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EVIE
I flip through the stack of files three inches thick. All this, for me? Way to pile on in the last two weeks of my internship.
Even though I'm only making ten an hour, the Jenkins Corporation is treating me more like a junior public relations executive.
Groaning, I thumb through the files. I'll never get home in time to make dinner. And I'll totally be too tired to work on that newsletter for the community garden in my neighborhood. Why did I volunteer to do that?
I pick up my cell and angrily tap a number on speed dial.
"Sabrina? Hey. I'm going to be late. You're on your own for food. There's one of those microwave pizzas in the freezer, kay?" I cradle my cell between my ear and shoulder, opening the cover of one of the files while my sister talks in her melodic southern accent. That we're related sometimes baffles me. I have an accent as flat and dry as Nebraska.
"Yeah. Microwave only on medium. Four minutes. You good? And hey? No friends over tonight. You need to study for finals."
Sabrina's high-pitched whine fills my ear. I don't have time for this tonight and I snap at her.
"I don't care if the biology exam's easy. Keep studying. Love you."
Boys worship her (which is a little adorable). Men love her (which is gross). Hell, she's even confided in me that she's experimented with girls. (That's fine with me, whatever makes her happy). She's too smart to screw up her life with an unplanned pregnancy or a starry-eyed elopement.
But I'm keeping a close eye on her, because the last two weeks of high school are all about parties and clubs and debauchery.
At least that's what I'd heard. Not like I indulged in any of that when I was seventeen.
It's my job to get her to graduation next week and to an elite science camp in Boston for the summer. She'd been accepted, had gotten a scholarship for seventy-five percent of the cost, and I'm determined to scrape up the rest. Maybe I'll take on an additional shift at the bar...
I don't even want to think about college in the fall. That's what loans are for. God knows I have enough of them. I might have to defer them for the rest of my life, but at least I have a degree.
Scanning the first page of the file, I spot the note left by Josephine, my boss.
Proofread this marketing plan for spelling errors and then bring this entire file to Alex's office. Right away.
The last two words are underlined, twice.
I frown and flip the note over, hoping for more instructions. Alex's office? The CEO? Me? I'm an intern. Interns don't casually drop off reports for the CEO.
I grab the phone again. This isn't normal.
"Josephine? Hey. It's Evie. Sorry to bother you. Can you hear me?"
There's clicking and a fuzzy response. Dammit, she must be on the MARTA, headed home to Sandy Springs. The line goes dead. I text her instead.
You want me to bring this file to Alex's office? Do you mean Alex Jenkins?
I rifle quickly through the file, waiting for a text, not spotting any errors. It's such an unusual request from Josephine, who deals with him directly. The last thing I want is to bust into the CEO's office after hours. He's probably got cameras on every corner of the floor. Or he's actually in his office.
Just the thought makes me shiver.
Dale Alexander Jenkins, the company's president, isn't around much. Usually he's traveling the globe, running one part of the company or another. Jenkins Corporation owns the world's largest tire manufacturer. That was started by Alex' father, according to company literature.
But the conglomerate also recently acquired a line of chemical and industrial products made of rubber, a chain of sporting goods stores, and, inexplicably, a company that makes roofing supplies.
Rumor has it that he also wants to be the company's president — a job that's occupied by his eighty-something year old grandmother. She's fighting him, I've heard. I try not to pay attention to the rumors. They're none of my business.
I'm in the corporate communications department, which means I write feel-good stories for the company newsletter and copy-edit press releases about Jenkins' "corporate citizenship."
Safety! Environment! Community!
Those are the company's three buzzwords, and they've been imprinted into my thoughts during my five months here. They're on the company letterhead, at the bottom of my emails, in every news release. They're in my stupid dreams, ones where I push papers and type until my fingers bleed.
I wonder if Alex Jenkins knows his corporate communications intern works unpaid overtime.
If those buzzwords float in my brain, Alex Jenkins is branded there. Good lord, is he gorgeous.
I see him every day in our company literature, smiling and self-posessed. I've only seen him twice in person.
Once during a companywide forum where he'd given a presentation, and once in the lobby of our building. Both times I was shocked at how young he seemed — he couldn't be a day over thirty — and how he had the most extraordinary way of looking both earnest and wicked.
He looked sinful in his suit that day at the forum. I'd watched from the back of the company auditorium as he spoke in an even, commanding tone about the company's mission for the new year.
It had been during my first week as an intern, and I remember looking around, wondering if anyone else was as captivated as I was at how Alex grinned and gestured in a controlled way, as if he had all the energy in the world pent up in his body, but he wasn't ready to share it with us.
The second time, I was much closer. It was about a month after the forum, in the lobby. It was a Saturday, and at first I hadn't recognized him because he was dressed so casually. That was back when it was cold here in Atlanta, a rare day of brutal, subzero temperatures.
He wore black jeans, a navy peacoat, and a gray knit cap. I'd stopped near a potted plant to make sure I remembered my phone, and I watched, rapt, as he took off the cap and his dark hair fell over his forehead. He had stubble that day, and he grinned and said hi to the man at the information desk.
Something about his tone made him positively adorable to me. Probably because he'd addressed the man so kindly. Most rich people weren't that nice, I figured.
I glance down at my phone, shaking off my memories of Alex, the hot-ass CEO.
Why isn't Josephine texting me back?
I look outside the window to see the sun setting in downtown Atlanta, then at the stack of files. I'll never get home if I keep daydreaming. I set the first file aside and get to work on the others, drowning myself in proofreading. When Josephine found out how good I was at editing, she'd unleashed me on all sorts of projects.
If there was one thing I'm good at, it's details.
I see the trees, not the forest.
My concentration is interrupted by my cell. It actually startles me enough to make me yelp. Glancing at the screen, I notice two details: it's six-fifty two at night, almost two hours after I usually left the office, and it's Josephine.
"Hey! Thank God you called. About this marketing plan. You want me to bring it to Alex Jenkins office? Do I have the right Alex? Or is it someone else? I just wanted to double check."
"Evie! Holy shit! You haven't done that yet? I put that first in the stack so you'd do it right away. Didn't you see the note? Alex. said he wanted it by eight-thirty. Get your ass up to his office NOW."
Shaking, I hang up. Yep. There it is. A second post-it that says: do this immediately.
With the word immediately underlined. Three times.
I glance through the file again, a pit growing in my stomach, because I haven't put enough time proofreading the thing. It will only take me ten minutes to read through the first pages. I figure I'll do that at least, and go to work, focusing on the content of the marketing plan.
As usual, I get caught up in the details — I find one error have to correct it, then print out the page. I look at the time and gasp. It's eight-fifteen.
I scoop up the file and practically run for the elevator. Once inside, I punch the top floor. I hate elevators. Loathe them. Normally I take the stairs when coming and going from the office. But I don't have time to dash up several flight right now, so I suck it up. Right now, I'm more afraid of my boss and not getting this project to the CEO, than the elevator.
I'm sweating out of anxiety from the elevator ride by the time I get to the top floor.
Dale Alexander Jenkins' office. I idly wonder why everyone calls him Alex and not Dale.
A soft sheen of sweat blooms on my upper lip as the elevator takes me up twenty stories. It dings softly, and when the doors slide open, I step into a vast, private office.
It's low-lit, illuminated only by a green-glass shaded desk lamp, and the twinkling lights of Atlanta's business district below. Thankfully, there's no one behind the desk — although the room has the aura of a place that was recently occupied.
A smell. I inhale. My sense of smell is strong, and I detect notes of spice and musk. A man's aftershave. I look around. I spot a closed door in the corner, a coat rack with a suit jacket, but otherwise, the few pieces of sleek, dark wood and black leather furniture are the only things in the room.
Hesitantly, I take a few steps toward the desk, figuring I'll drop the file and run.
When I reach the desk, I open the file once again. That's my downfall, because I feel a compulsion to read the first paragraph of the proposal once again. Just to make sure everything's correct. I can't stand errors, and feel terrible that I haven't proofread this file more.
Jenkins Corporation is North America's largest—
"Thank God you're here."
I gasp and drop the file, the papers spilling everywhere at my feet like leaves in autumn.
* * *
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