Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
It wasn’t my alarm that jolted me awake this morning nor the ringing of my cell phone, but the bright light filtering uninterruptedly through my window. Reaching for my phone, I saw the two missed calls from Courtney and Mike this morning.
“Not calling him back,” I muttered, finally sitting up in bed. “I need coffee.”
It took effort to push my lethargic body off the bed.
I didn’t know if it was last night’s drinks or all the excitement.
More than likely, a combination of both.
I left my phone on the bedside table and padded my way to the kitchen.
I’d planned on taking another shift today bartending, but that shit was down the drain now.
“I need to check those applications I put in yesterday.” I hadn’t had the chance to see if I’d scored an interview yet.
I pulled a K-Cup from the cabinet and filled the water reservoir, then started the machine.
I chuckled, reading my favorite coffee mug, “Blow Me, I’m Hot.
” It was a gag gift from Jessica for my birthday.
I set it on the counter to fetch the sugar.
While the coffeemaker was doing its thing, I opened my laptop and signed into my email.
“Delete, delete, delete,” I mumbled, cleaning up my inbox. My mouth hung open as I read the next email.
“Oh, my fucking god!”
The coffee maker’s beeping wrestled away my attention from what I was reading, but I didn’t move to get my cup. I glanced at the time on my microwave.
“Oh, shit. I’m about to be late.”
I rushed to my bedroom and pulled out the snazziest suit I had and threw it on my bed, then pulled a silk cami and threw it on top of the bed, too. I rushed into my bathroom. The woman staring back at me in the mirror looked tired, and I felt as I looked.
“Get a fucking grip and go get this job,” I encouraged myself.
One thing I could say was that the suit was fitting me like a glove.
“A little makeup will fix those bags,” I mumbled, fumbling through my makeup bag for primer and concealer.
I put my hair in a tight ball at the nape of my neck, then retrieved my nude heels from the shoe rack and slipped them onto my feet.
“I hate fucking heels.”
I checked myself out in the mirror, smoothing down the jacket. The navy suit gave me the effect I was looking for: strong, independent, and successful. If I wanted to get the part, I had to look it.
“Buttoned or unbuttoned?”
I tried both and went with the opposite of my style.
“Buttoned it is.”
I swiped my phone off the nightstand and headed for the door, grabbing my keys off the counter. It was just after nine, and I wasn’t sure if morning traffic was still heavy. If it was, it would take me forty-five minutes instead of the thirty minutes it should take to get to the address.
When I stepped foot into Chatman Security, I had five minutes before my interview to spare. An older woman with graying hair sat at the desk, tapping away at the computer’s keyboard.
“Excuse me,” I voiced. “I have an interview.”
She stopped typing, eyeing me from beneath the rim of her glasses. “Name, please?”
“Tisha McLean.”
She typed some more before she looked up from the screen again.
“Have a seat, Ms. McLean.” She pointed to the row of chairs located by the window front. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
I walked to the seats and waited while the lady strolled to the door to her left. She knocked once, poked her head in, then closed the door.
“Mr. Chatman will be right with you,” she announced, then went back to her desk and began tapping on her keyboard again.
The wait gave me the opportunity to scope out the place. It seemed to be your run-of-the-mill office with wide bay windows, boring beige walls, and five closed brown wooden doors.
They really could use some decoration.
Other than a few plants and a picture of Chatman Security painted in white, blue, and black covering half the wall, it was simple compared to the extremely festive receptionist area.
Framed family photographs covered the wall behind her and sat on her desk. Mounted on three shelves were small succulents and figurines. Her decorations clashed with the rest of the office, but at least they didn’t give off a sterile feel like everything else.
“Miss McLean,” a booming voice called out as I reached for a magazine spread out on the table in front of me.
I glanced up at a man in his late fifties with a salt-and-pepper beard and mustache and very close fade.
It was impressive he still had all of his hair.
I rose from my seat and made my way to him, observing how he stood with his shoulders back and head held high. He had to be ex-military.
“I’m Tisha McLean.” I shook his hand once and released it. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Bobby Chatman.” He ushered me into his office and closed the door behind us. “Please, sit.”
I took the seat in front of his oak wood desk. Mr. Chatman waited until I was seated before he took his. He didn’t readily speak. Instead, he opened the folder on his desk and began to read. I sat patiently until he finished. He closed the folder and sat back in his executive chair.
“Miss McLean, tell me about your time in the Navy.”
“I have firearms training. Hand-to-hand combat training. Spent twelve years on the Maritime Expeditionary Security Force.”
Mr. Chatman nodded. “And can you tell me what kind of work that entails?”
“Sure.” I crossed my legs, trying to get comfortable. I’d tell him the basics of duties and responsibilities. Hopefully, he won’t want to know any details. “We provide port and harbor security. We operate the waterways of the US as well as open water.”
“Does this require combat missions?” he asked.
I nodded. “Sometimes it does.”
“What made you leave?”
I wouldn’t tell him it was because I couldn’t get my head on straight, so I opted for retirement. “It was just time for me to go. I had been in the Navy since I was eighteen.”
My answer seemed to placate him. I was in a semi-good place as far as my mental state, and trudging things up was not how I wanted to spend this interview.
“Well, let me tell you”—he placed his elbows on the oak desk and leaned forward—“you will be working in teams of four. We have some high-profile clients we service as well as everyday run-of-the-mill Joe Blows, but those are two-man teams.”
“I understand.”
“Good,” he stated. “You’ll meet your team when you start tomorrow. You will be a part of my elite squad. All military. Your team will be the one I use for the upper echelon.”
I sat there speechless. I didn’t know if I should be ecstatic or suspicious. I’d never been offered a job on the spot like this.
“Are you serious?”
The question was out before I could stop it, not to mention I must’ve looked a bit comical with my mouth hanging to the floor. A deep chuckle sounded throughout the room.
“Of course. You have the credentials and the experience I’m looking for.” He stood from his seat. “Be here at eight in the morning to meet the team you’ll be joining.”
I rose from my seat as well, extending my hand toward him. “I appreciate this.”
“No problem.” He grasped mine and gave a slight squeeze, then released it. “I think you’ll be an asset to us.”
Mr. Chatman walked me out of his office and through the lobby to the building entrance.
“Thank you again,” I called over my shoulder.
“Not a problem,” he returned, closing the door.
I knew I qualified for the position; I just didn’t know he’d hire me without thinking it over. Making my way to my car, I couldn’t hold back the grin gracing my lips or the relief sweeping through me. This job would be the start of everything, and I would make the most of it.