Chapter 5: the Meeting

She followed the asshole, and he led her by a very winding circuitous route, to a table in the corner. At the table was the man she assumed would be Bruce Jennings.

He was old. Old, looked wealthy, and if she had to really pinpoint, tired. He looked very tired. The lines around his eyes weren’t all wrinkles. Some of them seemed to be from worry.

He stood up as she approached, looked her up and down. He had a mixed look in his eyes then. Both that he didn’t approve and that he did. That he cared, and that she meant nothing whatsoever to him. It was a bit disconcerting.

She tried to return the examination, noticing the expensive suit he was wearing, the shoes that probably cost her more than two month’s rent each, and the ring on his finger. It was the only jewelry he wore, except for a watch that, if it wasn’t Rolex, was some obscure brand that poor people weren’t allowed to know the name of.

“Miss Masters, I presume?” He held out a hand.

When she shook it, she felt strength. And calluses. He’s worked with his hands, but probably a long time ago, judging by the suit that probably cost more than four month’s rent for her.

“Mr. Jennings. Please, call me Autumn.”

He looked at her for a few seconds, with the look of a corporate CEO trying to frighten an intern. Finally, he took a short breath. “Have a seat, Miss Masters.”

She sat down. The asshole, or rather, maitre d, didn’t go anywhere.

Jennings looked up at him. “I’ll have the steak, cooked rare. Miss Masters here will have—” he left it hang. For a second, she thought he was just going to order for her.

“I’ll have a salad, no onions or cucumbers, ranch dressing, and a small steak, medium rare, please.”

The concierge nodded, left with a bit of a bow, and exited completely from Autumn’s thoughts and cares.

Jennings leaned back. Autumn half expected him to pull out a pocket watch or a monocle. “I’m impressed,” he said. “Too often women are afraid to order too much food, or steak at all. Particularly at a business meeting.”

“I’m not like most women, Mr. Jennings.”

“No, I imagine you’re not.” He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward a little bit, halfway between interested and intimidating. “So. What is it you do?”

She squinted. A little confusing. Did Charlie set her up or something? “I’m a writer, sir.”

“No, no.” He waved a hand to dismiss her. It was calloused, very manly. “I knew that. Beyond that. What is it you do?”

“Oh.” She leaned back. “I’m a bartender.”

“Interesting.” He pulled out a cigar. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

Another intimidation tactic she wasn’t planning to let bother her. “Not at all,” she said, wishing she still smoked herself. “Make yourself at home.”

He lit up, puffing a little bit. It all looked a little more phallic than powerful.

After a few puffs, he worked the cigar around his mouth, then pulled it out in classic fat cat fashion. “Miss Masters, do you know why you’re here?”

“Free lunch,” she said. It was too late to keep her sarcasm bottled up. “And, hopefully, a job.”

“And do you feel you are qualified, Miss Masters?”

“That kind of depends on the job, doesn’t it?”

He put the cigar back in his mouth and sucked another puff out of it. “When you are tending bar, are you hit on often?”

Autumn looked sideways at him. “Why do you ask?”

He leaned back, pulled the cigar out, and blew a puff of smoke. “Are you a lesbian?”

She stood up, almost knocking her chair to the ground. “What the fuck kind of question is that? What does that have to do with anything?”

There was a gasp from the rest of the restaurant, followed by a stunned silence. Autumn noticed that they all looked offended, but didn’t care.

Jennings just looked at her, his face a blank mask. “Answer the question. Are you a lesbian?”

“No, I’m fucking not!” she shouted, grabbed her bag, and started heading towards the door. And would have kept going, had Jennings not started laughing.

She turned towards him, ready to fire another volley, but was taken aback by his body language. He leaned back as he laughed, a full, hearty laugh. And it was as if something was falling away from him as he laughed. He put the cigar out in the ashtray on the table and leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the table. “Oh, you’ll do fine, Autumn.”

She was still angry, if a little confused. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll have to forgive me—“

She felt the fire burning inside her. “The hell I will.”

“Please, Autumn.” He was speaking in a casual tone, with inside voices. She had nothing to do with inside voices. He waved her to her seat, as if he was the one being embarrassed. “Sit down. I was just trying to get a rise out of you.”

“It worked.”

“Yes, I know.” He gave a smile, one full of apology. “Now, please. Sit down. You’ve got the job.”

Her voice dropped. “I do?”

He laughed again. “You do. If you still want it. Now please, sit down.”

She dropped back into her seat. “What is it?”

“I read your book, you know,” he said. “Quite liked it. A shame it didn’t do better.”

She shrugged. “I still hold out hope it’ll become a classic someday.”

“I want you to teach my son to write a novel.”