Chapter One

 

Something tickled her nose, waking her, and Robin blinked her eyes, reaching up automatically to brush the hair out of her face.

I need a haircut, she thought tiredly.

There wasn't a lot of light in the room, but the small, barred basement windows high up near the drop ceiling were bright enough to tell her it was day outside. And if that wasn't enough, the clock radio had come on. She moaned and rolled over to stare bleakly at the clock. It was six-thirty in the morning. What a horrible hour to have to wake up, she thought.

And for what? She sighed and pushed herself up, letting the sheets slide down her body to her hips. She was naked underneath. She'd pretty much always slept naked, liking the freedom she felt beneath the covers to stretch and roll and turn.

Keri was a light sleeper.

She normally took a while to get out of bed in the morning, though, in the mid-morning, that was. Getting up at six-thirty was nearly torture, as far as she was concerned. But she had no choice. Her parents had been nagging her for months to do something to get a job. The fact there were no jobs to be had didn't seem to matter.

She tossed the covers back and threw her long legs out of bed, then padded naked across the floor towards the door which led to the unfinished portion of the basement. Opening it, her bare feet stepped off the thin, rough carpet and onto the cold concrete, but only briefly.

The bathroom door was on her right. It had a tiny plastic shower, a sink and a toilet. But they were all hers, and she was glad to have them. She spent too much time on her hair, reminding herself, again, that she had to get it cut, but otherwise hurried through her morning routine.

Bad enough she'd had to go to bed early, to toss and turn half the night knowing she had to get up early, putting pressure on herself to get to sleep. Bad enough she'd had to get up early, but if she was late it would all be for nothing. Not that it probably wasn't all for nothing anyway, of course...

She would go, but she was certainly not going to get her hopes up. South Chicago was not a place with a lot of hopes and dreams, especially not for a girl like her, a girl with no money, no job, no connections, and a lousy high school diploma with lousy grades.

***

He was a dour looking man, slim, middle-aged, with thick glasses and a balding head. His belly was pushing out over his belt, and his promotional prospects were few. Samuel Milken was not a man happy with the world, or with his job at the office of Occupational Employment.

But the one interesting aspect of his job, which was to interview and advise young people as to their future job and employment prospects, was sitting across the desk from him. Not that his employers knew about this aspect of his job, of course, and not that they wouldn't have been horrified had they known.

Samuel had a side job which occasionally generated extra income. That income came from a law firm which handled discreet requests for employees. In this day and age, you simply could not put the words "good looking" in a want ad, let alone "good looking female with nice body". Even the ads for Hooters were more subtle than that.

But the fact was that a lot of organizations had an interest in attractive young women, primarily for window dressing, but sometimes for other purposes. A number of organizations spent a good deal of money creating a particular style and mood in their offices, with walnut grained wood paneling and marble floors. They employed highly priced interior decorators to create just the right image, and that image wasn't helped if the girls behind the reception desk were dowdy, ugly and overweight.

Of course, it simply wouldn't do to say so.

Other organizations knew full well that men of any age were more likely to make purchases from attractive young women who flattered them than from, well, anyone else. And so they looked for such potential employees, but again, they couldn't, on the surface, so what they wanted.

The girl sitting across from him looked like a textbook case of his most recent request. She was certainly attractive, with an oval face, soft, full lips, and big brown eyes. She had long brown hair spilling over her shoulders and halfway down her back, and what looked like a lithe and attractively built body under her jeans and tank top.

And since she tended to lean over, an elbow propping her up on the table, the weight of her full young breasts was pulling down on the tank top, inviting his eyes to wander down the front. That was an urge he studiously resisted. He was not a pervert, after all, and she was half his age, at best.

So she seemed to fit the physical requirements quite well. Her school records seemed to indicate she might also be a strong candidate for the second part of the request. The law office wanted someone who would be respectful, deferential to important people, and obedient to her orders.

Arrogant bastards. He hated lawyers. They wanted some hot young thing to greet their rich clients and pass around champagne, probably on silver trays, he thought. Well, the rich got the best of everything, didn't they? And at least it meant money for him, and probably not a bad job for the girl.

The psychological test she had taken seemed to indicate a girl who was biddable and had little interest in questioning authority. That was good. Rich people didn't like the plebes talking back, he thought.

Her school records, however, were filled with comments about her potential, her intelligence, and yet her lack of motivation, her lack of drive or ambition. Her marks were mediocre, but seemed more based on a fatalistic assumption that good marks were of little value in life anyway. She had, in short, a pessimistic view of the world which seemed to believe she'd be working, if she ever did, as a waitress or coffee shop barista.

Which, in the normal course of events, was probably quite accurate. Unless she found some guy with money to marry her.

"Sit up straight, Keri," he said.

She blinked and then sat back upright, no hint of resentment in her eyes.

That was good. No sign of resentment, no frowning at him indignantly.

"Your marks at school were nothing to write home about," he said.

She shrugged, not showing much sign of caring. She'd shown no enthusiasm so far, as if she really didn't care what he decided she ought to do. She had graduated from high school (barely) six months ago, and been living at home without a job since then, apparently playing video games and going clubbing. It didn't seem likely she'd be heading off to an Ivy League collage any time soon either, given her family's lack of money and her mediocre marks.

"How many places have you applied at?" he asked.

She shrugged.

"Restaurants? Bars? Taverns?"

"I dunno," she said. "I don't really... I'm not really good at applying for stuff."

He looked at her and she shrugged uncomfortably.

"I mean, I hate to like, go in and bother them and ask for, like, a uhm, application or stuff. I mean, they look at you like you're a customer and then when you're not they get disappointed and just brush you off or something."

It was the most she'd spoken so far and he looked at her with renewed interest. He knew a lot of young people hated going into strange places and asking for work.

"Would you consider yourself shy?"

She shrugged (again). "I dunno. Maybe a bit. It depends."

"You don't like to bother people, though?"

"Well, I mean, if I was shopping for something, I wouldn't mind I guess."

He sat back and steepled his fingers. "Suppose you went into a shoe store and the sales person helped you out for twenty minutes or so as you tried on various shoes."

"Okay," she said uncertainly.

"Suppose you didn't like any of them, or they didn't feel comfortable. Would you have any problem just walking away?"

He saw her blush slightly, which widened his eyes somewhat. Was the mere mention of such a scenario embarrassing to her?

"Uh, well, I mean, I would feel bad that I'd made them go through all that trouble and then not bought anything," she said.

"Have you ever bought something you would rather not have just because you didn't want to disappoint the sales person?"

She made a face. "Yeah."

Totally unassertive, he thought. She'd make a poor salesperson, that was for sure, but a receptionist, well, that was another story.

"What kind of job do you think you'd like?"

***

Keri sighed and fought not to roll her eyes. It wasn't like she hadn't been asked that question forever, and she still had no good answer. She knew what she didn't like, not what she did. She didn't like schedules, didn't like deadlines, didn't like sitting around doing paperwork, even if it was on a computer, didn't like doing the same thing day after day.

She didn't like anything she didn't know how to do, either. She wanted something where someone was there to tell her what to do whenever she wasn't sure. She really hated screwing up and having people yell at her.

And she didn't like waitressing, handling other people's food and then cleaning the tables afterward. That was icky. She didn't like dealing with new people constantly, and having to please them in hopes of getting a tip. She realized she didn't have the education for good jobs, but the thought of sitting in a chair all day every day for years listening to some boring old people droning on about stuff she didn't care about made her feel like slitting her wrists.

School. Blech!

"I like playing video games," she said, knowing that wasn't what he wanted to hear, but feeling she had to say something.

She wasn't surprised when he looked at her sourly, but she wasn't really sure what to say. Any good jobs she had thought about were out of her league, and it would probably make him laugh to suggest them. She didn't think they would have any idea of a job for her anyway. She was only here because her parents had kept bugging her.

The economy sucked, and tons of people were unemployed and her friends, those who worked, had shitty jobs anyway. It was all a big joke. Only rich people's kids got good jobs. The rest just scraped along.

"I have an opening for a girl I want you to apply for," he said.

"A girl?" she asked in confusion.

"A junior personal assistant," he said.

"What does a junior p - ?"

"It's a self-explanatory job. Very busy, very important people have personal assistants to take care of things they don't have time for, like scheduling, making phone calls and purchases, arranging travel, even paying personal bills. In this case, the person in that role can use help with minor tasks, like picking up laundry or stocking supplies or filing. You think you could do such things?"

She shrugged uncertainly. "Maybe," she said.

He handed her a piece of paper.

"Wear a dress, or at least a skirt," he said, looking at her outfit with disapproval.

She nodded obediently, glad to be leaving, surprised to have been given a lead to a job, and newly anxious about having to go and do an interview with someone about it. Wear a dress? She had no dresses. A skirt that she could wear on a job interview? She wasn't into formal outfits.

She went home to find the small, nineteen fifties bungalow empty. Her mother must have gotten a call to work a shift at Wal-Mart. Her father worked for a landscaping firm. She looked into her closet doubtfully, trying to find something she could wear. She had a few skirts, but they tended to be kind of short, for going out to clubs.

She sighed, wishing the man had offered nothing, so she could just go downstairs and play video games. She didn't need the anxiety. Especially since it probably wouldn't lead to anything anyway. She wasn't good at anything, and even if she got hired she'd probably hate it. She threw herself down on her bed and reached to the night table, scooping up a well-thumbed copy of The Dark Runners, all about a group of hot, sexy vampires.

It would be cool to be a vampire.