Page 20 of Playing the Backbeat

I’m meant to get this job. It wouldn’t all be working out so perfectly if I weren’t meant to have an opportunity like this fall into my lap.

I use the twenty-minute drive to do my makeup, fix my hair, and repack my bag so it doesn’t look so lumpy with my bar clothes shoved into it. Then I find everything I can online about this company, mentally running through a few practice interview questions.

My stomach pits, my nerves on fire as adrenaline wears off from my rush to get ready, while also preparing me to “fake it until I make it” in this meeting.

I am competent. I am intelligent. I am an asset.

Do I always try to exude confidence, bordering arrogance, at work? Sure as fuck do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get the same nauseous flutter in my stomach when I know I’m about to be under the microscope, with every personality flaw and professional experience under scrutiny.

Some might call it a defense mechanism, but in my experience, it’s necessary. I can’t survive the workplace with anything less than steel walls, built sky high. No weakness. No insecurity. Be as brazen, bold, and entitled as the men around me so they have no reason to question why I’m sitting next to them or why they should listen to me.

The driver pulls up to the building, glass walls stretching into the clouds, the glass reflecting the setting sun. The lobby is pristine, and the receptionist takes my information with a sharp smile before I find a seat in the waiting area.

Phil rounds a corner fifteen minutes later, five minutes after my interview was supposed to begin, dragging his hand over his jaw, a tight frown on his face.

That can’t be good.

“Hey, Dee. You made it.”

“Good to see you, Phil. Thanks for this opportunity.”

I stand, but Phil doesn’t budge. “I guess plans have changed. My grandfather decided to head to the airport early and had his secretary clear his calendar. I just found out on my way down here to meet you. Sorry about that, but you know, we could grab some food and I could tell you about the company if you want? I can try to get you rescheduled for an interview. No guarantees or anything, but I’ll do my best.”

Yep. Still a fucking prick.

“Actually, I need to be somewhere.” I attempt to hide my irritation on the off chance this could lead to an interview in the future—I don’t make it a habit to burn professional bridges. Personal ones? Sure, with good reason. But I need a fucking job, and I can’t take the risk. “Rain check?”

He nods before I thank him. I head to the bathroom to get changed and order another ride to get to the other side of town.

Once I’m settled in the back of the car, I rest my head against the window as the sun sinks further in the sky, melting from blue to orange and pink.

What the fuck am I going to do?I’ve heard it’s rare for anyone to actually work in the field they studied. Maybe this is a sign that I need to move on and try something completely different.

My mind wanders, and by the time we end up at the bar, my mood has soured. But I can’t afford to miss my shift, so I do my best to shake this day off and give myself another mini-pep talk.I can choose to make the best of the situation.

I clock in, apologizing for being late. Just when I’ve managed to talk myself into a better mindset, I get called into the manager’s office.

The inevitable. Fired.

Goddammit.

Chapter nine

Dee

“You’re being dramatic.”

I snap my head, watching Dylan smirk at the damn cutting board while he chops vegetables for the chicken salad he’s making. Having a roommate who enjoys cooking? Another win in my book.

My eyes narrow. “Of course, I’m being dramatic. Because the situation is dramatic.”

“So, bartending didn’t work out. It was meant to be temporary anyway, right?”

I groan at his lack of concern. “You realize you’re poking a bear, right?”

He pops a carrot into his mouth and winks at me. “I’d rather see you breathe fire than mope on that couch for the next three days.”

“I’m not moping.”I am moping.“I’m just wondering why they would vote out the personleastlikely to get the votes at the end? It’s like they’ve never watched the show before,” I yell, gesturing at the TV.