Chapter 4
Bonnie
Clonmel, Ireland, 10 years ago…
The sounds of the incessant drip, drip of water into the nearby muddy puddle is comforting. Proof that time is passing, and it will soon be morning. I haven’t eaten in almost two days. I shiver and huddle closer to Twiggy's sleeping form, but I’m too cold and hungry to sleep. I pull on the corner of the tattered, smelly blanket we share, waiting for sunrise, and then, it’s a couple more hours’ wait for people to start milling around the busy O’Connell Street.
Yesterday was a bad day. The stores closed early, and Nuba’s, the pastry shop that saves leftover orders for us, doesn’t open at all on Sunday, which is why we didn’t eat. Thoughts of croissants from Nuba’s and coffee keep me sane.
All too quickly, the day warms and it’s time to go searching for our next meal. Then, we’ll be off to find a fat pocket to pick. And depending on our luck, the next hit might be closer than we think. Twiggy is better with the pockets, but I’m great at getting free food from shop owners, something he says has to do with people not being able to say no to me.
The day suddenly becomes unnaturally bright and warm. I’m no longer cold. It’s now sweltering hot under the blanket, like a furnace. The smell of freshly baked bread makes hunger gnaw on my stomach. I know it's too soon for the shops to open, the whatever I'm smelling is just a figment of my imagination, conjured by my hungry belly. Still I leave Twiggy and run into the street, searching frantically for the source, my black curls falling all around my face. I ignore the alarmed and disgusted looks aimed at my disheveled state.
Suddenly, the people on the street fall away, leaving only one tall, smartly dressed man walking slowly and eating a sandwich, his wallet peeking temptingly out of his back pocket.
As I follow my quarry with purpose, the day seems to get warmer, melting my misgivings. The mouth-watering smell grows stronger in my nostrils until I bump right into him, and in the next moment, his wallet is in my hand. He freezes as if somehow aware of what I’d done. I expect him to turn around, but he doesn’t, so I look up. And the man is suddenly looking at me.
Which is impossible because I’m staring at the back of his head. His horrific, bright yellow eyes narrow with hatred and disgust, and before I can run, his fingers close around my wrist, twisting into grotesquely scaled talons. I look back up, and his head morphs into Ethan Hawthorne’s distorted face, complete with an evil grin.
He opens his mouth, and a horribly loud beeping starts, getting louder with every second. I scramble backward in fear, screaming until I’m jarred awake by the impact of my shoulder on the hard floor of my bedroom.
The loud beeping of my alarm clock continues.
A fucking nightmare. Panting and slick with sweat, I squint at the offending alarm clock.
And fly up from the floor into the bathroom.
Holy shit! I slept through my first three alarms. And now, I’m late for my interview at Acercraft.
The interview is supposed to be in two stages. In the first stage, the challenge is to find and fix a bug, and the second stage happens precisely thirty minutes later, which is the actual presentation of the debugged version of the code.
I brush my teeth in record time and splash water on my face. Eyeing the dark patches of sweat on my shirt, I already know I’m too sweaty to get away with not having a shower. Crap!
It’s the stupid Clonmel dream again. Happens every single time I have something important going on. And what the hell was Ethan doing in the dream this time? It must be because I know I’ll be seeing him today.
Yeah, why not fuck with my head a bit more, Ethan Hawthorne?
I’m in and out of the shower and drying my hair in under five minutes.
I run back into my room and hurriedly pull on clothes, stopping the still-beeping alarm clock as I pass by it.
It's 8:20 now. My interview slot is at 9:20, which means I’m fucked.
Because it takes forty minutes on a good day to get to Midtown Manhattan, even on my motorbike.
Still, I keep it moving. Remembering Brooke’s advice, I pick a dark green, fitted shirt, and flared leather skirt paired with sheer tights for warmth and cycling shorts to avoid flashing everyone on the I-495.
My skirt is probably shorter than office folk would like, but hey, I’m not employed yet.
I lace up my boots but throw black suede pumps in my backpack to change into upon getting there. A quick dab of moisturizer and a swipe of my favorite burgundy lipstick, and I’m set. I pause at my reflection, wondering if Ethan would look at me like I don’t belong in his company.
You, on the other hand, ought to invest in a truth filter and a sober stylist .
I remember how his eyes bored into the innermost part of my soul, making me feel like an impostor.
I shake off the feeling. He’s just a spoiled, rich boy. What does he know about me? About having one’s life reduced to ashes and building it back brick by painful brick?
I huff out a breath. Go in, solve the problem, do your presentation, get out.
At exactly 9:20 a.m., after driving like a maniac, I stand in front of the Acercraft building. I’ve seen photos before and know the general location, but seeing the building in real time is jarring.
It’s an enormous obelisk of marble and black glass, pristine in its appearance. I don't know what I expected, but I didn’t think that an online gaming company would need to have a building this big. I catch myself before the familial discomfort, which I often mask as scorn, takes root.
I may, or may not, end up working here. It wouldn’t be wise to start by hating it so soon.
I change into my heeled pumps, stuffing the boots into my large backpack, and step inside.
I’m blown away. I feel like I’m caught inside a virtual reality paradise. Decorated in tones of black and gray, the enormous lobby gives off a calming, somber atmosphere. Life-sized figurines and avatars of best-selling games decorate the area while large potted plants infuse life and humanity into the futuristic look. It's breathtaking.
I approach one of the smartly-dressed receptionists at the front desk, and she directs me to the waiting area, informing me that someone will be down for me soon. I take a seat, observing as people stroll around in clean-cut suits.
Then I notice the looks from other clients in the lobby.
I’m sitting down, so it can't even be the skirt. I discreetly do up another button on my silk shirt.
There, guys, happy now?
You should invest in a sober stylist.
Fuck you, Ethan. I’ve never questioned my style before. I’m not about to start now.
“Bonnie Russo?”
A rail-thin man with curly brown hair approaches me. His simple, black t-shirt emblazoned with the Acercraft logo and jeans makes me want to hug him. For a second there, I was getting worried about all the stuffiness and suits.
I give him a wide smile and stand. “Here.”
“I’m Danny, Mr. Farrington’s assistant. Welcome to Acercraft.” He checks his wristwatch.
Crap. I know I’m late. Kick me out now.
“Thanks.”
“Your slot was ten minutes ago, but I’ve moved things around, so you’re up in approximately twenty minutes. That doesn’t give you much room to work on the bug, but I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.” He leads me towards a bank of elevators.
“There are two more candidates after you, but they specifically requested those slots. Will you manage?”
I don’t need half an hour to find and fix a bug. “Yeah, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Good. We have everything set up for you in a quiet room.”
He quickly shows me what to do if I have any tech issues, then points to a large door at the end of the room.
“Once you’re done, you can wait in that conference room down the corridor, where someone from IT will take you to the next stage. Good luck, Bonnie.”
“Thanks,” I say to his already retreating back.
When I see the challenge, for a moment, I wonder if it’s a trick question. There’s got to be more to it. It’s too freaking easy.
In less than fifteen minutes, I’ve debugged the code. Finding other problems with the initial code I go a step further to write a prototype for a new program that would track the codes from getting bugs in the future.
I pack up and then head to the conference room, where two nervous-looking candidates are waiting. One guy is pacing around, and the other is leaning against the wall and tapping his foot.
Nodding at them in greeting, I take a seat.
“When is yours?” I hear the guy behind me ask the other one.
“10:30. Hell, I can’t believe I’ll be meeting the Ethan Hawthorne in person.”
“I know, it's sick. I’m so close to shitting myself. He’s like the god of programming. He’s developed more than fifty programs and applications.”
Ethan? I turn around to look at these guys. Grown men are fangirling over him? I inwardly shake my head.
Just then, a tall, tanned guy with longish, black hair comes in. “Ms. Russo,” he greets me and smiles, revealing straight, white teeth. “Do you want to come with me?”
I rise and follow him. Strangely, I’m not nervous, but as we walk down the carpeted corridors, I wonder if perhaps I ought to be.
“I’m Sajid. It’s nice to meet you in person.”
“Likewise.”
“As we mentioned in the final email from HR, you’ll be interviewed by a panel of the managing partners.”
“Okay.” Actually, it's not okay. All three managing partners of the company are interviewing? I don't know much about how the corporate world works but it sounds like this job might be an even bigger deal than I envisaged.
“I’m just the guy who fetches candidates.” I know he’s downplaying his role. I suspect he vetted every single candidate that made it through to this stage. “I’ll also be the friendly face for you in there, okay?”
When we reach the wide double doors, he presses on a circular flashing button, and the door swings open.
He motions for me to proceed. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Ms. Russo. Good luck.”
It’s a large room, and the lights are muted. I didn’t expect the room to be a beacon of light, given that the interview is an interactive multimedia presentation, but I also didn't think it’d be so dark.
My eyes slowly adjust to the dim light as Sajid leads shows me where to go. We reach the end of the long, rectangular table by the huge projector, and I face the interview panel.
The first person I see is Ethan Hawthorne, sitting at the head of the table, exuding an air of confidence bordering on arrogance, his posture relaxed, as if he owns the place.
Well, he does own the place.
His head is bent, and he appears to be typing into his phone. A ball of nerves uncurls in my belly, and suddenly, I don’t feel so confident anymore.
Jordan was right. I might fail this presentation. It’s probably a bigger deal than I prepared for. I’m sure I’ve missed something. I knew the challenge seemed too easy.
He hasn’t even looked at me, and I’m already losing my shit.
I take a deep breath and observe the other panel members. Jordan sits to Ethan’s left, and on the other side is a slightly older man, probably in his late thirties or early forties, who I assume is Mike Waldrow, the third managing partner.
They seem welcoming enough, and Jordan looks happy to see me. We exchange polite smiles and nods.
As my gaze falls back to Ethan, he raises his head. His dark hair is impeccably styled, and his sharp features hold an intensity that is both captivating and intimidating.
He’s not wearing glasses, so I see the exact moment he recognizes me, the shift in his demeanor, confusion and disapproval registering on his face.
Was he not expecting me?
“Gentlemen,” Sajid says, starting the introductions, “this is Ms. Russo.”
Mike inclines his head again in greeting, and Jordan smiles widely, which reassures me, but when I look back at Ethan, he has a horrified look.
I think I may have crashed the party.
Again.