Page 18 of The Damaged Billionaire's Obsession
Is it going to be too much to ask that Ethan Hawthorne and Mike Waldrow and all the other fifty thousand and one bosses I’ll have at Acercraft have the same sunny disposition?
Chapter 4
Bonnie
Clonmel, Ireland, 10 yearsago…
The sounds of the incessant drip, drip of water into the nearby muddy puddle is comforting. Proof that time is passing, and it will soon be morning. I haven’t eaten in almost two days. I shiver and huddle closer to Twiggy's sleeping form, but I’m too cold and hungry to sleep. I pull on the corner of the tattered, smelly blanket we share, waiting for sunrise, and then, it’s a couple more hours’ wait for people to start milling around the busy O’Connell Street.
Yesterday was a bad day. The stores closed early, and Nuba’s, the pastry shop that saves leftover orders for us, doesn’t open at all on Sunday, which is why we didn’t eat. Thoughts of croissants from Nuba’s and coffee keep me sane.
All too quickly, the day warms and it’s time to go searching for our next meal. Then, we’ll be off to find a fat pocket to pick. And depending on our luck, the next hit might be closer than we think. Twiggy is better with the pockets, but I’m great at gettingfree food from shop owners, something he says has to do with people not being able to say no to me.
The day suddenly becomes unnaturally bright and warm. I’m no longer cold. It’s now sweltering hot under the blanket, like a furnace. The smell of freshly baked bread makes hunger gnaw on my stomach. I know it's too soon for the shops to open, the whatever I'm smelling is just a figment of my imagination, conjured by my hungry belly. Still I leave Twiggy and run into the street, searching frantically for the source, my black curls falling all around my face. I ignore the alarmed and disgusted looks aimed at my disheveled state.
Suddenly, the people on the street fall away, leaving only one tall, smartly dressed man walking slowly and eating a sandwich, his wallet peeking temptingly out of his back pocket.
As I follow my quarry with purpose, the day seems to get warmer, melting my misgivings. The mouth-watering smell grows stronger in my nostrils until I bump right into him, and in the next moment, his wallet is in my hand. He freezes as if somehow aware of what I’d done. I expect him to turn around, but he doesn’t, so I look up. And the man is suddenly looking at me.
Which is impossible because I’m staring at the back of his head. His horrific, bright yellow eyes narrow with hatred and disgust, and before I can run, his fingers close around my wrist, twisting into grotesquely scaled talons. I look back up, and his head morphs into Ethan Hawthorne’s distorted face, complete with an evil grin.
He opens his mouth, and a horribly loud beeping starts, getting louder with every second. I scramble backward in fear, screaming untilI’m jarred awake by the impact of my shoulder on the hard floor of my bedroom.
The loud beeping of my alarm clock continues.
A fucking nightmare. Panting and slick with sweat, I squint at the offending alarm clock.
And fly up from the floor into the bathroom.
Holy shit! I slept through my first three alarms. And now, I’m late for my interview at Acercraft.
The interview is supposed to be in two stages. In the first stage, the challenge is to find and fix a bug, and the second stage happens precisely thirty minutes later, which is the actual presentation of the debugged version of the code.
I brush my teeth in record time and splash water on my face. Eyeing the dark patches of sweat on my shirt, I already know I’m too sweaty to get away with not having a shower. Crap!
It’s the stupid Clonmel dream again. Happens every single time I have something important going on. And what the hell was Ethan doing in the dream this time? It must be because I know I’ll be seeing him today.
Yeah, why not fuck with my head a bit more, Ethan Hawthorne?
I’m in and out of the shower and drying my hair in under five minutes.
I run back into my room and hurriedly pull on clothes, stopping the still-beeping alarm clock as I pass by it.
It's 8:20 now. My interview slot is at 9:20, which means I’m fucked.
Because it takes forty minutes on a good day to get to Midtown Manhattan, even on my motorbike.
Still, I keep it moving. Remembering Brooke’s advice, I pick a dark green, fitted shirt, and flared leather skirt paired with sheer tights for warmth and cycling shorts to avoid flashing everyone on the I-495.
My skirt is probably shorter than office folk would like, but hey, I’m not employed yet.
I lace up my boots but throw black suede pumps in my backpack to change into upon getting there. A quick dab of moisturizer and a swipe of my favorite burgundy lipstick, and I’m set. I pause at my reflection, wondering if Ethan would look at me like I don’t belong in his company.
You, on the other hand, ought to invest in a truth filter and a sober stylist.
I remember how his eyes bored into the innermost part of my soul, making me feel like an impostor.
I shake off the feeling. He’s just a spoiled, rich boy. What does he know about me? About having one’s life reduced to ashes and building it back brick by painful brick?