They rode the elevator together.
Ortega could not get enough of her scent—and oh my, what a gorgeous woman. She looked sharp as hell. All black. Mad posture. Taller than him. 'Twas her heels.
He didn't make his glances too obvious, though. Leaned back against the elevator wall, kept his distance, watched the timer, bobbed his head to the music. For a moment he felt the heat of her stare and his heartbeat spiked. But it was only for a moment.
The ding announced their stop and the door opened. He made his way out just as she did, and they bumped. She glared at him through her glasses. He held, then backed down and let her pass, gesturing like the gentleman he wasn't.
He stared at her ass, adjusted his fly, and walked out of the elevator too.
More women. Polished walls. Too-clean floors. AC and a floral air freshener. He stopped a blonde and asked where the lobby was. She showed him a room after a left and a right.
When he walked in, the air was different—charged with men expensively dressed in suits with pompous demeanors as they sat. All seats were taken.
Ortega leaned back against the wall, hands in his pockets, and watched them watch him.
'Fucking lowlives,' he thought—even though one had the money to buy him. Luckily, Ortega had too much self-respect to sell himself short.
He stood stoic as the AC hummed. Looked at the ceiling. Two minutes later he was clicking his tongue. He stood still, but just that sound was enough to irk his neighbor, who poked him.
"'Scuse me," the man said, with a frown that made Ortega's landlord handsome. "You're disturbing us."
Ortega looked at him. Really looked at him. He was nobody. Ortega clicked his tongue again.
"Hey, I just told you to stop doing that."
"You're the only one complaining," Ortega pointed out.
Just then, one of the men came to his neighbor's rescue.
"He's right. Clicking noises are gross, man."
"You're gross," Ortega spat back.
He shouldn't have. 'Shit.' He cursed inwardly.
Ortega hated the way the man looked at him as he walked out when his number was called. Number five, of course. One of the good ones.
Ortega was boiling when he took the man's seat. Then a scrawny guy scooted near him on the periphery.
"Nice fit," the man started.
Ortega snapped his gaze toward him.
"I'm Diem," he said, stretching out a handshake.
"Ortega." He shook after deeming him worthy. "Ortega Dyke."
He kept shaking, and the man nodded with a shaky smile. Ortega's grip was too firm, and the look on his face must've been too intense because the man tensed up. Ortega released the handshake and cleared his throat—that was the apology.
For minutes, they sat in tense silence. The sterile hum of the AC calmed Ortega's senses, letting him take a better look at the man—who wouldn't stop fidgeting in his periphery.
Then something came to his mind.
"Um… what did you say your name was again?"
The man leaned in, dumbfounded a beat before answering.
"It's Diem."
"Yeah," Ortega leaned back, crossed his arms. "So like… what are you applying for?"
He narrowed his eyes, gauging Diem's reactions. The man seemed to contemplate before answering—
"Um… Marketer. Yeah, that."
Ortega's eyes widened, but he played it cool. That was his role, goddammit. But he didn't feel threatened. The man was shy, and if anything, Ortega doubted he had the confidence to sell himself.
Being skilled was one thing. Selling it was another.
Ortega's lips curled as he waited for his time to shine.
"I hear a woman owns this company," one of the men said nearby, "and she gives head to her employees."
Ortega raised a brow. He was looking straight ahead, but listening.
"I wonder what'll happen if I get a raise," another said.
Ortega smirked. 'Get the job first.' He didn't say it, just listened.
He didn't know much about the company—only that they'd recently publicized their updated pay grade for interns, and it was delicious. That was what attracted him.
Rumors, most likely, but it wouldn't hurt to stay aware.
"Nah, has to be a dude," someone said. "Alpha motherfucker and this whole company's his harem."
"Love to be that guy. Lucky bastard."
Ortega tuned them out and shifted in his seat, suddenly hoping it was a man waiting to interview him. Because if it were a woman—and as pretty as the ones he'd seen—it would be hard to maintain professional decorum.
Minutes felt like hours. His confidence was beginning to crumble. He sat still, but the constant glances toward the door betrayed him. The tongue tics came back.
The stakes hit him hard. If he failed to bag this job, he'd have to go live with his parents. The thought made him frown. He hated it and banished it.
Then—
"Mr. Ortega Dyke?"
He snapped at the doorway. A woman holding a sleek tablet called his name.
He stood up, wiped his sweaty palms, nodded bye to Diem—who mouthed good luck—and made his way to the conference room.
After a left turn, he beheld the pompous bastard from earlier stomping toward him furiously. They shoulder-bumped, and that was when the man recognised Ortega. His angry, dejected face suddenly turned venomous as he passed. Ortega turned and watched him. The man was shaking his head—as if he'd already seen Ortega's future.
Ortega turned back to the door the woman had opened for him.