything else I have yet to know?
I trudge into the kitchen to pour myself a drink. And what do you think I end up looking at? Yup, that damned list, with that first line glaring out at me – find a job. So why not, dammit! It's not like I really have anything else better to do. I decide to be sensible and have a go. Realizing that the first thing I'll need is a resume, I switch on my old dusty Pentium two computer (Hey! With the price of a computer, I can buy a whole new outfit from head to toe – is there really any other option?). Finding my resume – that hasn't been updated for at least two years now – I gasp at the horrifically dull document. Even if I add that I've been working at Joe Co. for the last two years now, my resume still looks as if it belongs to someone who's just graduated from college with barely the grades, which isn't so far from the truth since it did take me an extra year to complete my degree, because… Well, better not to go there, girl. That was a period of my life I'd definitely rather forget.
I look at my skills section and realize that the best asset I have written down is that I'm extremely organized (a skill that would be completely disregarded if someone looked around my apartment just once). It doesn't take me long to realize that I need to spice up my resume – drastically.
Cracking my fingers, I begin prettying up my words and occasionally stretching the truth here and there.
Hmm… Bilingual in English and French. Sounds about right… so, maybe I'm not technically fluent in French but I did take French all throughout high school so that must count for something. I'm pretty sure that once someone gets me started, all that knowledge will come back to me. And I'm sure I learned a lot… though in all honesty, the only thing I can recall is how cute the quarterback, Freddy, was, and how I had desperately wanted to jump his bones. Hey, I was young and the hormones were out of control then, it's only natural.
Let's see… GPA upon graduating… I think I had something like 3.32. That sounds about right. Sure, I'm thinking that it might have been more like 2.33 but all numbers ultimately mean the same anyway… it's not like they really exist. It's all a concept in the mind. What the heck? I'm already full blown lying anyway, I might as well put down that I graduated with honors as well!
I mean, aren't resumes supposed to just grab the employer's attention so they'll call you back? It's not like they really expect all of the things to be true; and once you get that call for the interview, all you have to do is show that you're competent and bang, you're hired!
So, while I'm at it:
Word Typing Speed: 90WPM
Extensive knowledge of Microsoft Office
Completed a First Aid course with certification
Completed a year of traveling around the world with Peace Corps.
Fine, even I have to admit that the last one is rather outrageous so I delete that. But I do change my being bilingual to trilingual, because technically I do know Spanish. How? Well, when I was little, I'd be home alone after school, so I had to go over to the old immigrant lady down the road until my momma came back. All she spoke was Spanish and I must have understood her or how else would I have managed to understand her wanting to watch Spanish soap operas with me every day? All the dialogue from those ghastly shows must have sunk in, right?
I click 'print' and before I know it, I'm already returning to my apartment feeling quite satisfied with myself. I've dropped off ten resumes in total at all different types of firms, some that I frankly don't even remember the name of. But it doesn't matter. What matters is that I should be getting a call back soon.
And by golly, that night I do. However, there is a slight problem… the receptionist spoke to me in French. Apparently, the firm is called Laurier et Lauriel Co., since it was founded by two Frenchmen who took a chance in New York just after the Great Depression.
So, the conversation kind of went like this:
"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Raven. Nous avons reçu votre résumé, et vous etes qualifier pour la position. Est-ce-que vous serait libre pour un intervue, demain après-midi a deux heures?" the cheery, heavily accented voice talks at the speed of a machine gun going off.
"Ahh…oui?" I answer, not quite sure what I'm saying yes to, though I believe she did say the word 'interview'.
"C'est parfait! Demain après-midi a deux heures. Au-revoir."
"WAIT!" I cry, while trying to find a pen and a piece of paper.
"Oui?" she asks, surprised by my outburst.
"Umm…can you…non, ahh…," I scratch my head as I try to recall how to ask her to repeat what she says then decide to try my luck by trying to make 'repeat' sound French. "Ré…pétez?" I offer, praying that she will understand.
"D'accord. Demain après-midi a deux heures – comprends?" she replies, rather slowly.
I jot down what I can, and mumble a quick "Merci" to her before hanging up.
So, I'm pretty sure I have an interview although when exactly, I'm not quite so certain. Not to mention, where the hell is Laurier et Lauriel Co. anyway? And what do they do? Oh gosh… I guess the first thing is to figure out when the hell my interview is.
So, I pick up the phone and dial Emma – after all, she is fluent in five different languages, French being one of them.
"What do you want?" she answers rather rudely, even for her.
"Well, hello to you too," I say rather sarcastically, peeved that she's being so off-hand to me when I'm obviously her favorite.
"Yeah, hello. But, babe, make it quick. I'm in a rush," she says and actually sounds it.
"Oh well, in that case. What the hell does, 'De man a pray me dee a deus airs com pra' mean?" I question.
"Tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock, understand?" she replies.
"Thanks! I guess my pronunciation isn't that bad after all," I state, feeling satisfied with myself since Emma understood what I was talking about.
"If that's all you need, then I'm gonna go. And Rogue, your pronunciation is that bad. Fortunately for you, my French is impeccable. Talk to you later!" And she hangs up on me before I can make my retort – though, I don't actually have one so I'm slightly relieved that she hung up on me.
Now that I know what time my interview is, all I have to do is find out what the company is about, what position I applied for and how to speak fluent French within the next twenty four hours.
Oh boy…
-xXx-
Unbuttoning the top of her gray Versace blazer to expose breasts that looked as though they were fighting to get out of her tight black corset top, she leaned back in her chair as she tapped an agitated finger on the table.
Signaling the waiter over, he scurried quickly to her and asked, "What can I get you, Ms. Frost?"
"The time, and another brandy," she requested in a tone that merely said she wasn't one to tolerate incompetence.
"It's half past seven, and the brandy is coming right up," the waiter replied and hurried to fulfill her order.
"The bastard is half an hour late… I'll teach him not to mess with my time…" she grumbled while her eyes remained focused on the entrance. Tonight was supposed to be the biggest deal of her professional career. The Frost Marketing Firm was about to make millions if this merger went through. But to do so, she needed the signature of the man who owned the other Firm – the slightly more powerful company. And by the look of it, he wasn't taking this deal as seriously as she was and Emma Frost hated when people don't take her seriously.
She didn't fight off three siblings to become the CEO of Frost Industries so arrogant men like him could blow her off as another simpering woman who'd submit to his will at a drop of a hat. If he thought he could get away with a game like that, he would have it coming, because an angry Emma was definitely the most vicious kind in this messy world of business.
"Hello, Emma. I deeply apologize for my late arrival. I hope you haven't been waiting long." A masculine voice interrupted her thoughts, as he took a seat from across her.
Narrowing her eyes at her potential business partner, she stated icily, "It's quite alright."
"But you do look lovely tonight," he complimented her and flashed her a smile.
She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes as she feigned a modest smile at him. "Thank you," she managed to spit out though she was fuming inside. His very presence was enough for her to hate him already. He had unruly long blonde hair, and though he was dressed in a handsome pinstriped suit, she couldn't but feel that he was trying to patronize her in some way. She couldn't stand men who tried to push her around, so she quickly got to business.
"Well, Warren, let's lay out the facts and get this over with," she began brusquely.
"Without a drink for me first, Emma? That isn't very good business etiquette, is it?" he asked, pointing out her failure to offer him a drink.
Annoyed, she immediately snapped her fingers and her waiter arrived with a glass of brandy in his hands. "Here you go, Ms. Frost," he said and placed it in front of her.
"Thank you," she replied with a certain amount of condescension before raising an eyebrow in her rival's direction. "Mr. Worthington?"
"A scotch on the rocks would be great," he answered, bemused at the way she was obviously getting impatient with him. To him, Emma Frost was simply another woman who thought she could join the ranks of the richest men in the world by trying to conduct herself like a man. Yet it was obvious to him that when she was desperate enough, she would resort back to womanly tactics, using her sexuality to her advantage. He was onto her, and he was ready for anything she swung his way.
"Now that that's out of the way, let's get down to business," she began again irritably. "Basically, this merger would mean that we would have the top marketing firm in the country and undoubtedly would attract an influx of clients. I've calculated that our earnings could increase by five fold within the next two years. I really don't think this warrants much of a discussion, Warren. All that needs to be done is for you to provide a signature..." So saying she slid a piece of paper across to him.
Smiling at her brisk, no-nonsense attitude, he casually took the paper in his hands while he scanned it – thoroughly. After a few minutes, she hissed, "Well? Aren't you going to sign it?"
Chuckling at her impatience, he said, "A little eager aren't we?"
"Warren, cut the crap. You know as well as I know that this could be the biggest merger of the year, and with that portion of the company alone, we could basically shut down the rest of all our operations and still bring in the same amount of money," she reasoned.
"I don't know, Emma. Considering that my company is what would be attracting the clientele, for Frost Industries to gain fifty percent of the profits doesn't seem quite…right," he ended slowly and placed the paper down on the table.
Glaring at him, she tried to remain calm. She'd never liked Worthington. Since the first day at the same Ivy League School their parents had sent them to, she knew that she hated him. He was pompous. He was arrogant. He was conceited. Not to mention, he'd rejected her advances all those years ago. And she didn't like it when she didn't get what she wanted, then and now.
Of course, she hadn't the slightest desire for him anymore, but she craved the merger more than anything.
"Warren, let's be reasonable. My firm has just as many clients as yours does. We agreed that fifty-fifty would be fair," Emma said in a calmer voice, trying her hand at reasoning with him, just in case he'd momentarily forgotten what was at stake.
"Emma, we both know that my company is the older and more trusted company. You know that you need us more than we need you," Warren stated coolly and leaned back while the waiter placed his drink in front of him.
"You know that this merger would be as beneficial to you as it is to me. Don't try to deny it." Emma hissed while she was restraining herself from slapping him in the face.
Warren simply downed his drink in response, got up, and prepared to leave. "I'm going to have to re-think this, Emma. Perhaps we could get our lawyers together to discuss the technicalities of this contract. I'll have my secretary call you," he said briskly.
She stood up in a hurry, seething. "You're not going to back out on me now, Warren. Don't you dare mess with me."
"No offence, Emma, but threats aren't going to motivate me to sign the merger any more than the rest of the crap you've been laying on me so far. We'll sort this out, but excuse me, I'm late for a date. And, dear, a little word of advice; try to keep those puppies in your blouse, don't want them scaring little children or seniors, do you?" And with that, Warren promptly turned and left – leaving an extremely angry blonde who wanted nothing more than to cause him to suffer a slow and painful death.
-oOo-
Why didn't anyone tell me that lying on a resume would come back and bite me in the ass?
Shouldn't there be a book of some sort that informs of such things? There should be televised ads, or billboards or something to tell the public that it's never a good idea to lie on a resume.
Or maybe I should start writing this rulebook thing down. Point number 1: Always taste your own concoctions. Point number 2:
Never lie on your resume, and if you do, at least have some background on what you lied about.
Considering the fact I'm finally working on my List of Priorities, maybe a rulebook will actually force me to start taking my own advice.
After a night of studying the French book I'd managed to dig out the back of my closet, and reading up as much on the company as I possibly could, I head out for my interview at the Laurier et Lauriel Company Headquarters. I'm so exhausted I nearly jump a red light on the way there. Not a good start. It's Friday and I should have been having lunch with Betsy. To be honest, the way she's been acting lately, I don't know what's worse – listening to her drivel on about the rainforest, or my impending interview. Which reminds me. I really need to have a word with Betsy about her relationship with Neal these days. The four of us – me, Jean, Betsy and Emma – have known each other since we were teens and met at summer camp one fateful day. None of us really have a thing in common, but for some reason we clicked, and we've been inseparable ever since. Nevertheless the past month or so, I've barely felt like I know Betts at all.
Oh well – no point worrying about that now. I spend the rest of my journey desperately rehearsing all the French I've learnt.
"Bon après-midi… Je m'appelle Rogue… Ah mean, Anna Raven… Oh shit…"
I knew it was a mistake to let the girls christen me Rogue after that drunken binge four years back – every day it gets harder and harder just to remember that my real name is Anna. But then, of course, four years ago I'd just left Mississippi for good, finally joining my three friends in New York after deciding to leave my old life behind forever. Having a new name hadn't seemed so out of place back then, at a time when all I'd wanted was to forget my past and begin anew… But it's definitely best not to remember that now. Look forward, Rogue, look forward, I repeat firmly to myself.
To tell the truth, I'm thinking I've got myself into more trouble than I'd originally bargained for. Thanks to my less than extensive reading on Laurier et Lauriel Co., I know they're one of the biggest perfume retailers worldwide. So how come I've never heard of them? No doubt Betsy will be able to tell me.
The Laurier et Lauriel building is enough to scare the living daylights out of me, and as soon as I see the fancy-looking tower block I almost turn tail and flee. But there's no way I'm going to back out of this now. I park the car and head into the building with as much confidence as I can muster. This is something I'm determined to get on top of, no matter what.
The building is about fifty stories of art deco architecture, streamlined pillars and two-toned marble floors. The reception area's about as big as a soccer pitch. Even dressed as I am in my charcoal gray Armani suit, I feel way out of depth in this environment. I walk up to the crimson-lipped, bespectacled receptionist, who cordially directs me to the interview room. So far, so good.
I take the elevator to the thirtieth floor and step out onto plush, cream-colored carpets. The corridor smells of white musk. Man, oh man, oh man. You can bet that right about now I start to pray very hard indeed.
Here it is – Interview Room. I stand outside the door and give my suit a quick brush down as I silently attempt to psyche myself up for the inevitable ordeal. I enter the room hoping that my 'Teach-Yourself-French' is up to the job.
I'm greeted by a spacious, bright and airy room, large, but welcoming. At the furthest end of the room, in front of a wall-sized window, two people, a man and a woman, are sitting at a huge chrome and glass table. Beside the man is an empty seat. Oookay. So I'm up against a panel of three. Noooo problem. Rogue can handle this.
"Bon après-midi," I greet them before they can say a word, eager to make a good first impression. "Je m'appelle Ro…uh, Anna Raven." Oh crap, I nearly screwed that one up big-time!
They both stand up and shake my hand over the humongous table, seemingly both surprised and pleased at the fact that I'm speaking French. Wow. Looks like I've scored in that department.
"Soyez le bienvenue Laurier et Lauriel, Mademoiselle Raven," the man says in smooth, effeminate tones, passing me a warm, friendly smile. I immediately decide I could get to like this guy. He's slim but well-toned in a plain black suit and dove-blue polo neck, sporting a neatly trimmed, obviously dyed platinum haircut. No doubt about it – this guy's a charmer. But I get the feeling he definitely doesn't swing my way. "Je suis Jean-Paul Beaubier. Voila, ma collègue, Monet St. Croix." He gestures to the woman beside him, a beautiful yet rather haughty-looking, brown-haired, tan-skinned twenty-something. She shakes my hand like she's shaking a wilting flower.
"Asseyez-vous." She indicates to the chair beside me while looking rather disdainfully over my gray suit. Darn, I knew I'd never get away with wearing two-year-old fashions in this place.
I sink into my seat gratefully. My legs are just about to give anyway.
"You'll have to forgive us," Jean-Paul begins in French once I'm settled down. "Our colleague is a little late." At least, I think that's what he's saying. I glance over at the empty seat beside him. Dammit! Does this mean I'm going to have to continue making small talk in French until this guy shows up? This is definitely not my day.
I sit and twiddle my thumbs, too scared to initiate a conversation yet painfully aware of the awkward silence. The clock at the other end of the room ticks away, oblivious to my plight. After a while Jean-Paul starts to make a bit of small talk about the weather in French, which I thankfully manage to pull off okay. I feel like a kid in an oral examination, waiting for this last interviewer to come along. Damn the guy! I mean, how unprofessional can you get, turning up late to an interview? Well, whoever he is, he's just about turned a bad day worse. I don't think my pathetic knowledge of French can last a lot longer than the next two sentences.
Thankfully, just as I start to think this is my excuse to back out of this entire charade, there's a short rap at the door. I finally turn to face the person who's just been instrumental in prolonging what I already know is going to be the most torturous interview I'll ever experience.
And in walks the most gorgeous guy I've ever met in my life.
-xXx-
To be continued...