Perspective: Bree
My fingers tattoo a drumbeat on the flimsy tabletop, halfway down the pier at a pop-up lemonade stand. Of all the places to pick for the most important meeting of my life, I could raise a dozen complaints about this shack, and the seagulls that won't stop divebombing the hot dog stand against the other railing. I stir the ice in my second water glass with my finger while gazing at the empty chair across from me. My worn boots and pale sundress that catches the wind more than I'd like are also attracting stray eyes from a half-dozen beach-goers in various stages of heat stroke. Sitting alone in public may be one of my least favorite activities.
Where is she? The interviews and videos don't paint a picture of Sierra Calaver as a careless type, so her lack of punctuality sets my stomach to tumbling. The heat only amplifies my complaints.
"I could feel your leg bouncing from across the pier."
It's her sudden arrival that puts my heartbeat in my ears, not the smooth, unbothered way she speaks.
Dark hair, dark eyes, smirk that never quite fades, even as her English accent drips out of her. Finally, in the flesh, and finally in that damn empty chair.
"Miss Calaver, my hell. You manage a dead silence in them heels."
My voice comes out a note higher than it should, which makes my Southern accent sound juvenile. I'm not the only person to be caught off guard by her arrival, either. The guy at the hot dog stand won't stop glancing between my face and Sierra's the second she removes her sunglasses.
"Trick of the trade. I didn't expect you to be so..." Her eyes sweep up and down me quickly, but not with the devouring pace of lust. It's much more the dismissive speed of a computer. "... delicate."
I can feel my eyebrows raising on their own. Her words don't bite like an insult. My chair is too warm, I have to adjust myself again.
"I digress, Miss Mortensen. Your resume, once more? Refresh me." Her hand extends towards me, open. It's almost automatic, placing my slim green binder into her awaiting hand. My fingers beg to return to tapping. I watch how her eyes flick across the page, not unlike a hawk's.
There's a stormy quality to her irises, the depth changes with every stray reflection. With the blue skies above and the Santa Monica bay only meters to our right, they take on a hint of coloration, but it's only ever a cobalt tint over quicksilver. I don't know that I've met someone with truly gray eyes before.
Her gaze flits back up to meet mine all too suddenly. Caught staring, the way my heart smacks my ribs is surely a coincidence. Her eye contact burns, and I can't sustain it.
The silence, broken as it is by waves lapping and seagulls apparently dying of hunger, is starting to feel almost oppressive. Half of the people on this sweat soaked pier have taken photos or started whispering and pointing our direction. I instinctively hold a hand to my temple in a shielding motion, but Sierra seems immune to it all.
"A community college certificate, a recommendation letter from a greenhouse employee halfway across the planet, and a cover letter that begins with 'Hey, y'all.'" Her pause is an inch longer than I'd like it to be. "Twelve hundred applicants, and you're the one I invite to the only place in California with passionfruit mint lemonade."
Most voices have emotional inflections, tonal variations, or matching facial expressions. I find her voice lacking in all of those things, and pointed at me like a blade in this moment.
"Do you know why, Miss Mortensen?"
My auburn hair bounces into my vision as I shake my head, not trusting my voice after the last time it betrayed my anxiety.
"You don't belong in my world. I needed ten seconds with your paperwork to tell that you don't wear a mask in the same way others do. You're vulnerable." Her nose scrunches slightly with the emphasis on the last word.
I nod blindly, mind blank as I study the way her skin glows and lips never fully close.
She straightens slightly, sliding the now closed binder to my side of the table. Her head tilts down, eyes narrow, and my spine threatens to liquify under the pressure.
"With that said, Miss Bree Mortensen... you have managed to intrigue me. Why do you want this job? What value of yours does it satisfy?" Each word is delivered surgically, flatly. It almost doesn't register that I have the chance to speak, I've focused so deeply on they way her eyes thin and one eyebrow flicks up.
"Sorry, yes, Miss Calaver." I don't know what I'm apologizing for, maybe I'm stalling for time as I attempt to pare myself down to a few heartfelt words. "I value... people. The people in my life, I mean. Connectin' to them, helpin' them, it uh... helps me. I'm better when I'm helpin' people be better."
Luckily, she's asked what I value, not what I can bring to the table at current moment. My own empty words sting a bit. Not only am I short on friends and family to hold dear, this is the longest conversation I've managed since fleeing Kentucky five months ago. I pray that Sierra doesn't interpret my eyes dropping as a sign of deception.
A seagull manages to swipe a bun from the stupified hot dog seller before Sierra's furrowed eyebrows relax slightly. She effortlessly lifts her water glass to her lips, and her gaze traces the ocean horizon for a moment. I feel my shoulders rise much easier for the same span of time.
"These people you value, you'd be leaving them behind for months at a time if I hired you. You wouldn't be in the same country, sometimes."
Sierra's gaze is less narrowed, her chin less raised. I feel my chest begin to rise and fall more heavily, knowing what I'm about to say.
"I said that I value my connections... not that I have many of them to speak of. I'm still workin' on that bit." I can't meet her gaze, even if it's a little softer now. My breath feels coarse in my chest, and I can almost sense this job opportunity slipping out of my hands.
I pick a thread loose from the hem of my little yellow sundress and twist it with my thumb and forefinger. The fishermen and their daughters at the end of the pier are getting worse at hiding their whispers, or the flash on their cameras pointed towards Sierra.
When Sierra's voice comes again, it's quieter by a hair.
"You know the media industry is a ruthless machine. Do you expect to find friends behind the cameras and on the red carpet? Have you come to Hollywood to find your own slice of the fame and fortune, perhaps?"
I sneak a glance at slightly softer eyes, and give a bit of a shrug.
"No, not really. Well, I mean, I doubt it. Good people attract good people, wherever they are. It doesn't... it doesn't really matter to me that you're famous, that that's the world you're from. The job said personal assistant, and I plan on assistin' you. Might be naiive of me, but if I can't find folks on my own, I can at least feel like I'm helpin' one person." My lips are a little dry by the time I finish talking, especially as I acknowledge the elephant in the room. Speaking from the heart is surely too naive, and I expect her to end the interview promptly.
Instead, her lips give their signature upturn at the corner. Just the small motion brings with it a burst of warmth that lifts the weight from my shoulders.
"You're going to try to be friends with me, Mortensen?"
Her left eyebrow raises, matching the corner of her shapely lips. There's an edge to her voice that tells me my answer is not what she expected. I search my brain for responses to her question and all I'm left with is an engrained image of Sierra's eyes. Fuck it, we continue with the honesty.
"I am, Miss Calaver. A good assistant, to be sure, but I'd like it if we got along, too."
My lips tug upward hopefully, and I find myself a little wide eyed awaiting her response. It doesn't come for a moment, her smirk turns concrete.
And then, like concrete, it cracks. Her eyes finally show the slightest bit of smile, narrowing in an appraising, hopefully approving way. She stands, and I find myself doing the same, and looking up into her eyes. Of course she just has to be taller than me, too.
"Delicate... but brave in your own way, Mortensen." Sierra pauses, then kicks her jaw to the side very slightly as she chews on her words. "Can you be ready to travel by tomorrow evening? I'm afraid filming starts in 48 hours, in Brisbane, Australia."
I'm fairly certain my eyebrows touch my hairline just briefly as I try to process her words. My eyes flit around to the various gazes that Sierra has attracted, checking that they're seeing the same reality that I am. I can barely reply with more than a head nod.
I think this means I landed the job.
"Wait, just like that? You didn't even ask about my experience or-"
Sierra cuts me off with my own words and a raised hand with short trimmed nails.
"Enough. Walk with me."
Oh. That was direct. My feet are already going. We're stepping down the pier as the sun reaches it's highest point. Our steps hit the beach and I feel the heel of my tired boots begin to fill with sand. I follow Sierra's unhurried pace along the water front.
"Do you know how long it's been since I had need of an assistant?"
I shake my head.
"Five years." She sighs, and her footsteps stop short, while her eyes rove over the horizon. "You and I will be spending long days together, see each other more often than we'll see anyone else, even family. I won't have my assistant be a dimwitted, intolerable groupie, or an obsessive robotic type with no soul. That would bring the worst out in me."
I nod, glad she's acknowledged one of my own least favorite parts of employment: being stuck with strangers for upwards of 40 hours a week.
"You will be my assistant, first, above anything, and my word is absolute. Understood?"
Again I nod.
She sighs, and her hand finds my shoulder, forcing me to face her. She leans in, locking me down.
"I'm not certain you understand, Mortensen."
Her tone now is back to that sledgehammer force, blunt, atonal, and I feel myself shrink momentarily.
"I'll be direct, and I'll say this once. This will be the most difficult position you've held in your life. Your time is my time, whenever I need, your attention mine to command. Understood?"
Her grey stare is cutting, lacking all empathy, and catches me out. I can't manage a response fast enough, so Sierra cuts in.
"Nod, Mortensen."
My head responds automatically, rushing to fulfill her command.
"Beyond having some redeeming personality traits that make you tolerable, what I need out of an assistant is someone I can trust explicitly, to handle anything I ask, whenever I ask, no matter what it takes. No excuses, just results. You won't let me down, will you, Mortensen?"
God, my knees are weak, why was that... attractive? Her voice makes me want to crawl under her boot, especially with that dominant tone in her words. It's all I can do to shake my head, which elicits an approving nod from Sierra. Her eyes flick up and down me for a moment, then she continues down the beach.
I instantly miss the feeling of her hand on my shoulder.
"Good. We'll be friends secondarily, if you can manage to fulfill your role and still decide to pursue that. Go home. Pack a bag, meet me at my home in the morning. Don't forget your passport, I swear to the heavens..."
And before I can give my third nod, she's walking off towards the city, already having dismissed me.
I wanted this job, but I hadn't imagined the interview going anything like this. What the fuck just happened?