I'll Say Anything Page 6

  The stranger looked at me again, noted by the angle of his sunglasses.

  “Please tell him Mister Parker Brooks anticipates their upcoming meeting. Thank you for your time.” The stranger smiled in time with his companion.

  I decided I'd been a little hasty thinking the men had any intention of searching the garage or the apartment, and returned their smile. I had no idea who Parker Brooks was, but I could pass on the message easy enough. “Will do. Should I tell him who's calling?” Maybe the men would give up their names.

  “Just the message is fine.” After a polite incline of his head, the stranger, along with his companion, climbed into the back of the sedan. The car eased down the alley, turning left onto the street at the end.

  “Huh. Wonder what that's about,” I said to myself, making a mental note to remind Jasper about his meeting.

  Turning back to the garage, wiping sweat off my brow with a wrist, I tossed down the towel and closed the hood on the Chevy.

  One project down. Next, the interview at Olympus.

  *

  The Olympus Hotel and Casino, in business for a year and one of the more prominent establishments on the strip, was known for both its luxuriousness and its risque nature. Solid white, with a replica of the Acropolis that made up the center of the structure, Olympus based its theme on Greece and ancient Greek Gods. Impossibly tall columns lined the front of the hotel, each with intricate carvings depicting Gods and Goddesses in flowing robes. Through the long row of doors providing entry, veined marble floors stretched in all directions, leading visitors to several different places: the information desk, the lobby, casino, restaurant row, and elevator banks to the upper floors. Twenty foot tall statues graced the transition space from the entry way to the casino, countenances imposing in their marble carved perfection. Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, Athena and Apollo stared down over the arriving and departing guests—and me, as I passed by—all hours of the day and night.

  I'd been in the hotel once before, to pick up an application, and I was as impressed with the painted mural ceiling, enormous center fountain with cherubs, and luxurious seating areas as I had been the first time. Giant stone lions flanked the checkin desk and in the distance, beyond the statues and fountain, I glimpsed more columns and a few toga wearing employees. The staff nearest the entrances and exits were required to wear suits, but I'd heard rumors about certain attractions within Olympus that were downright lascivious. Such as the baths, where men and women 'attendants' walked around half naked, fetching guests towels, drinks and food. Catering to an affluent, adult crowd, the Olympus had made a name for itself (and a reputation) with clientele world wide.

  What had drawn me to Olympus's doors were the rumors that openings were available for Ushers and that the tips were excellent. Jasper sometimes pulled in hundreds of dollars in tips a night, and I wanted a piece of the action. Ushering guests to and from private seating arrangements sounded like something I could do. It was better than waitressing, being a cashier or working the front desk.

  Approaching an employee door on the other side of a stone lion, I showed my application to the staff member standing there and stepped through into a long hallway. Out of the limelight, the décor changed little. Crown molding lined the tops of the walls and though not marble, the floors gleamed brightly. Doors, inset into impressive carved archways, led into different rooms all marked by a placard: break room, costume room, meeting room, conference room and more.

  Halfway down the hall, I spotted a chalkboard propped against a stand, indicating this was the interview room. A quick check of my attire assured me that I hadn't suffered mishaps on the bus ride over. No gum smears, grease marks or food remnants from the bus seats marred the material of my white silk shirt. Black slacks and sensible flats completed the outfit, simple and, I hoped, effective. Hair pulled into a modest, low key ponytail, I felt ready to face the bosses.

  Arriving at the door, application in hand, I rounded into the room. Bigger than I imagined, the space spanned at least two thousand feet, longer than it was wide. Three tables sat in a row facing the door, with employees in business attire sitting behind accepting applications from prospective new hires. Thirty to fifty people waited to turn in their application, separated into three different lines. I got in the first line, preparing myself for what I might say to the interviewer once I arrived at the table. As explained in the application, this was the pre-interview process, whereby applicants were judged by undetermined criteria and either sent on to the next phase, or sent home with a we'll call you reply that meant you might or might not be called back.

  I wanted to get through to the next level today.

  A door to the left of the tables opened and a man stepped out, an application clutched in his fingers. The motion drew my gaze. I skimmed the business attire—black and white, with a thin black tie—and was feeling justified in my choice of clothing when my gaze landed on the man's face.

  Adrian. I'd know him anywhere after the fiasco at the party.

  He saw me at the same time I saw him, a condescending smirk crossing his mouth.

  “Ugh.” The sound of disgust slipped out before I could stop it. Pointedly, I looked the other way, distressed to think he and I might be working together. Why did we both have to show up at the same hiring session? Because Olympus is the place to work right now and everyone knows it, I reminded myself.

  Determined to ignore Adrian, I continued to stare across the room, across the rows of people, until I reached the front of the line.

  “Hello,” I greeted the man behind the desk, as businesslike as I could be. He wore thick glasses, had a narrow face, and sported a gray suit open at the front. When he accepted my application and glanced up to meet my eyes, I smiled. Something cordial and polite. These reactions were not unnatural to me, although I was typically much more carefree and careless of what other people thought of my sometimes heathen ways.

  “Good afternoon...Finley,” the man said. He skimmed the application and started to frown.

  His frown begat one of my own. Frowning couldn't be good. In truth, I probably didn't have all the experience I needed for the job I was applying for. I'd only lasted a short time at the waitressing position, the closest thing to being an Usher in my resume.

  The man picked up his vibrating cell off the table while still perusing the application. “Yes?”

  I waited while he had a brief conversation, and retained a cordial expression after he hung up and handed my application back. Unsure what to expect, I waited with baited breath. I really needed this job.

  “Third door on your right,” the man said, using a pen to gesture to a door to the left of the table.

  “Excellent, thank you.” Encouraged to make it to the next level, I turned from the table, panning the room in an unobtrusive sweep. Adrian was gone.

  Thank God.

  All I could hope was that his interview hadn't gone his way, and that he'd be required to look elsewhere for a job. Stepping confidently through the third door, I closed it behind me, as I'd seen others do, and faced the room. A single desk of heavily polished mahogany sat in the middle, flanked by plush chairs, book cases and a few potted plants. No windows here, I noted, though there was plenty of light from overhead fluorescents.

  Behind the desk, Adrian leaned back in the dark leather chair, eyes lidded, mouth tilted up at the corners.

  I was so shocked to see him there that all I could do at first was stare.

  He was my interviewer? I couldn't figure out why I'd seen him with an application, then realized that he'd just held onto it between one interview and the next. After that, I remembered that he'd been a participant at the party, not an employee or a bartender, which meant he was somewhat well to do. Or connected through parents, aunts and uncles, or best friends.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to a chair on the other side of his desk.

  I wanted to walk out. Turn around and leave and not look back. Pride and stubborn determination—two traits Jaspe
r often teased me about—drew me forward. I slid the application onto the desk, mortified at my lack of experience in the casino arena. Sitting on the edge of a chair, I met Adrian's gaze and didn't look away until he glanced down at the resume. With one finger, he pulled it closer.

  “Finley Carson. Twenty-one today, isn't that convenient. Let's see, you're putting in for an Usher position—not what I would have expected.” He paused, then said, “At least you wore something reasonable to the interview.”

  “Yes, I'm interested in being an Usher. I was a waitress for--”

  “For three whole days.” Adrian laid the sarcasm on thick.

  Clenching my teeth, I added, “I went through training--”

  “What, for two days? So you've got five days worth of experience in a position that really isn't like the one you're applying for. Would you know how to categorize what patron gets hierarchy over another? Who pulls rank in a room full of high powered guests? Delivering burgers and cheap sirloin steak hardly qualifies you for anything close to this job.” Adrian tapped the application and stared me right in the eye.

  “I think I would do very well. Waitressing wasn't hard.” Not nearly as hard as sitting there with my hands in fists, trying not to tell Adrian off.

  “Then why did you quit?”

  My brain felt like it was melting out my ears and I hated the uniform. For a moment, I wasn't sure what to say. The truth wouldn't look good.

  Adrian's brows arched, as if he didn't understand my hesitation.

  “It didn't work out,” I finally said, seeking a neutral answer.

  “Why not?”

  “It just didn't.”

  “That doesn't tell me anything useful.” Adrian braced his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers together over his lap.

  “I didn't think I'd go anywhere with the company, so I sought something else.” Tension rippled down my spine, making my muscles ache.

  “You sought a job in a souvenir shop. What a step up,” he said with biting sarcasm.

  “It's just an in between position until I find something better. Like this.” I gestured to the Olympus in general, referring to the Usher job. Jasper would be proud of me for keeping my cool under pressure. What I really wanted to do was deal Adrian a dose of the sarcasm he continued to deal me.

  “How many jobs have you applied for since the souvenir shop?”

  “This is the first one with an Usher position available. I also work out of the house--”

  “Doing what?”

  I hated that he kept cutting me off. “I'm a part time mechanic.”

  Adrian barked a rude laugh.

  Seething, indignant, I was about to burn all my bridges at the Olympus and tell Adrian he could go to hell when he held up both hands, palms out. Still laughing. As if I had just dealt him an unbelievable blow of humor. His amusement faded down to something sharper and keen, hands returning to their steepled posture.

  “I don't think you're suited for an Usher position,” he said after a moment.

  I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or annoyed. Pushing to my feet, I reached across the desk and snatched up my resume. “Then don't let me waste any more of your precious time.”

  “Oh, the kitten has claws,” he said in a low, appreciative voice.

  I stomped toward the door, ponytail whipping across my back. Don't say anything else, don't stoop to his level, I cautioned myself.

  “But I do think I have a job that would fit you to a tee.”

  Halting in place, I counted to ten, then turned around, chin lifting a notch. My patience, already thin as stretched taffy, threatened to snap. “I can't wait to hear what it is.”

  Initially, Adrian smiled at the condescending retort. Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the desk and looked me dead in the eye again. “A Bath House Attendant.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I'm sure you've heard of the Bath House here at Olympus. It's a large room in a Grecian theme, of course, with marble and statues and fifteen in ground baths. Some are communal, some are private. Attendants take care of the guests's every need from the moment they arrive to the moment they leave. Robes, food, drinks, all of that.”

  I'd heard of it, all right. “I'm not interested.”

  “The tips are twice, sometimes three times what an Usher makes on his or her best night.” Adrian arched a brow.

  Of course, I thought. The job I didn't want would be the one to offer extravagant tips. “I prefer the Usher position.”

  “Four, five, sometimes six or seven hundred dollars a day if a whale wanders in. Think about that,” Adrian said, leaning back in the chair as if confident that tidbit would sway me.

  I have to admit, I almost gawked. That kind of money seemed surreal. Remembering that the attendants had to wear short toga type costumes, which just wasn't something I wanted to do, I said, “That's incredible money, I admit, but I--”

  “It's that or nothing. I don't see you suitable for anything else in this casino,” Adrian said, cutting in yet again.

  “So I have to take the job you want to put me in.” In reality, that's how most jobs worked. Either that, or the employer simply didn't hire the candidate. This is where he thought I would fit best, and that wasn't totally out of the realm of reasonability.

  “Like I said, it's the one I think you're suited for.”

  “How can I be suited to do all that, when you don't think I'm suitable to be an Usher?” Something was wrong here. The attendant position sounded as if I'd need more training than the Usher.

  Adrian's gaze tipped down to my chest, then back to my eyes. “We can train you what to do. It's tantamount to fetching guests things, so as long as you can follow orders, you should be all right. But the job requires more than that.”

  “Yes, the short toga skirts.”

  “No. Totally topless. And you have to prove to me you've got the goods—which I think you do—before we go any further.”

  Chapter Five

  Blood rushed to my face when I realized the bastard Adrian expected me to take off my top. To expose myself at his whim. Like I was some free and easy girl who stripped on command.

  “You know, you can sit there and gloat all you want, but I'm not taking off my clothes. How dare you even suggest--”

  “Do you really think the nude ice dancers and topless showgirls get a free pass about their attributes? It's called an audition. This, granted, is a much less formal one, but still necessary.”

  “It's ridiculous. There is no good reason for me to take my shirt off.” I knew my face was beet red. The once pristine resume had become crumpled in my hand.

  “Of course there is, Finley,” Adrian said in a mildly chiding tone. “Don't be naïve. Our guests pay for the top of the line entertainment. Imagine if we hired unappealing attendants--”

  “Yes,” I said, cutting him off for a change. “Imagine hiring normal looking people. People with flaws and scars and maybe cottage cheese dimples in their thighs. The horror.”

  “Imagine runway models with beaks for noses, sagging asses and missing teeth. It doesn't happen. We're in Vegas, in a top of the line hotel and casino, catering to the ultra rich. You either show me your tits or I'll show you the door.”

  “You unbelievable bastard. Don't bother, I can find the way all by myself.” Pivoting like a member of the military, stiff and formal, I marched to the door and exited the room. Adrian's laughter accompanied me out until I slammed the door closed in my wake. Breathing hard, more furious than I'd ever been, I stalked through the main room with everyone, and I do mean everyone, tracking my progress. I slammed the interview door, too, knocking the stand out of the way with my foot. Shaking with anger, I continued marching through the hall. Bringing the application up, I ripped it in two. Then ripped those pieces in half. The violent rending of paper only eased my need to destruct a little bit.

  “Finley?”

  The familiar voice stopped me in my tracks. Not Adrian's, I wouldn't have stopped for
him, but Ramsey's. Pivoting on a heel, I turned to see Ramsey walking along the hallway in my direction. A pristine, pin-striped suit of navy with a white shirt and blue tie enhanced his coloring and the undeniable allure of his honed physique. Unable to figure out what he was doing here, of all places, I said, “I'm surprised to see you. Are you here applying for a job, too?” Maybe one of the higher positions, one that paid enough to keep him in Rolls Royces. I didn't realize I was grinding my teeth until my jaw started to ache with the pressure.

  “What? No, no. Did you apply for—why do you look like that? Are you all right?” he asked on approach, dark brows pulled into a frown.

  I couldn't imagine what I must look like for him to mention it. Pale or beet red, pinched features, mouth pressed tight. All of those and more, probably. “I'm fine.”

  “You don't look fine.” Ramsey touched the back of my elbow, a familiar gesture he'd used before.

  “Honestly? I had another run in with that ass, Adrian. He thought I'd simply strip my clothes off because he told me to.” The mere mention of it ticked my blood pressure up another notch.

  Ramsey tilted his head back, as if in disbelief. Or surprise. “He what? Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Because I came here to apply for a job as an Usher. He pulled me into a room and heckled me until the end, when he told me that he had a job he thought I'd be good at.”

  “What job was that?” Ramsey asked.

  “A Bath House attendant.” I quirked a brow at Ramsey, haughty and indignant all over again. “He tried to tell me that it's normal procedure to 'view the applicants assets'.” I snorted.

  Ramsey glanced at the crumpled pieces of the application in my hands, then found my eyes again. “He isn't lying about that, anyway.”

  “How do you know?” I searched Ramsey's expression for some kind of clue. He was as handsome as the night of the party, dark hair combed away from his face.

  “It's usually handled in a much more professional manner than what he apparently put you through, and I'm sorry for that. I'll have a word with him.” Ramsey squeezed then released my elbow.