The Witch’s Assistant (Bitchcraft #1)

Chapter III The New Guy

Chapter III

The New Guy

I t was around seven p.m. when the sun began to set on Clark’s first day at Charisma’s, casting shadows on the stone and glass of New York City. Or, at least, he could see that it was, judging by the sky outside the window of Hell’s Entrance. Clark had sat there for a couple of hours, at the same table as Miss Honey earlier that day, idly sighing, unsure of what to do with himself. Monica had given him no further instruction, no envelopes to run, no coffee to pick up, no mail to sort, no other menial tasks. No further word. His battery was low; putting his phone down, Clark’s gaze plunged over the windowsill to the streets below. The city’s skyscrapers, which looked so tall from the ground up, seemed so far and away from Charisma’s tower. After the high of his first day, those same buildings that shimmered with the hope of possibility just that morning were once again a glade of concrete and needles.

So much for a successful first day . . . he thought to himself, when (finally . . . ) his phone buzzed with a message:

(7:20 p.m. Monica Chase-Whiteley): You can go.

On the ground, he took a long, deep breath of relief of the city’s familiar, unclean air. Being in the commotion of midtown post–work hours, he almost smiled.

By the time Clark arrived home, both his body and clothes were salty and tired. He stood in the tub for a shower, only to discover that the hot water was indeed out again. Such was life in a pre-war Astoria building. He left that shower with goosebumps.

Eventually, he fell onto his bed, wrapped warmly in his towel—and fell fast asleep with the lights still on.

The entire evening, Clark failed to notice the pair of yellow-green eyes watching him from outside his apartment window.

The next morning, Clark groaned at his five thirty alarm.

It was Saturday at the coffee shop when Clark submitted his change of availability with the owner. He explained that a new opportunity had presented itself, suddenly and without warning, one that he couldn’t pass up. One that could “open many doors,” he said. He babbled to the owner that, while he was really grateful for all that she had done for him all those years, he would only be available for doubles on weekends—if she would (“please”) have him. Clark reasoned it was the middle of August, that business was slow while New Yorkers were out of town anyway, and that weekends were their busiest days all year long.

“Congratulations! Of course, guapito , no problem. You sure this is what you want?”

Clark sighed with relief. Gloria, the owner, was a stout woman with a Mexican-American accent. She had lots of questions for Clark, who had been there for so long, had never missed a shift, mostly kept to himself, and was great with her two little girls, whom she so happened to have brought in that day. What was this “apprenticeship” about? Gloria asked. Whom was he working for? “Are they good people?” Clark didn’t know how to answer that last one. Mostly, she was concerned if Clark would be okay with money.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. But Clark wasn’t sure that was true.

Payday was every Friday: after taxes, he would barely have enough money for rent, utilities, a fraction of his groceries, and nothing more. He’d pray for tutoring and cat sitting gigs (and maybe selling foot photos) to make ends meet, that August having been unusually bleak and barren. Clark figured he’d sneak a leftover pastry or two on the weekends...and would figure out the rest.

It’s just a sacrifice for a short while... he told himself, but not even he was sold.

“I want to do this,” he said. “I need to do this. Thank you for your under—”

Gloria embraced him in a bear hug. Her eyes were swimming.

“We are all rooting for you, Chico,” she said. Clark gave her a big hug back and welled up a little too. Her two little girls, Erica and Beatrice, joined in, hugging their legs. To Gloria, Clark was like a little brother whom she just so happened to employ, and to Clark, she was the closest thing to a big sister apart from his own. It made the decision all the more difficult.

There’s no turning back now . . . he thought.

“You can always come back to fulltime,” Gloria said. “There is always a home for you here. Just say the word.” But Clark would not hear of it. How could he return after this? And disappoint them? Prove to everyone that he was incapable of finishing what he started? He would only disappoint himself in the process.

Nevertheless, in Clark’s eyes, it was as if he had left the nest for the second time, like he had taken a step to make a change and grab life by the reins. He was happy to graduate to something more, something bigger.

Sure enough, something bigger meant that by Monday at Charisma’s, Clark had moved on from small envelopes to small boxes, and after Monica could see how much he could carry, smaller boxes to bigger boxes. He schlepped them all around the island of Manhattan, just as Miss Honey had predicted. For the next two weeks, that was his life: Clark had become an errand boy.

“Charisma is due back at the beginning of the month, where she hosts a gathering after every Labor Day,” Monica had relayed to Clark when she met him at Hell’s Entrance with a few more packages. “It’s a countdown to Fashion Week, and our biggest party and the event of the year, Halloween. That means we are now deep in preparation for her return.”

Once, Clark had gone on a run with a stack of boxes from the five-mile span of the Upper East Side to Tribeca and back, almost within an hour—no talk of transportation reimbursement or otherwise (“Bore someone else with your questions”). He just had to figure it out himself. Dress shoes quickly turned to high-tops ( Wish I could afford running shoes right about now... ), and he did the best he could.

What’s more, Monica began to request her personal responsibilities be taken care of on top of Charisma’s: dry cleaning, grocery shopping, her daughters’ school-supply shopping in the crowded back-to-school market lines—a horror Clark was unexcited to revisit—and a run to Tiffany’s with Monica’s black-metal credit card that ended in him being escorted to the back by security. All this was due to her being the “only assistant holding down the penthouse and New York affairs” while Charisma and her family were away.

Monica had even asked Clark to proofread her daughter’s summer essay, which meant not so much “proofread” as write . A week into her term, her daughter would go on to receive a 100, naturally, and would even be asked to present it to her class. At this news, Monica would tell Clark, “next time,” not to make it look so good, and to make it look more like how her daughter would write it (“I’ll try,” Clark would tersely reply, swallowing his words).

The only thing more absurd, even more intense than Monica’s demands, were her coffee orders—so ever-changing, in fact, he got to thinking she was testing him. “Mochaccino, extra shot, light foam, with space,” “Blonde espresso—the other espresso was absolutely disgusting—and three cubes of ice, only,” “Don’t forget the whipped cream, you did last time,” “Piping hot, and I mean piping.” When coffee and its complicated orders had already been such an everyday part of his world, why should he think her requests would be any more out of the norm, or taken personally for that matter?

Still, the oddest thing to Clark was that at every location he had been, not one person would engage with him. They were all reluctant, and most of his interactions were wordless at the mere mention of Charisma Saintly. Doormen and the help alike could hardly meet his eyes, never mind reply to his hellos and how are yous, and he had little idea of why. It was as if Charisma’s name, and he by association, put the fear in them.

He spent most days saying so little, thinking he might die from going unheard, that one late-August day he actually came down with a touch of tonsilitis, a sore swelling at the back of his throat accompanied by a fever that took a few days to go down. Clark was a ghost, anonymous on the streets of the city and hungry to be spoken to, acknowledged even.

He was all alone . . . until one morning.

His train had arrived on time that day, and so he turned up to Hell’s Entrance just a little earlier than usual when, oddly enough, an impossibly handsome, bearded man walked in on him from inside the penthouse.

“These chicks are wild, bro,” he said with a big smile to Clark, who noticed a smudge below his lip a shade of pink too shimmery and saccharine to be natural. He wore a black T-shirt and was as wide as a tree.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Clark said.

The man gave a booming laugh. “Have a good day, bro!” He walked out of Hell’s Entrance with a bounce in his step.

Why is he in such a good mood this early in the morning...? “You too...bro,” Clark replied, amused. What was a man like that doing walking out of the employee entrance of Charisma’s, when she and her family were out of town, and the penthouse was occupied by just him, Monica, and the help? He tried to put the encounter from his mind but couldn’t help but revisit it often.

By the time the day before Labor Day weekend arrived, it had been an even longer week of errands and envelopes—running what, well, he couldn’t be so sure. Working seven days a week had taken its toll fast, and Clark felt at his wits’ end. He craved a day off and it was written all over his face, etched into his under-eyes, his tear troughs grooved and shadowed. Truthfully, Clark worried about how long he could sustain this. He was beginning to lose track of his eating, often having no time with Monica’s scheduled runs and demands, and if he were being honest with himself, sometimes he skipped lunch altogether just to get his tasks done, not wanting to feel sleepy or slowed down by digestion and using the restroom. All he had to show for his big life change was a pair of well-worn Chucks and the early onset of an eating disorder.

On this—his fabulous, anonymous, party-of-one tour of Manhattan, with its millionaire inhabitants and all of their avoidant little helpers—Clark’s errands had taken him not just to Gramercy Park townhouses and the Village’s modern lofts, but to NYC landmarks like the Upper West Side’s Apthorp, the city-block-long residential building of the Belnord, the Empire State Building, Grand Central Terminal and Lincoln Center, SoHo boutiques and Rockefeller department stores, and Midtown hotel bars like the St. Regis. On that cloudless Friday morning, Clark’s first run took him to a Midtown rooftop restaurant called Northlight, not yet open for the day. He was to drop off a medium, label-less box, taped and tightly bound, and with the most peculiar rattle. He gave it a shake. Is that the sound of...beads...?

“Leave the box with their manager, Louis,” Monica had said. “Do not leave it out of your sight.” Name-dropping Charisma Saintly at the desk had gotten him upstairs, but no farther. The manager wasn’t in yet, so Clark sat at the bar on a leather-and-chrome stool and waited, just as he was told.

He looked up Northlight online, a grand mid-century modern spectacle that was the Swinging Sixties and space-race American Googie all in one, transporting its patrons into the past and the future at the same time. It was one of the city’s swankiest and most exclusive, appointment-only, reserve-way-in-advance establishments, and Clark would have never set foot in it had it not been for this job. He discovered that it was, of course, owned by Charisma, building and all. She spoke so emphatically on an interview at the grand opening, so passionately and feverishly with her hands, that Clark had never seen anything quite like it before. By the end, he had lost count of how many times the pet name “darling” was said—certainly more times than what should have been permissible. Clark was curious about her, if not even beginning to resent her.

All I hear lately is “Charisma this” and “Charisma that”... Clark thought to himself. Who even is she and why is she so important anyways...? Why is everyone so obsessed with Charisma...and why is everyone so afraid of her...? He had no idea what he was doing working for her and Monica, nor if the doors that would await him at the finish line would be worth opening. Will I even last another month of interning here...? Is any of this worth it...? Maybe I should just...quit...

Miss Honey’s words had not left him: “Get out now while you still can.”

Clark looked out that rooftop restaurant window at the East River and Central Park, contemplating how long he would need to be an intern before dining at a restaurant like Northlight and having his piece of the patriarchy pie, when a nagging thought overrode all the others.

What Clark really wanted to know was if they were all an actual, real “coven” of witches. That’s when a voice came from behind him.

“What can I get you?” the voice asked. “Witch’s brew?”

“What...?” Clark asked, caught unawares. He swiveled around. Standing behind him was a young man who, to Clark, was...incredibly handsome. He had a charming smile, and dark, slicked-back hair straight out of a black-and-white film, right down to the suspenders he wore over his broad, triangle-shaped torso. Was he younger than Clark? Older? Clark couldn’t tell. He surely looked more mature: handsome in a debonair way, more well-developed than Clark. His sharp jawline was freshly shaved and a touch of chest hair peeked out from his button-down. He flashed Clark a smile.

The guy raised a black, conical witch’s hat he held in one hand. With a shoulder and a nod, he gestured to a few open boxes by the window, full of what Clark realized were Halloween decorations.

“Oh!” Clark said. He laughed. “Isn’t it a little early for that, even for a witch?”

“What, doesn’t everyone put their Halloween decorations up in August?” he replied sarcastically.

“Actually,” Clark said, “mine went up last week. It’s my favorite.”

“Mine too! Halloween comes early here, boss’s orders. Which is fine by me, since it’s my favorite and I love witches.”

Clark wanted to reply that he loved witches too, but, these days, I can’t be so sure...

The guy whipped around the bar, polished a glass at lightning speed, and filled it with water and ice. “We’re just taking inventory for now,” he said, sliding the glass to Clark with a wink and a smile. Was that a smile breaking on Clark’s face too?

“What are you gonna be this year?” Clark asked.

“Oh, just a heartthrob bartender,” the guy said with a wink. “How about yourself?”

“Hopefully still employed,” Clark said. The guy chuckled.

“So you’re the new intern, huh?”

“What, you a psychic or somethin’?” Clark teased. “Could you tell?”

“I don’t gotta be a psychic to see that,” the guy said, glancing at the mystery box on the bar next to Clark. “Except I almost couldn’t tell, seeing as how you’re not dressed all in black in the dead of August. Nor are you a female, which...either way, is fine by me.” He extended his hand for a shake and flashed his big, charming grin. “I’m Joey, by the way.”

Like the answer to his wishes, here he was, someone who wasn’t just willing to talk to Clark, but who also happened to be handsome and... Is he flirting with me...? After all the apps and the string of unsuccessful flings and serial first dates, not to mention the new gig and the lack of time—just when Clark had all but given up—something inside him clicked into place. “Hi, Joey.” He reached for his hand. “I’m Clark.” He discovered Joey’s hand was wide and strong, and his shake firm.

“It’s nice to meet you,” they both said at the same time. They chuckled.

“Are you from the city, Joey?”

Joey answered with that same delectable smile, “Yeah, how’d you know, youz psychic or somethin’?”

“That and the Brooklyn in your voice,” Clark replied. “How you talk with your shoulders might’ve given you away, too.”

Joey chuckled. “Oh, a wize guy over ’ere ,” he said. “I guess the jig is up. Where you from, Clark?”

“I’m from Astoria.”

“ Queens in da house ,” Joey said. “Very nice. I love Astoria! I’m from Bay Ridge, and...not usually this dorky. Or maybe I am, I dunno.”

“A dork from Bay Ridge,” Clark said. “It’s nice to see one out in the wild this time of year.” Immediately he blushed.

“For sure, especially in these parts,” Joey mused.

Clark smiled and stifled a giggle, when another thought occurred to him. “So, you said the other interns were girls?”

“Yeah,” Joey said. He leaned in, and gravely this time, he said, “but these were no regular girls. These were a different breed, my dude. Mean and cagey as fuck. Most of them would barely utter a word to me—those were the nice ones. Some of them would look at me like I was shit under their nose, and treat me like it too.”

“Yeah, I’m not surprised by that, ‘my dude.’ I’m sorry, that’s, um, all kinds of terrible,” Clark said.

“Yeah...But it’s cool! Mostly they’d just pop in and out of their black town cars. They’d get me to pick up whatever box or two they were delivering, and drive away, and I’d never see them again. For a second there, it felt like there was a new one almost every week.”

Clark almost gasped. “Wait, they took cars ? And here I’ve been huffing it on foot.”

“Yeesh,” Joey said. “They’re workin’ youz hard, huh?”

“Yeah, tell me about it . . .” That explains a lot . . . Clark thought, taking it all in. No wonder Monica questions why I’m away for so long . . . “A new one almost every week . . .”

“Guess you just gotta keep at it and smilin’ that pretty smile anyways, huh?” Joey said.

Clark’s stomach did a flip. My smile . . . ? Pretty . . . ? “Yeah, I guess you’re right . . .”

Joey threw his arms out. “And I love to hear it. “He leaned in again, chest forward over the bar, and added, “Lucky for me, though, none of the others were as nice or as cute as you.” The tops of Clark’s cheeks turned a bashful shade of pink.

Clark cleared his throat and said, “Well, fortunately for you, I’m not a bad witch. I’m a good witch—you know, depending on the day, and if I’ve had my cawfee and if my train cart has AC.”

“Well, in that case,” Joey said, “maybe I can ax you out for a cawfee sometime soon and see how good of a witch you really are.” With all he could muster, Clark refrained from checking if his ears were red in the mirror behind Joey.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Clark replied. “On just one condition though.”

“What is that?”

“You don’t go telling everyone that I’m good. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” Hey, Clark...? he thought to himself. Shattup...?

He and Clark smiled for a moment, regarding one another from over the bar, when a man entered from the front of the restaurant. They broke eye contact and turned around.

“’ey, boss, good morning,” Joey said.

“’ey, Joey, how you doin’?” A bald, middle-aged man came up to the seat and grabbed the box. “This for me?”

“This is Louis, my manager,” Joey said.

“Hi, good morning, Louis,” Clark replied. “Yeah, yes it is.” Louis took the box and disappeared behind the kitchen doors.

Buzz buzz: Clark’s phone lit up, another text from Monica. He sighed and stood up. With a sad smile and a wave of his phone, he said, “That would be my manager. Duty calls I guess, when you’re a lowly intern like me.”

Joey put down the glass he was polishing and walked around to meet Clark at his bar chair. Clark stepped down to meet him. Joey was about Clark’s height, maybe an inch or two shorter. “Can I get your number?”

“Sure thing,” Clark said. Instead of pulling out his phone, Joey produced a napkin and a pen with not a second wasted. Amused, Clark wrote his number down, taking extra care to write it legibly. He could almost feel Joey watching him do so, could feel his eyes trace him from his mousy hair, down his neck and back...Joey folded the napkin and tucked it into his breast pocket, which made Clark’s ears blush all the more.

“I’ll see you soon, Clark from Queens,” Joey said. He extended his hand, this time a little closer to his body, and pulled Clark in towards him. Clark stepped so close he could catch the cologne on Joey’s shirt. There was a fragrance just under it, too: an air of fabric softener, like the smell of home and a mother’s love. Clark thought it cute. Their hands locked, as did their eyes. Clark could feel a case of the butterflies coming on.

Clark said, “Yeah. I hope so too, Joey from Brooklyn.”

Downstairs in the lobby, Clark’s ears burned as he read Monica’s text:

(10:45 a.m. Monica Chase-Whiteley): We need to talk.

Am I in trouble again . . . ?

(10:48 a.m. Clark Crane): Okay. Is everything alright?

Monica did not respond.

At Hell’s Entrance, Clark didn’t have to wait long for one of the double doors to open. It was Monica who beckoned him inside. Something felt amiss.

“Charisma is back,” she stated.

“Okay,” Clark said. “Is that bad?”

Monica scoffed. “Yes.” They paused in front of a pair of swinging, industrial kitchen doors. Through the windows, Clark could see a handful of cooks busy at work. “Some things are about to change: we have a meeting this evening. Charisma’s sister Lorena wants to meet with you personally,” Monica said. Clark’s stomach churned. “But first things first: meet the girls.”

With a push, she swept through the swinging kitchen doors, which Clark caught just before they hit him in the face. He hurried to catch up with her.

“Fresh meat coming through,” she announced without stopping. Clark gave his pleasantries, and although one or two of the cooks looked up at him, none could be bothered to pause. He could tell they were preparing quite a volume of food. How many people would be attending this meeting?

Opposite the kitchen in another corridor, they walked into a silver elevator. Monica pressed Main, where one floor up, they followed a reverse path through a set of tall, white-and-gold doors across that marble floor, into a white, windowed, and brightly lit kitchen.

Inside were two cooks, one moving trays of food off a cart, the other preparing plates. Seated at the countertop were three young women dressed all in black, one on their phone and the other two deep in conversation. Their makeup. Their nails. Their hair. Their jewelry. These were no vanilla-beige fashion girls: these women dripped in beauty, each more impeccably styled than the next, adorned in, like Monica, designer clothing probably worth more than Clark had ever owned in his entire life. Though they were individual in their style, the throughline was the same: Heels. Curves. Cleavage. Legs. Just like Charisma.

“Ahem...?” Monica began. “Ladies?” The three women stopped in mid-sentence to turn and stare at Clark, who had the sudden, acute feeling he hadn’t experienced since high school of what it was like to be sized up by a group of girls. Their eyes started at his mousy combed-over hair, and traveled to his traitorous cheeks, which flushed deeper and deeper. From there they moved to his dorky button-down and tie, down to his thrift-store khakis, until finally, they came upon his well-worn high-tops, where all eyes came to a stop.

Monica introduced them from left to right: “This is Alicia Henceley, Charisma’s first assistant and personal manager, as well as her niece and right hand.” The leftmost of the group gave no gesture, revealed no emotion, and only looked back with her sharp green eyes and copper hair, the same as her Aunt Charisma. Her style was the most uncomplicated of the women, dressed in a black lacey button-down top and business-casual bottoms.

“Melissa Silvestri, second assistant to the Coven, Charisma’s second personal manager, and event planner,” Monica said, eyeing her up and down. Swarthier and older, maybe closer in age to Monica, she wore a tank top under a designer suit with power pumps that ended in the sharpest of points. Melissa’s heavy brunette curls fell over her shoulder as she cocked her head to the side, staring at Clark, and looking at him like he was good enough to eat.

“Emily Manitis, third assistant to the Coven, coordinator of Charisma’s social diary, family affairs, and team of personnel,” she said, pointing to the blonde amongst them in a romantic top and mod miniskirt. Emily gave Clark a little wink.

“As for me,” Monica said, her voice perking up in her self- indulgent way, “I am, of course, Charisma’s fourth assistant, Keyholder, and manager of Charisma’s many residences around the world, her yachts, cars, and private jets.” Seeing her with the others, Monica’s LBD looked almost lazy. “Alicia’s mother, Lorena, is Charisma’s sister, and booker and manager for the Coven, whom we all report to, and—”

“Aw, look,” Melissa interrupted, her head still cocked to the side. “Monica dragged in a stray. What’s your name, little gayby?”

Monica rolled her eyes. “This is, uh . . .”

“Clark,” he interjected. Does she honestly not remember my name . . . ?

“Like Kent?” Melissa asked. “Aww!” She snickered and his hair stood on end. Melissa brushed her thick dark curls to the side, and peering at Alicia and Emily, said, “Told ya.” Melissa let out a boisterous laugh that could only belong to an American, her accent decidedly northeastern.

“I was going to say, the new junior,” Monica said, giving Melissa the side-eye.

“Welcome to the fold,” blonde Emily, also American, said to Clark. Clark blushed something fierce, and all the while his forehead had that telltale, tingling, prickling itch. Alicia sat with her arms folded and her legs crossed, quietly watching.

“Monica,” Alicia began, “are you actually serious?”

A hush fell over the room, even for the help. Melissa watched with glee.

“Serious about what?” Monica asked, putting one hand on her waist.

“About this ,” she said, nodding towards Clark.

“Yeah,” Melissa added. “You know Charisma doesn’t employ boys.”

“For your information, he’s not some stray off the street. He was a referral , and I was conned. I thought he was a girl, something about his name...” she said matter-of-factly, giving Clark the side-eye and turning up the tip of her pointed nose. “I didn’t expect him to last this long. Anyway, he’s been useful for carrying boxes at least. I haven’t had to call down to the lobby for help, not once. And besides, Alicia , your mother is going to interview him herself shortly.”

Clark’s stomach churned, the feeling of dread slowly creeping up on him.

Alicia shook her head. “Yet another one of your messes for us to clean up, as usual,” she said, her accent English like Monica’s. “You couldn’t have brought in Amanda or Milly Noble? Roxanna Champion or Sofia Winston? Those girls already know Charisma and the Coven and would absolutely murder to be here.”

“They didn’t get back to me...on time,” said Monica. For a moment, the room was so tense one could cut the air with the looks they gave each other, sharp as daggers.

“Monica,” Emily interjected, breaking the silence, and the tension, “um...are you feeding him?” All of the women present, even the maid and the cook, stopped to lean in and survey Clark once more. Why did he have the peculiar feeling he was being looked at like he was their own next meal? The kitchen smelled of rich cooking, and Clark’s stomach uttered a loud garbling. His face turned a shade of pink.

“Oh, he’s fine!” Monica exclaimed, rolling her eyes.

“That’s what you said about the last one,” Alicia remarked testily. “Then she collapsed of heat stroke and exhaustion and ended up in the ICU, which is how you got us into this mess in the first place.”

Melissa stifled an inappropriate laugh. Playfully, Emily slapped her shoulder, mouthing, “Melissa...! Oh, my gawd!”

Monica pursed her lips. Was this a Monica in submission he was witnessing? Had she met her match? Clark was sure to commit it to memory so he could recall it later.

“If this one goes, that would make it our third since July ,” Alicia said, without breaking eye contact with Monica.

“Yeah, Monica ,” Melissa said sarcastically, “hiring a boy was a stroke of genius. I bet after the last one, everyone’s heard and no one wants to work with her.”

“Oh please,” Monica snapped. “At least no one will suspect his deliveries are from us.”

“Yeah—because we don’t hire boys!” Melissa snapped back.

“Exactly!” Monica said.

“Word is going to travel fast that there’s a boy, and a non-witch at that,” Alicia said.

“I bet they’re already talking,” said Emily.

“They are,” Melissa said. “I heard he shows up on foot .” All present looked down at his sneakers again.

How else am I supposed to show up . . . ?!

Alicia turned to Melissa and asked, “Remember the junior who disappeared on Halloween last year? What was her name again? That was fun...”

“Oh yeah,” Melissa said excitedly, “the one whose head was sent to the penthouse in a box, with her eyes gouged out of her—”

“Ladies?” Emily said, nodding to Clark. “Please? Mind our guest?”

Clark could feel his eyes were as wide as the plates being prepared.

So nobody actually wants “the job a million girls would kill for” . . . ? More like to be killed for . . .

“Carolina, could you be a doll and fix one up for our new friend, too, please?”

“Sí, se?orita,” one of the cooks said, “of course.”

Monica shot her a reproachful look, but said nothing. Clark got the sense that, in the order of things, Monica was low on the totem pole, or at the least, dared not challenge Alicia. He wasn’t sure if he liked these girls, but he thought, Anyone that doesn’t take shit from Monica is good in my book...

“Carolina, bring it along with Lorena’s,” Monica demanded. “That’s where he is headed now. You,” she said to Clark, “come.”

Emily waved goodbye, Alicia returned to her phone, and Melissa watched him walk away wearing a hungry smile that did not reach her peculiar eyes.

Clark was led down an adjacent hall, walking in silence except for the sound of Monica’s heels clacking on marble. They passed an enormous living room with a tall vaulted ceiling and gold chandeliers, a waterfall, and a giant terrace. A left turn took them into another hallway, ending in an oak panel door, on which Monica knocked three times.

An imposing voice barked from within the word “Enter.”

As Monica opened the door, Clark turned to look at her. She gave him a wave of her hand, mouthing, “Get on with it”— and pushed him in.

The door shut behind him with a click, sealing him inside.