The man interviewing me was a good looking man. Not a gorgeous man, but a good looking man. His musculature showed he worked out, but still he carried about ten pounds more than his ideal weight. Brown hair, a couple of inches shy of six feet, good nose, thin lips. He did have beautiful blue eyes.
I had just finished my sophomore year in college and was looking for a job. The yogurt shop where I'd worked the previous summer had invited me back, but I was looking for something different, especially in the way of avoiding a balding overweight boss who, when he wasn't pawing me, was leering at me. My Mom, who worked in the clerk of court's office, heard that the filing clerk for Richard & Richard, a local husband and wife law firm, had left and mentioned me to Ron Richard. I was in his office being interviewed.
His office was a mess. The paperless revolution had not made it to this guy; books, papers, and files were piled everywhere. His furniture and decorations seemed as if selected at random. His clothes matched his office. His tie and a couple of buttons on his shirt were undone and it had been several hours since he'd checked his hair. He did, however, have an "aw shucks" kind of charm and, according to Mom, was great in front of a jury; jurors instantly identified with him. Big city lawyers in their three thousand dollar suits and matching trial bags had, Mom said, often left the courtroom on the short end of million dollar verdicts wondering what had just happened.
I figured if I interviewed only with him, I had the job. My name is Amber Church. At the time I was nineteen years old, attended a throughly mediocre local college, and was considered a party girl. It was true; I liked to party, hit the bars, tease the boys. Guts loved to buy me drinks, dinner, or most anything else I wanted; I was a shameless and talented flirt. My looks didn't hurt. My Cajun ancestry had left me a dark complexion, brown, almost black, hair that cascaded in long elegant waves past my shoulder blades and although no gym rat, I had a great figure and inherited my Mom's ample chest. I liked wearing short skirts or slit dresses to show off my legs. Don't get me wrong, I was no slut. I'd been with far fewer men than most people supposed.
However, while I was pulling my flirt on Ron, he didn't seem to be buying into it. It was more like he was watching me, evaluating my technique. I kept plowing ahead, I didn't have a Plan B. If guys were not buying my looks and personality, I wasn't sure what else I had to sell.
Our interview was interrupted by a knock on the door. A woman entered. Ron's face lit up. Completely focused on her, he popped up from his chair, took her hand in his, and kissed her on the cheek.
"This is Michelle, my wife and the brains of the operation."
Fuck, no wonder he wasn't buying my act, she was fricking gorgeous. My mother had said she was pretty, but Mom was being catty; Michelle left pretty in the dust a county or two back. Michelle was, I would learn, seven years younger than her thirty-three year old husband. She was five feet five inches tall with long straight blond hair. She had a round face with pronounced cheek bones, large emerald eyes, and a wide mouth which featured a set of thick luscious lips.
She was wearing a gray Armani taffeta pencil skirt and a matching melange jacket that accented her curvy figure. She walked, almost glided, across the room. Her perfume was a light floral, sexy but appropriate for the office. After I stood to shake her hand she sat down next to me. She brushed her hair back with her small hand, which featured perfectly manicured nails bearing deep red nail polish, and looked me in the eye, capturing my attention. Her skin was a pale white and her make-up, except for bright red lipstick, understated. My eyes were drawn to her full lips. She smiled at me, flashing a perfect set of teeth, and crossed her legs.
"It's good to meet you," she said. There was a hint of a Southern accent in her soft spoken voice. I leaned forward to ensure I heard every word.
She was direct, to the point. Each word was enunciated precisely. "Much of what we would ask you to do is boring, but it must be done right. A piece of evidence filed in the wrong file may never be found again. If you mistakenly stuff a letter intended for a client into an envelope addressed to an opposing lawyer, we could lose a case. If we miss a hearing date because you did not correctly calender it, we commit malpractice. More than anything else this job requires someone with the right personality, someone whose focus is on doing the job, no matter what job, right."
She wasn't describing me. I was a good time girl. Yet, I wanted to impress this woman.
She saw my hesitation.
"You have doubts?"
"Yes," I confessed, wondering why I was admitting that in a job interview.
"Why don't we get to know each other better. Ron is cooking out tomorrow. Can you drop by for lunch, around 1:00."
"I'd like that very much."
"Good." She handed me a card. "Send a text to this number. I'll forward the address."
She stood up and kissed my cheek with her full sexy lips, her hand on my shoulder. My stomach fluttered. "I look forward to talking with you further. Ron will tell you more about the job."
She turned to her husband. "I made 6:30 reservations at Cochon's," an award-winning restaurant in the city. "We'll need to close early today. I'll let Denise know."
She left the room. I watched. She had a great ass.
* * * *
I lived with two girls. Dana's gorgeous, a blonde whom everyone notices when she walks into a room. Kathy is sweet and pretty, but has a little trouble keeping off the weight. The three of us and Jenny, who was living with her boyfriend of the moment, went to high school together. We were BFFs. There used to be five of us. Then Corrine slept with my boyfriend.
Dana, Kathy, and I hit the college bars that night. I told them about my job interview. Somehow, however, it felt like a private experience and I didn't, as I normally would, share everything. I didn't describe how striking Mrs. Richard was or tell them about tomorrow's lunch or of the generous hourly wage Ron had mentioned.
It was a typical Friday night. I flirted with guys, they flirted back and bought me beers. I wasn't really into it, which meant I drank more than I should. I thought about Mrs. Richard in a place like this. It seemed unworthy of her. At some point Dana left with a guy I barely remembered. It was about two in the morning when Kathy poured my alcohol-soaked body into bed.
I opened my eyes to 11:30 on the alarm clock. Shit, I had to be at the Richards in ninety minutes. I stumbled to the kitchen, gulped down some stinky coffee Kathy had made who knows when, and crawled into the shower. My head hurt; I was some hung over. As I tried to wash the feeling away, I silently thanked the landlord for the large hot water heater. I considered straightening my hair for a more mature look, but realized that I didn't have the time. I chose my best pair of blue jeans, a matching pink silk shirt, and some wedge sandals. While putting on my make-up I noticed my blood shot eyes, I grabbed the Visine.
The Richards lived north of town on a semi-rural road known for its ostentatious homes. Theirs was not visible from the road. I was only five minutes late when I started down a long driveway through a wooded lot. When I arrived I was struck by the home's elegance. Smaller than most on the road, it featured high ceilings, large windows, and plenty of outdoor living space. When I got out of the car I heard Mrs. Richard's call, "Amber, over here." She was sitting on a side deck built around the trunk of a large oak, which shaded half the house.
My impression of the previous day was right on; this was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She wore a designer oversized tee shirt whose sheer fabric revealed a Helmut Lang asymmetric bra, black leggings, and black leather platform ankle boots. Her hair was pulled back in a french twist. She met me at the edge of the deck and kissed me on the cheek.
"How was the opera, Mrs. Richard?"
