The Gift

Chapter 2: Send Me an Angel-1

Chapter 2: Send Me an Angel

August

August fidgeted in the hard plastic chair and checked the clock for what had to be the hundredth time. They’d all been there for more than an hour and not a single one of them had moved yet. As if they had all the time in the world to just hang around and wait.

He took a second to let his attentions wander over the rest of the room, also for the hundredth time. So many beautiful people, so many cool ones, while he sat there looking like an overdressed high school kid waiting for his prom date.

But whoever heard of going to a job interview in jeans, for heaven’s sake? In tights? In rips and ruin and leather and pleather, even. It would be laughable if the truth wasn’t so obvious—he was the one who looked out of place. Not Ms. Snake-skin-tights or Mr. Jeans-so-snug-you-must-have-painted-them-on. Not even Mr. Green-hair. Amidst the funky clothing and extra-cool T-shirts that probably cost more than his last week’s pay altogether, it was his conservative navy-blue suit that looked foolish.

He sighed and let his head fall back on the wall behind him. What was he even doing there? He wasn’t in these people’s league, and not just with the cool-factor part of things. He wasn’t even up to par in the education or experience line. He didn’t have a single hour in on co-op, was hardly done his college program, and had serious doubts in his ability to obtain a high enough grade to keep him there next semester. A job was the only thing that was going to keep him in the city, on his own.

August had spent the last year learning the value of a buck, and this position promised to offer a decent one. Not that it would take much to outshine the nine bucks an hour he got at the record store, even if he did ask for full-time hours. Which he hadn’t. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to give him the hours anyway, so there wasn’t much point. But there was no way he was asking his parents for money to stay in the city if he had to leave school. They probably wouldn’t deny him, but to him it was a mortification of unfathomable proportions—an admission that he couldn’t make it on his own, and more than just a suggestion that getting into the music industry was as much of a joke as they’d told him it would be. After all, if one couldn’t make it through college while pursuing the dream that had to be a darn good indication of how hard it would be to find a job once one was done. If his father didn’t come right out and say it, his father would be thinking it. And every time August had to look at him, August would be able to read it off his face.

He’d been intrigued but not surprised when he’d seen the posting on the billboard at the campus. A lot of companies posted their part-time and low-man-on-the-totem jobs at the school. The students were perfect servants. They would work like dogs trying to make a good impression, they weren’t good enough to expect a lot in return, and they were all about “making contacts” as opposed to making money. So, they got the jobs nobody else wanted and they were paid like sweatshop workers.

The posting had seemed a little different than the rest though. A bit more put together, a touch more promising. A real job:

Wanted—Personal Assistant

P.A. needed to provide trustworthy, efficient assistance for serious musical professional. Must be flexible with hours, willing to travel, and have the ability to assume a variety of responsibilities. Make some contacts, learn the ropes, and share a valuable experience working right in the heart of the industry.

It’d been simple, to the point, and the number had been local. He’d stolen the card right off the board, which was a huge protocol no-no. The school even provided wee pencils and scrap paper for that very reason. But August did it anyway, keeping his fist gripped around the paper the whole time he’d had it tucked in his pocket. And all the way back to his apartment he’d read it over and over again, until it began to ring through his head like spoken word art set to the beat of the bus’s tires.

The woman August had spoken to on the phone had been polite, well-spoken, and with his eyes closed, mentally repeating and processing the instructions so as not to forget a single one, he’d almost missed her change in tone and lowered voice: “Just follow the signs when you get here. You can do that, right, August?”

He hadn’t answered, hadn’t really been sure what the woman was even asking. He’d just thanked her for her time and let her know how excited he was for the opportunity. And when he’d shown up at the tall, shiny, well-landscaped building, he’d done exactly what she’d told him and followed the signs. But not before he’d spent several minutes gazing through plate glass windows at the chromed and polished reception area. And he didn’t hurry or focus as much as he should have while he ran his fingers along the cool, marbled surfaces of counters and walkways, scuffing at the plush carpeting with his soles, and sending longing gazes at the shiny desks and album-bedecked walls. He was nervous but hoping. Hoping and wishing. Wishing and praying. All but bubbling over with hope. And in the last hour every bit of effervescence had fizzled out, like an open beer forgotten on a side table.

There were a dozen other things he should have been wishing and praying about. A real job—one that he actually had a chance of landing would be a good start; the idea that he’d actually finish his paper on time, and ace it, even though acing it would still not give him enough of a boost to pull his grade up to passing. Maybe what he should have been wishing for was a clever way to tell his parents he’d be coming back in December instead of May.

He sighed and told himself to say to hell with it. That even if the interviewers liked him, they would like any number of the rest of the group way more than him.

He put down the magazine he’d been pretending to read and lowered the foot he had resting on his knee. He settled both shoes flat on the polished hardwood, took a breath, and lifted his head…

And there he was.

August hadn’t noticed anyone enter the room. It didn’t appear that anyone else had either. Had the newcomer just kept moving, kept his head down, he probably could have walked through the room without anyone realizing he was there. Instead, he had stopped still and was looking up at the ceiling. It was an unremarkable ceiling in itself, white noise-reducing tile with the requisite dove gray gridlock to hold it in place, but it held his attention as if it were the Sistine Chapel. It was that people began to notice.

Without looking down, August located the magazine he’d just dropped and picked it back up. With his gaze jumping between the man and the magazine, he quickly flipped through the pages. He nodded to himself, his breath speeding up, and a smile cracking his face. Damn and hell and God and the Virgin, there the man was. Right there—in big, bright glossy Hollywood style and shine, on page thirty-eight. Doren: wild child, rock star, up and coming legend. And damn but if he wasn’t just as beautiful in person as he was on paper—long, lean body, dark, thick hair styled in a way that made the term styled seem ironic, the kind of blue eyes that cameras loved best, and a casual disinterest in everyone and everything. He was, according to the article, the perfect combination of sexy and distant, with neither preference nor limitation when it came to seeking out bodies to spend time with.

One face after another turned toward him. Lights of recognition began to flare in every gaze. And it wasn’t until Doren had amassed the attention of everyone there that he took a deep breath and swiveled in August’s direction. They locked gazes and Doren’s lips twitched. It could have been a light, feathery smile that barely lifted the corners of his mouth, August would tell himself later. But then it could have been nothing more than an involuntary tick. Regardless, the very next moment after, August walked right past everyone and disappeared behind the smoked glass door.