Chapter One

 

Molly fumed as she waited at the light, and couldn't help pulling out her cell to check the time again. She cursed and then looked at the light and cursed again, looked at the unending traffic, making jay-walking impossible, and cursed some more.

Then the wind blowing down the canyon of skyscrapers along Broad street swept her blonde hair almost straight back. She held up her hand to shield her face as she squinted, and cursed again, this time aloud. She pulled her jacket closer around her slender body, looked at the light, and fumed impatiently.

She kept her hair long because it framed her face so deliciously, and looked, well, sexy! Which was never a bad thing. It was rich and full and hung halfway down her back, though much shorter at the sides to curl in below her jaw, with cute bangs across her forehead.

When Molly walked into a room she was noticed, and liked it.

But that had its drawbacks, especially on wet or windy days. Today she'd better damn well find a bathroom before her job interview or God only knew what she'd look like.

The light changed at last and she practically leapt forward. It wasn't her fault she was late - or nearly late! The bus hadn't showed up and then she'd gotten to the subway just in time to miss the train and had to wait.

She hurried along the sidewalk, weaving in and out among the slower moving pedestrian traffic, irritable whenever she swept around men and women in their expensive coats and jackets. Autumn in New York could either be lovely or horrible. Today it was the latter, and she was in the heart of the Financial District, in south Manhattan, which was not a familiar place, though she'd spent all nineteen years of her life in New York.

Parts of Manhattan had great clubs and great shopping, great parks and concerts, arenas and theaters. What this area had were buildings full of bankers, lawyers and stock brokers, and condos full of rich people.

Molly was not, unfortunately, rich. Her mother was a receptionist and her father worked at Target. She'd graduated from high school in the Bronx last year and since then had held a number of part time jobs, mostly as a server in various restaurants.

The interview today was for what was described as an 'administrative' position. It involved things like reception duties, answering the phone, distributing mail and making photocopies. And all you needed was high school and the ability to work on a computer! What was more the pay mentioned was double the minimum wage!

She doubted she'd get it. They must be looking for someone with tons of experience, though the ad didn't require it. Her cousin Andrea had spotted it and called her mother, which meant Molly had to apply. She was surprised, given the lack of office experience on her resume, that she'd even been called, but since she had been she'd catch unholy hell from her parents if she didn't go.

The weird thing was where the ad was. It wasn't in a newspaper, or on the usual job boards online. Andrea wanted to be a model, and there were model job boards online. She'd spotted it on one of those. She didn't seem to find that strange. She pointed out that some business, like nightclubs, advertised on those boards too, because they wanted attractive servers.

Molly still thought it was kind of weird. Yes, certain clubs wanted attractive servers. But those were clubs where the servers wore stilettos, short skirts and tight tops. She'd considered those jobs herself a time or two, because the tips were usually really good. But smiling ingratiatingly and sucking up to people, especially drunks, while they stared down her cleavage, was just not her thing.

She turned into the building's entrance, pulling out her phone and checking it again. She winced, then stuffed it back in her coat and headed for the elevators.

Someone grabbed her arm, though as she headed past a desk and her own momentum swung her around to face a very large guy in a black suit.

"Hey! You mind!?" she demanded.

"Not in the least. Do you work here, Miss?" he asked.

He had a brass name tag on the left side of his jacket that said "Andrew".

"I have a job interview," she said, frowning and shaking her arm loose.

"Sign in, please."

She cursed under her breath as he motioned her to an open book on the desk.

"I'll need ID," he said.

She cursed again, and reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out her wallet, and took out some cards.

"You got a mouth on you, Blondie," he said.

She glowered at him and showed him her DMV identification card and he actually took it from her and then photocopied it! Then he wrote down the number before letting her sign the book. Meanwhile she was getting more and more frustrated about how much time it was taking since she was already late!

"Can we hurry this along?" she demanded. "I'm already late!"

"Lack of punctuality isn't a very good recommendation for a job," he said disapprovingly.

"Yeah, well tell that to the MTA! It's their fault."

He snorted uncaringly and gave her back her card.

"Are you carrying any weapons or drugs?"

"Are you kidding?" she demanded.

She was wearing her only long dress - since she'd figured a 'fancy' office building would want one. It was a red sweater dress, calf length, with a turtleneck. It was also fairly form-fitting, which she thought might just be her ticket to this place. After all, if they wanted someone attractive - and why else advertise on a modeling board - then she fit the bill.

Certainly she'd need something to compete with all the other girls who probably had responded to the ad and who had more office experience. There'd probably be girls like Andrea, too, who wanted to be models but were unemployed.

Molly could have been a model herself. She had the looks. What she lacked was the height, since she was only five foot nine, and the patience. Sitting around for hours and hours getting her hair and makeup done and then posing endlessly for pictures was just so not her! She'd go out of her mind! She was way too hyperactive!

"I never kid," he said.

"No! And where would I keep a weapon?" she demanded, holding her arms out.

Aside from the form-fitting dress - which would have shown any bulge anywhere on her body, she just had her hip length jacket, and it only had two pockets, one of which she'd just stuffed her wallet back into.

He smirked a bit and let his eyes slide up down her body, lingering on the only prominent 'bulges' which were of course, the soft flesh filling the cups of her bra, then shrugged.

He handed her a badge on a lanyard and she slipped it over her head and headed for the elevator, walking as quickly as she could. She stabbed the elevator button, cursed impatiently, then hurried inside as it opened.

She took out a brush and brushed her hair by feel as the elevator headed up, trying to see herself as best she could in the burnished metal around the elevator buttons. She cursed as the elevator stopped on twenty. A man got in, punched the button for twenty one, and she rolled her eyes.

Lazy asshole!

The elevator went up one flight, and the doors opened, and the man squeezed her butt firmly just before walking out.

"Hey! You asshole!" she shouted after him.

He ignored her as the elevator doors closed, and she brushed at her hair with her fingers as she looked at the small, dim image of her face in the metal again. The elevator went up to thirty-five, and the doors opened again as she hurried out.

She hurried up the hall and then into number 3517. There was a prune faced woman sitting behind a desk, and she looked at her sourly, then looked at the clock, then looked at her again.

"Uhm, hi, I'm - ."

"Late," the woman said. "Your appointment was for two sharp, Miss Cunningham. It is now seven minutes after two."

"There was an accident and the bus was stuck in traffic!" she exclaimed. "I had to get the driver to let me out so I could run three blocks down and catch another bus to get to the subway!"

Hopefully no one would check, but really how would they given how many minor accidents happened in the city every day.

The woman sniffed and pointed at a closet.

"Hang your jacket there, and get inside. Mister Denholm is waiting, and he doesn't like to wait."

She took off her jacket and hung it up, then hurried to the inner door and knocked.

"Come," a voice said faintly.

Licking her lips, and wishing she'd had time to check a mirror, Molly opened the door and stepped inside. The office was very... officy. That was, it was pretty much what she'd expected some boss guy to have as an office. He had a big desk, with bookshelves along the wall, a sofa and chairs, and a table to one side.

Denholm himself was bald, middle aged, and had a bullet-shaped head and heavy eyebrows. He seemed to glower at her as she approached his desk.

"The late Miss Cunningham, I presume," he said.

Well, I'm fucked, she thought with a sigh.

"I'm alive," she said.

"And late."

"Stuff happens."

There wasn't a lot of point in her sucking up. She was pretty sure she'd blown the job anyway.

He snorted and looked up her and down in a surprisingly obvious way, like the security guy had, but with less leering - the sort of way she thought office types weren't supposed to look at you.

"Turn around."

She scowled, wondering if he meant she should turn around and get out, but then he held up his arm and his finger did a twirling thing. It was a gesture she knew from going with Andrea to modeling try-outs. But why in hell would he be doing it?

She shrugged and turned slowly, then turned back.

"Not bad," he said.

She looked at him in surprise.

"Are you a snowflake?"

"What?"

"Do you cry if someone offends you?"

"No, I punch them in the face."

He snorted in amusement. He didn't tell her to sit down, but then, oddly, there were no chairs in front of his desk.

"Do you know what we do at this company, Molly?"

"Investment banking."

"Do you know what that is?"

"You take care of rich people's money."

"We take care of money for rich people and middle class people. That includes making investments and giving financial advice."

She nodded.

"Stand up straight," he said.

She looked at him in surprise, frowned at his tone, but pulled her shoulders back.

He stood up and walked around the desk.

"The company is looking for a girl to fill an administrative position, Molly," he said. "And that's as broadly based a description as I could think of. It wouldn't be appropriate for a firm of our stature and reputation to simply put 'gopher' in an ad. But what we want is a girl to do whatever she's assigned to do without bitching, whining or complaining."

She nodded.

"In the interests of getting someone for a wide range of positions, we also want a girl who's very attractive. Why do you suppose we want that?"

She looked at him warily, but she remembered her discussion with her friend Hannah, who worked at one of those nightclubs with the short skirts.

"Because you have an image?"

He looked surprised and nodded.

"We do indeed. All of our public areas, that is, any area where a client might be shown to or even through, are carefully designed, furnished and decorated to ensure they give off the appropriate image. That image is one of success and wealth."

She nodded, though she still wasn't sure why that meant they wanted cute girls.

"Most of our clients are male. Now what do men usually associate with wealth and success, aside from sports cars, yachts and condos overlooking central park?"

She looked at him uncertainly. "Uhm, women?"

"There are women and then there are women. The kind of women most men instinctively associate with wealth and power are tall, blonde and beautiful."

She nodded. It wasn't a surprise to her. It seemed most sports stars had blonde wives and girlfriends, especially the black ones.

"Don't get me wrong. We're not hiring strictly on looks. But this job isn't difficult. That being the case, and given what we're paying, why wouldn't we also select someone who will bring the right associations to our clients' minds?"

"I get you."

He moved around her, glancing down at her butt as he did, and she felt a sense of surprise about how blatant he was being. Yet it didn't strike her that he was looking at her in a leering manner, but more in the way of a man examining a sports car before possibly buying it.

Or a cow, she thought uncharitably.

"You look good in that dress," he said. "It's the right sort of image. You're the kind of girl rich men would want to have on their arms to make them look good."

He came around in front of her again and glanced approvingly at her chest. The dress was fairly thin, and fairly elastic, and it did nothing to hide her shape. She'd known that when she wore it. She had doubts about whether she was as pretty as some of those girls Andrea competed with. But she definitely had a better body.

Well, not for modeling, unless it was lingerie or bikinis, but for anything else, she was confident she'd leave those skinny flat-chested girls behind.

"I suppose," she said.

"You don't strike me as very meek or mild-mannered, Molly."

She let out a bark of involuntary laughter before snapping her mouth shut.

"That's a problem," he said.

"What? You want me to be meek?"

"Shy, soft spoken. Can you lower your eyes?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously. And lower your voice. Soft spoken. We're going for image here, Molly. And remember you're only going to see these people for a few seconds, for the most part. Soft spoken, smiling, shy, deferential."

She rolled her eyes.

"And no rolling your eyes."

"I'm not much of an actress."

"Any idiot can act meek for twenty seconds," he said. "Especially for forty bucks an hour."

"Forty? I thought it was thirty!"

"You have a great body. I like that. Not for myself, but for the image. And you don't strike me as the kind that's going to burst into tears if someone insults you or says something offensive."

"Not hardly."

"But no punching. No hitting. No cursing at people. Meek, soft spoken. Ladylike. Delicate."

"Oh please!"

"Soft spoken," he repeated. "This might surprise you but nobody associates a Bronx accent with wealth and sophistication."

She made a face, acknowledging the truth of that.

"Maybe a pair of glasses," he said, looking at her face. "Not the heavy kind, very thin, the frameless ones that won't really hide your face. You have really nice eyes."

"Uh, thanks."

"Don't thank me. I'm not complimenting you, just remarking on your looks. I'm gay so they don't do anything for me."

She looked at him in surprise and he snorted.

"What? You expect me to wave my limp wrist around and speak with a lisp?"

"Uh, no."

He sat on the edge of his desk. "So here's the deal. Much of the job is running errands for the brokers: doing photocopying, getting coffee, distributing mail, getting office supplies, and generally just doing whatever the brokers want. When not doing that you'll act as a messenger, or spell the receptionists, or greet and show clients to offices and meeting rooms, get them coffee, donuts, whatever. Basically, you're our bitch. You get the picture?"

She shrugged.

"You're not the only girl, but you're the newbie so you get the shittiest jobs. And that's working with the junior brokers. You know why it's the shittiest job?"

"Uhm, why?"

"Because they're a bunch of assholes. They're greedy, ambitious, and work fourteen hour days. That means they're often short-tempered, impatient and suffer from the effects of sleep deprivation. Expect them to be rude. They don't say please and thank you much."

She shrugged again.

"Don't shrug. It's not ladylike. Say I understand, sir."

"Uhm, I understand, sir."

"No. Forget the uhm, and lower your voice - and your head. Make yourself seem like a shy librarian."

"Are you shitting me?"

"And don't curse. Ladies don't curse!"

"I bet they do!"

"Not around our customers!"

"Okay, okay, Jeeze."

"Now try it again. I understand sir."

She took a deep breath and then smiled. "I understand, sir," she said, lowering her eyes briefly.

"Much better. Remember, soft-spoken. Get into the habit of it. Get into the habit of remembering the image. That's one of the reasons I'm throwing you into the lions pit. If you can maintain your poise, be soft-spoken, polite, and remember to smile around those bastards then we can trust you around the clients."

"You mean I'm hired?!"

"Sure. You'll do - to try. But remember, you're on probation. That means we can fire you in the blink of an eye. So this is a trial for you. You don't talk back to snotty guys in the pit. You don't curse at them or call them names or raise your voice or even slap them if they grab your ass."

She looked at him in surprise.

"What? You can't cope with someone grabbing your ass? You've got a nice ass. I expect that happens a lot."

"It happened in the elevator!" she said indignantly!

"There's no shy men here, honey. And the ones in the pit are worse."

"What's the pit?"

"It's a bunch of cubicles filled with desperately ambitious brokers who got out of Harvard or Yale or Cornell last year or the year before. They're type-A personalities driven to succeed and crush anyone in their path - which is usually each other. It's on the thirty sixth floor. And if you can maintain the image we want around them - and don't think you won't be watched - or tested - then I'll know you're ready for better things."

Molly was busily trying to calculate what size of pay check she'd get with a salary of forty dollars an hour!

"Cool!" she said.

He shook his head. "Say thank you, sir. I'll try to do a good job," he said.

She lowered her voice and tried to act 'meek'. "Thank you, sir. I'll try to do a good job," she said.

He snorted, then poked his finger against her chest, just above her breasts.

"Don't mistake me, girl. I don't think you can cut it. I don't think a girl from the Bronx can avoid punching one of those assholes in the face, much less tell him what an asshole he is. But it's cheap to give you a trial, and who knows, maybe you've got more self-control than I suspect."

She went out into the outer office, bemused, and looked at the prune faced woman.

"Mr. Denholm says for you to prepare documents to hire me."

The woman snorted and shook her head.

"I thought so. He always hires the ones with big tits."

Molly glared at her, then remembered something.

"I thought he was gay."

"He is."

The woman was taking some forms out of a cabinet.

"Then why - ?"

"Because it fits the image he's looking for. And the bosses like girls with big tits."

"They're not... big!" Molly said in irritation.

The woman gave her a dry look, and flicked her eyes down at Molly's chest.

"They're big enough, especially in that dress, unless you got a lot of padding in there."

She poked her finger right into the center of Molly's right breast as she passed, right over her nipple, and before Molly could react had already passed her by and was going over to the desk with the forms.

"Doesn't feel like padding to me," she said.

"It's not!" Molly said indignantly.

"Just wear tight clothes and smile a lot," the woman said as she started typing on her keyboard.

"For forty bucks an hour I'll smile the hell out of this place."

The woman raised her eyes. "And wear shorter skirts."

"Seriously? I don't see you wearing short skirts."

"I was hired for my skills, not my looks."

Molly glowered at her, but then found it hard to honestly deny that she'd been hired for her looks. She would deny it to her parents, of course, but this woman clearly knew better. She wasn't happy about it, but a job was a job. And forty bucks an hour was a fucking fortune! And if she kept this job for a few months she'd finally have something on her resume that would let her get hired as something other than a waitress.