The Interview

[Micah]

I saw what that asshole had done, the way he had touched her. I want to storm in there, grab the little prick by the collar, and slam his face into the counter repeatedly. But that wouldn’t solve anything and would bring unwanted attention.

No more than fifteen minutes later, Charlotte comes stumbling out the front door to the café. Her bag is wrapped around her shoulders and her sweater is barely staying on as she rushes away from the café at top speed, her sneakers slapping the sidewalk, punctuating her fear.

A few moments later, her boss comes after her. His pimpled greasy face is covered in blood and his hands are cradling his manhood with care and fear as he shouts. "I'll have you arrested for assault, Bitch!"

“Roger,” I sit on the edge of my seat, ready to pounce, but trying to keep myself under control.

“Yes, Boss,” Roger calls back.

“I need to take a walk. Can you take out the trash?”

“I got you, Boss,” he grunts as I step out of the SUV and walk in the direction Charlotte disappeared.

[Charlotte]

My vision is blurred, and my fists are clenched so tight that my fingernails are cutting my hands.

What am I going to do?

I need a job. Now.

There is no way Ricky’s going to give me a recommendation.

“Fuck.” I hardly ever swear, but at this moment, I’m so done with everything I can’t think of a better word to say. Jumping up and down I continue to shout,  “FUUUUUUUUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUUUUCK!”

I let out a primal scream into the crowd of people walking down the street, trying to enjoy their sunny morning. A few of them pick up their pace, looking back at me with that awkward side eye that communicates that they think I have lost my mind.

"How am I going to tell Juni?" I cry to myself.

"Tell her what?" a deep male voice asks.

I jump and turn around.

Micah McKaine is standing behind me backlit by the morning sun.

"Are you okay?" he offers me another handkerchief. Does he just walk around with these in his pocket to give to damsels in distress? Who uses handkerchiefs anymore?

"NO!" I shout louder than I mean to.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" his voice is kind, steady, unfazed by my sudden outburst.

For some reason, his calm demeanor makes me angry. Very angry. "I think you've helped enough!" I accuse. "Because of you, I lost my job. I needed that job, damn it!"

"What happened?" He seems genuinely concerned.

"What happened is that after you drove away my boss had a little 'discussion' with me about my 'behavior' and now I'm out of a job," I huff. "I didn't even like that job but damn it! Fucking Ricky! Aghhhh!"

"What did he do," his voice deepens, his face going dark.

"Why should I tell you?" my voice cracks with fury. "What do you care if because he saw what you did and then tried to force himself on me after offering me money because YOU handed me $200 at the window!  He thought it was because you were receiving more than just coffee from me and he felt left out! So I bit his tongue! I wish I had bitten it clean off, the prick! I might have also kneed him in the balls. It's all kind of a blur. He's...he's probably going to call the police! All because you couldn't just leave me alone!" I rage.

But then as quickly as the anger flashed, it fizzled into tears. "Damn it," I start to cry. "I desperately needed that job. What am I going to do?"

There is a moment of silence as the question hangs above us in the air.

"This is what you are going to do," Micah answers for me, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You are going to forget about that loser. You did nothing wrong. His behavior is his own."

Wiping away a tear with his handkerchief, I wipe my eyes.

"Next," he continues. "You're going to shake it all off, wipe your face, and come with me across the street to that café. You will eat breakfast and listen to my offer."

"But I..." I start to argue.

"No," his voice hardens. "This is what is going to happen. It is already done. Do you understand me, Mrs. Slate?"

"Fine," I agree, defeated by the day. "I'll listen to your offer."

He presses his lips together to form the smallest line of a smile as guides me across the street, his hand hovering above my arm as if afraid to touch me.

He opens the door for me, and we both step inside. The café is exceptional, with crystal chandeliers and marble floors. Standing there in my stained Coffee Matters apron and jeans, I feel grimy and dingy in comparison. This feeling is only magnified when the host gives me a quick once over, and then with indifference shifts their gaze to Micah. I watch as the expression of the host immediately changes from sneer to smile as he takes in Mr. McKaine’s appearance, which is, as always, impeccable. He is every inch the Billionaire CEO, standing in the entryway like he owns the place, or could own it if he chose.

“A table for 2, in a secluded location,” Micah doesn’t even look at the man as he makes his request, “Or better yet a private room if you have one available.”

The host blinks, slowly processing Micah’s request. “We do have a private room, but it seats 40 and costs…”

“Never mind,” Micah is now looking up at the balcony seating above us. It is currently occupied but that doesn’t stop him from asking. “How much for the balcony seating?”

“Well, sir, it’s already reserved for the next hour and…”

For the first time since entering, Micah turns and looks directly at the host. Standing silently, the CEO doesn’t speak, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. He just waits. The host slowly stops talking, becoming almost as still. “I’ll be back in a moment.” The host scatters, hurrying to the stairs.

The man returns a few minutes later and hands Micah a piece of paper with what I guess is a price for use of the balcony.

“Done,” is all he says as the host charges his card. He doesn’t even blink when the price on the receipt has more 0s than some people’s annual salary, he just signs it as if that money were nothing.

“The balcony will be ready in ten minutes,” The host informs us. “Feel free to take a seat at the bar while you wait.”

Mr. McKaine opens up his jacket, pulls out a long thin wallet, and hands the man three crisp $100 bills. “Make it five minutes.”

A few short minutes later Micah and I are seated.

He was right. The view of the city from here, and the bay beyond, is spectacular. I pause for a moment, admiring the view, trying not to gasp.

As I take my seat, Micah bends forward. My heart starts to race as his eyes search my face. “Shall we start?” Micah addresses me warmly as if he had not just been brutally cold with the man he had been speaking to just a moment before.

“Start what,” I gulp, licking my lips. Just being around this man is making it hard to think.

“Your interview,” his face is purely professional as he pulls out a notebook and a monogrammed pen. “You seem like a very intelligent, capable woman. How did you end up making your current career choices?”

“To be honest, Mr. McKaine,” I follow his lead, treating this as a real job interview. “My current work situation is more of a stopgap until I can secure a more ideal position.”

He smiles as he takes notes, pleased with the answer.

“What kind of experience do you have to draw from as a potential employee at MMK,” he raises an eyebrow. I struggle to think of what to say next. You’d think I was the one who asked for this interview and not the other way around. Thankfully I am saved by a waiter who comes with a bottle of champagne, a bucket of ice, and a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice, dripping with condensation. “Complimentary mimosas,” he announces.

McKaine doesn’t even acknowledge the server. Instead, he holds up a large bill and requests, “a tray of beignets, two almond croissants, and a side of eggs, bacon, and potatoes.”

“Right away, sir,” he bows before leaving us, taking away our menus and leaving us each a plate.

Micah begins filling my glass with champagne, topping it off with a small amount of orange juice.

“I don’t drink,” I reply.

He raises an eyebrow. “Would you rather have coffee?”

I shake my head and give an emphatic, “No.” The thought of coffee right now makes my stomach churn.

“Trust me,” he pushes the glass towards me. “After the morning you’ve had, this is exactly what you need to settle your nerves.”

“Is it now?” I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?”

He snorts. “No, that would be unprofessional.”

I roll my eyes, but I also take a sip of the mimosa. The tartness of the orange juice and the clean crisp effervescence of the fine champagne surprises me. The approval must show on my face because his smile widens.

“It is good, yes?”

“Very,” I blush.

“They import this champagne directly from France,” he informs me. “My company supplies them with all of their luxury items.”

Wow. I take another appreciative sip of my mimosa. I wonder if this is how it is for him all the time. Only the best for Micah McKaine.

The food arrives and he fills my plate with a little bit of everything before grabbing some food for himself. I find the action both domineering and charming in equal measure. I’m not sure if he is trying to control me or care for me, or if it is some weird combination of the two. Either way, I don’t argue. I just take a bite of the eggs.

They are fresh and cooked in real butter.

“Why is this so good?” I try not to moan.

He chuckles, my pleasure amusing him.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth!” I exclaim.

“Is it now?” I look over, his eyes have grown dark.

My breath catches, thinking of that night. I look down at my plate, feeling flushed.

As he finishes one of the beignets, I watch him slowly lick the powdered sugar from his lips. “Are you ready to hear my terms?”

“Terms?”

“Yes,” he grins, taking a long drink of his mimosa. “You should know what to expect when working under me.”

“Excuse me,” I leap to my feet, rattling the table, spilling a bit of my mimosa, which was already halfway gone. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but...”

He rises to explain. “Mon cher, it’s not like that I…”

Standing up suddenly, the blood rushes from my brain into my feet. Dizzy, I stumble, tripping over the back of my chair, and begin to fall backward onto the balcony railing.