Dance For Me

New Start

I appreciate Corbyn for setting up three different jobs for me to choose from because I know I'd never even get a second look by any of these jobs if it wasn't for his help.

As my phone is pressed against my ear, the line rings and my palms begin to sweat. I haven't had a decent job, that I've told people about, ever. Well I did have the one waitressing job from when I was sixteen, until I was seventeen, but I had to leave when Justin kept showing up to yell at me, then I started working at strip clubs, and I somehow made it to Corbyn.

I wouldn't change a thing.

"Weston, how can I help you?" A deep voice answers my call and I suddenly don't know what to say.

"Hello, um- My name is Cassidy Klassen.."

"Cassidy! I was expecting your call. You decided to come be my assistant! That's great!" His voice now becomes overly cheerful

"Wait, assistant? I thought-"

"Yes! What's your address? I'll send you a car to bring you to the building and we'll go over the details."

"Sir, that's not necessary, I can take a cab." The friendliness of Mr. Weston almost gives me anxiety.

"Non sense, text me your address and I'll send a car." Weston hangs up the call but my body is in too much shock to move the phone away from my ear.

Did I really just get an assistant job? I don't even have a car to drive and get them coffee. Is that what you do as an assistant?

My phone vibrates against the side of my head and I quickly pull it away, seeing a text from the number I just called.

"I'm waiting.."

Shaking my head, I send him my address, it isn't long before he tells me a car is on its way, but it'll be an hour.

I scramble out of bed in a panic, ripping off my baggy black shirt, I race to my ensuite bathroom, to have a fast shower.

What do you wear to a job interview that's not really an interview?

Once I'm feeling clean enough, I dry myself in a hurry, running naked from my bathroom to my walk in closet, throwing on a pair of black skinny jeans and a knitted cream coloured sweater. I want to look professional but not overly eager as this isn't my first day, I think.

I throw on a quick line of eyeliner and a few strokes of mascara, keeping my face relatively makeup free. I don't want to go in to this meeting and have high expectations for me right off the bat, appearance wise.

Checking my phone, that's sitting on the bathroom counter beside me, I have ten minutes to get downstairs. I grab my black purse, shoving my phone and wallet inside and I grab my keys, but not before almost falling over a box of my unpacked things.

Slipping on a pair of small black heels, I step out the door with a loud sigh. Am I really doing this? Am I really jumping into a random job because Corbyn told me so?

Who am I kidding? Of course I am. I'd jump through fire if Corbyn told me to, even if we're broken up.

Strutting down the long hallway, to the elevator, I press the down arrow and my hands instantly get sweaty again. I've never been an assistant, but I imagine it's like waitressing. Do what you're told, don't fuck up.

The elevator dings and I step inside once the golden doors open. Pressing the ground floor, my heart begins to race. This was a mistake. I should've stayed in bed, let my hatred take over and be done with the world, but I owe it to myself to get a decent job and move on with my life, just like Corbyn has.