1
Cassandra
I’m still shaky about how big the mansion is. Just sitting down in the chair makes me feel like I can’t touch the armrests because my clamminess would rub off on them and leave a stain forever. Whatever this man does for a living, he’s far richer than my father, a deli shop owner. My nerves are already off the charts as I try to stop my knees from knocking into one another.
“John’s daughter. He told me a lot about you,” he says, his big hand slowly taking the square-cut glass from his table and shooting back the caramel-colored liquid in one go before placing the emptied glass back down on the thick wood table between us, the only thing that separates me from this enormous man.
Forcing a feigned smile as I try to appease him, clearly not wanting to get on his bad side. I hope the ensuing conversation will keep me occupied enough that I'll be less terrified. There's no time for nerves when you're just trying to stay alive in this big, bad world.
"Yeah,he's always talking about me. I'm his golden girl. How exactly do you know him?" My words are barely coming out. Something isn't right about the vibe of the place. My mind keeps going to the wordillegal.I don't know exactly what it applies to but that's flashing in my mind as I look at him.
“We go back. He’s a good businessman and friend.”
I note in my head that he putbusinessmenfirst. I don’t know what to say to that, because I’m too busy thinking about it.
“He said you can babysit my son. Forty an hour.”
“Forty?”
His dark eyes cut themselves at me. They’re just as dark as his hair which is peppered with gray, yet darker than the stubble on his face. The only part about him that competes with stealing my attention is how his arms look like they want to burst through his shirt.
“You expect more than that?”
My heart starts to race. I imagine myself saying no and then winding up on one of those TV shows where John Walsh says, “If you have any information regarding the disappearance of eighteen-year-old Cassandra, please call or text our hotline at 833-3PURSUE.” I'm at a point in my head where I'm telling myself he wouldn't kill an innocent chick like me. Anything to calm me down.
“No, I was just shocked at how much you’re offering.”
Smiling, he restrains a chuckle and takes a seat, keeping those lion-like eyes of his trained on me. For a guy who is 'friends' with my father, he sure does look at me like prey. At the same time, I strangely feel safe in his presence. Little goosebumps line my arms. I'm not sure why that is.
"You're in college. Someone in college deserves to make money while they study."
We have this moment of eye contact where I feel like he's spoiling me. I tell myself that he's like that with everyone. But at the same time, I use it in a way where I lie to myself and say that if he's speaking to me like this then he's not going to end my life. Maybe he's not a murderer. Maybe he's just one of those guys who grunts more than the type of sensitive guy who expresses his feelings and has dinner with his family on Sundays at one P.M.
“He recently finalized the divorce so he might be cranky. He was married to a woman that had been arranged when he was younger.”I remembered my dad telling me before I agreed to go for the interview. That back story tells me that his family was high on values. Old school is probably the best word for it. Old school can sometimes be a terrible thing. People who are old school used to burn witches at the stake.
The door swings open and I hear a few men cheering and laughing. I go to turn around but before I can make a single man out, my clothes grow heavy and wet. My hair immediately after. Instinctively I raise my hands to block the spray of liquid.
“We got the bridge contract boss!” One of the men says with a cracking Italian accent.
“Ay, the fuck are you idiots doing? Don’t you fuckin see I got someone sittin’ here?”
The two things that I’m able to make out through eyes that now sting are bottles of champagne and Tony grabbing one from the men and throwing it against the wall. The second that the bottle shatters, the painting of what looks like a horse falls off the wall and lays flat on the floor.
"Sorry boss. We had no idea–"
“Shut the fuck up. You’re paying for the painting you fuckin idiots.”
Tony leaves his chair and grabs my arm. His touch leaves me with confused emotions. The first one is fear. Because I know those hands have done some terrible things. I can't even begin to imagine what. The second thing that happens is my goosebumps want to do somersaults. I don't resist his pull.
I'm more than happy to exit the room, away from the three men who have drenched me and ruined my interview to be a babysitter. Surely, it must be done now that I’ve been doused in bubbly. After all the fear that I'm still feeling, it's probably for the best. I don't want to work in this mansion, let alone for this unsavory cast of characters.
“I have clothes you can change into,” Tony’s deep baritone says matter of factly as we move through the hallway.
With my cheeks going red, I say, "It's okay, you don't have to." I must sound like a nervous mouse. But who can blame me?
“My wife had a lot of clothes she never wore. Still with tags on the shit. It's going to go in the garbage anyway.”
“Okay."