Beautiful Failure (2 page)

“Ma’am? Ma’am?” A man taps on my window, knocking me out of my memory. 

I roll my window down. “Yes?”

“This isn’t a parking spot. Are you an employee here?”

“No, I’m here for an interview.” I notice the yellow “Blythe Police Department” logo on his poncho. “I’ll move.”

“Actually—” He’s staring at me—
really
staring at me, so I give him my best seductive smile.

“Pull up under the valet awning,” he says. “I’ll make sure no one touches your car. The rain’s not letting up any time soon and I would hate for you to get wet before your interview.” He glances at my tight fitting shirt and motions for me to pull off.

“Always use your seductive smile to get your way, Em...No man in his right mind will ever turn you down if you use it right...”

I smile and drive towards the valet port as Leah’s words play in my head. Stepping out, I toss the red-suited teenager the keys. I have three minutes before I’m officially late and I need to read a little more about this place before it’s my turn to get interviewed.

I pull my resume from the inside of my pocket and look over it one last time. Making my way past the signs that read “interviews being held here,” I notice that there are at least a hundred people here—all hoping to be “hired on the spot” like the radio advertisement promised.

The second I find an empty chair near the back, a female voice calls from the other side of the room. “Emerald Anderson?”

I stand up and put on my best smile. I walk over to where I heard the voice, and I’m ushered into a small office.

“Emerald Anderson.” The woman shuts the door behind me and leaves me alone—facing a bald and overweight man who’s easily in his thirties.

His nameplate reads “Ethan Kyle” and I can tell by the way he’s dressed—impeccable black suit, sparkling cufflinks, and designer tie—that he thinks he’s too good to formally introduce himself to me.

“Good afternoon, Miss Anderson,” he says and motions for me to sit down.

“Good afternoon...” There’s silence as I take my seat, as I pull my grey skirt over my thighs.

I can feel him undressing me with his eyes, looking me up and down, and I immediately feel sick.

“Miss Anderson...” He reaches for my resume, letting his fingers grace my fingertips for a little too long. “Why do you want to work for the Westin?”

I spout off the company memo that I read on Wikipedia minutes ago, lying about how I want a job that will challenge me.

“Are you interested in working for the hospitality industry long term?”

Hell no.
“Yes. I would love to.”

He grins at me, nodding. “We have openings in our front desk, housekeeping, and kitchen departments. Which department do you think would be a better match for you?” He’s staring at my chest.

“Housekeeping.”

“You don’t want to work in housekeeping. It’s
manual labor
.” He shakes his head. “You don’t seem like the type...”

My stomach churns at the dirty look in his eyes. I want to stand up and leave, but I hold my ground. “I’m perfect for housekeeping. I’m an OCD cleaner.” I lie.

He leans forward on his elbows and sighs. “The starting salary for a housekeeper is seven dollars and fifty cents. Kitchen aide is eight dollars, and front desk is nine dollars. I know you lack a college education,” he says as he pushes my resume towards me, “but clearly you can see the
better
choice...In fact, we’re hiring for our manager mentoring program. It’s a fast track to learning all about the industry.”

“How much does that pay?”

“Sixteen dollars an hour, but you’d have to work alongside your mentor, i.e.
me
for most of those hours...In
very
close quarters and
very
late hours.”

I try not to roll my eyes at this lame and blatant “come on.” I know I should say no, that this asshole is only interested in one thing, but instead I say, “That’s the job I want...”

He smiles and stands up, walking around the desk. He cups my face in his hands and I try not to flinch.

“There are a lot of people who would love this position, Emerald—people who have
degrees
...
experience
...” He runs his tongue across his bottom lip and drops his hands to his fly, unzipping his pants. “How will you
prove
that you’ll do a good job despite having neither of those things?”

He slips a hand into his briefs and pulls out his dick, raising an eyebrow at me.

I look at him in utter disbelief—
disgust
, but he grins and uses his other hand to run his fingers through my hair.

“Can you
show
me that you’ll do a good job, Emerald?” The way he emphasizes every syllable of my name makes my skin crawl.

I’m repulsed, but I need this job. Badly.

No stranger to sex, I try to tell myself that this is just a blowjob, which is the lowest type of sex on my scale, but my mouth won’t move any closer.

“I can’t...” I move my head back and look away. “I would like to be considered for the other positions, please.”

“There are no other
open
positions.” He zips his fly and walks to the door. “We’ll keep your application on file, Miss Anderson.”

“What?”

“We’re done here. You can
leave
, Miss Anderson.” His voice is cold.

I shake my head and stand up, slowly walking past him. As I move by, I hear him hissing, “Stupid cunt” before he slams the door.

I look at the other women who are sitting in the ballroom’s chairs, wondering how many of them will be offered that same job. I’m not sure what comes over me, but I walk to the front desk in hopes of speaking to another manager; that pig can’t be the sole decision maker when it comes to hiring.

A blonde with bright brown eyes smiles as I approach. “Hello, Miss. How may I help you?”

“May I speak to the general manager please?”

“I’m the general manager.” She smiles wider. “What do you need?”

“Can you...Can you give me some more information about the manager mentoring program? Are there other managers that have available positions under them?”

“I’m sorry.” She takes off her glasses. “Manager
what
program?”

“The manager mentoring program...It pays sixteen dollars an hour and I would get to work directly under a manager. Right?”

She raises her eyebrow. “We haven’t had a manager mentoring program in
years
, and
no one
here gets paid sixteen dollars an hour. Are you supposed to be at the Marriott, hun? It’s right down the street.”

Son of a bitch...

––––––––

I
park my car outside my grandparents’ house and pull out my last cigarette. I’m supposed to quit after today, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to. Not after the day I’ve had.

After the hotel “interview,” I drove to three more job fairs. I stopped at every table, filled out every application, and shook every hand, but the best responses I received were: “We’ll keep your application on file.” “We’ll be in touch.” “We’ll see you soon.”—i.e. “You’ll never hear from us again.”

To make matters worse, there was no willing valet to watch my car, so I’m drenched from head to toe.

Discouraged, I finish off my cigarette and spray myself with perfume to mask the smell before heading inside.

Once I close the front door, I see my grandparents eating dinner at the table, setting a place for me as usual.

“Hey hun!” My grandmother beams. “How’d it go today?”

“Not good.”

“Ohhhh, Emerald!” She pulls out a chair for me. “You’ll find something one day, hun. Don’t look so depressed.”

“I look
depressed
?”

My grandfather nods. “Why don’t you just work part-time at the church for a little while?”

“Yes!” My grandmother holds her hand over her chest and gasps. “I don’t know why I didn’t already think of that! We could always use more people to spread the lord’s word! Working for Jesus would definitely make you feel better!”

I try not to groan. I’ve only known them for a couple of years, but I swear they think Jesus is the cure for everything.

My grandparents are Henry Lee and Virginia Marsh, and they are the perfect example of what happens when you’ve lived too much of your life in the Bible Belt of America: They take their Bibles everywhere, are prone to say “Praise Jesus” at any given second, and spend more time in church than they do anywhere else.

“Thanks for the offer,” I say as I pop open a can of Coke, “but no thanks.”

“That’s probably why you can’t find a job.” She points her fork at me. “You haven’t been to church with us in a
long time
.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mary Fine’s son started coming to church two weeks ago and he got himself a job at McDonald’s...And he’s an
ex-con
.”

“
Jesus
...”

“Praise him!” They shout in unison.

I sigh. “If I don’t find anything in two weeks, I might be forced to take you up on that offer.”

But I really hope not...

Virginia claps and smiles. “You would love it! We would have so much fun together bonding! Saving souls is
exhilarating
!”

I pull the mashed potato bowl closer and change the subject.

For the next hour or so, I sit and listen as they give a full recap of their days: more sick children at Virginia’s hospital, another good recruit at the fire department for Henry. Another lost day of yard-work for their favorite neighbors due to the rain, another “exciting” cow birth at the farm down the street.

The second they start to debate who should bake the brownies for the church’s upcoming bake sale, I excuse myself from the table and go upstairs to my room.

Hitting the lights, I sigh when I see the same miserable sight I’ve seen for the past few months: My walls are covered in rejection letters from almost every big name publisher and literary magazine.

My window pane is framed with copies of my former college transcripts and I’m actually proud of myself for making all the D’s and F’s line up on one side. The highest grade I ever made, an “A+” in Art Design, is hanging high above my mirror.

It’s the one thing that always makes me smile, the one thing that makes me feel like no matter how many things I’ve fucked up in my life—school, jobs, relationships, friends, that I’m not a complete and utter failure...

Fall 2011

“
Harder
...” I whisper. “
Harder
...” I reach up and thread my fingers through Parker Dalton’s dark brown hair, begging him to give it to me.

He presses his lips against my neck—softly biting it, as he slides into me again and again. “You feel so fucking good, Emerald...So fucking good...”

I shut my eyes and scrape my nails across his back, moaning as he speeds up his thrusts. As he trails his tongue between my breasts, I wrap my legs around him even tighter.

The sound of our skin slapping against each other echoes off the walls of his room, and before this can become pleasurable for me, he slows down.

“Fuckkkk....” He slides inside of me one last time and cums, leaving me without a release. Again.

Shaking, he collapses onto my chest and places a light kiss on my forehead.

I hide my disappointment by smiling, thankful that I have Art Design in an hour so we won’t have to cuddle afterwards.

Although Parker Dalton claims to “really like me” and insists on having me on his arm as much as possible, he isn’t my boyfriend—not even close. He’s a carefully chosen
sponsor
.

He’s the senior president of Omega Chi—the most respected fraternity at New York University, and the current president of the Student Government Board. He’s already taken the LSATs and scored a nearly perfect score, making him a shoe-in for Harvard Law School. He also comes from an established family of wealth.

By staying close to him, I’m sure I’ll get something out of it down the line. Hopefully the ticket to a happier life.

Tapping his back, I clear my throat. “You’re hurting me...”

“Sorry, babe.” He rolls off me and pulls me into his arms. “Was it good for you?”

I give him the sheepish grin I’ve perfected over the years and murmur, “Yes.” What I really want to say is that I’ve only had good sex a few times, and none of those times were with him.

“Your eyes are so damn pretty, Em,” he whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Don’t call me that. It’s
Emerald
.” 

“Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re sensitive about that.” He traces my lips with his fingers. “How’s it feel to be halfway done with your freshman year?”

“It’ll feel better when I’m a senior. I hate college.”

He laughs. “Trust me, when you’re a senior it gets even worse.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Don’t you have all A’s so far? You’ve never mentioned getting anything less. You must like
something
about college.”

I shake my head. “It’s not challenging enough. I wrote my paper for Seminar in Comp two hours before it was due. A plus.” I want to add that I also wrote my most recent literature analysis on a classic book my teacher hadn’t even read, but Parker’s taste in literature is terrible so he wouldn’t understand.

“Would you like to write my final thesis next semester?”

“I’ll pass.” I shift from underneath his hold and climb out of bed.

“You sure you don’t have some other boyfriend waiting for you back at home? Some other guy on campus you’re dating behind my back?”

I narrow my eyes at him as I squeeze into my jeans. “
What
? What are you trying to say?”

He stands up and pulls me into his arms—kissing me softly, and I try not to flinch.

I’m not supposed to kiss my sponsors for more than five seconds. Any longer than that and they’ll start to think that this has the potential to be something more than what it is. The rules I’ve memorized have always been simple: Fuck him. Get whatever I need. Leave him.

I step away from him and force a smile. “Seriously, Parker. What are you trying to say?”