Page 108 of Burning Embers

The office is small and cluttered, with figurines lining the back shelf, comic books on the desk, and movie posters on the walls. It’s almost comical to see such a nerdy setup. Silas is so…scary. Somehow, his geeky office demotes him from intimidating to approachable.

Silas waves a hand towards the seat opposite his desk, and I take it after only a moment of hesitation. Hands trembling, I give him my resume, which he takes without ever glancing in my direction. His jaw still seems to be clenched.

“So you’re new to town and living with Hale.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, yet I take it as one.

“Yeah. Just arrived a few days ago.”

Has it only been a few days? It feels longer.

He nods once, still not meeting my gaze. His fingers begin to tap against the top of his desk. “Hale told me you were a foster kid beforehand.”

“Um, yes, sir.” I inwardly wince at how fucking awkward I sound.

Silas mutters something too low for me to hear and then gives me an assessing glare. Well, at least his one good eye narrows. “You can’t wear fucking skirts here.”

“Oh, yes, of course?—”

“Next time, wear jeans or something.” He wheels his chair backwards, opens a box on the floor behind him, and grabs out a stack of shirts, all with the theater logo on them. “What size are you? Small?” He throws a shirt at my face. “Get changed in the bathroom, and then I’ll have the assistant manager show you the ropes.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at a spot over my shoulder.

Wait…

That’s it? I got the job?

Elation wars with confusion in my chest.

“I…um…thank you, sir. I really appreciate the opportunity?—”

Silas mumbles something—once again too quiet for me to hear—and then pushes his massive form out of the chair. He leaves the room without a second glance, presumably to get Jake.

I stare down at the shirt for a long moment as I bite down on the need to squeal at the top of my lungs.

I have a job.

I actually have a job.

Would it be weird if I hugged the shirt to my chest like those Victorian women do in movies when they get a fancy new Cinderella dress? Yes? No?

The door opens, and I turn towards it with a wide smile, expecting to see Jake.

But it’s not Jake who steps inside.

Reid stares at me for a long moment—his garnet hair tousled, his forehead dotted with perspiration, and his assistant manager name tag pinned prominently to his chest—and then mutters a quiet, “Fuck,” under his breath.

Fuck is right.

Thirty-Six

IZZY

Reid can be very scary when he wants to be.

Which seems to be all the time.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without his customary scowl firmly in place.

Today is no different.