But the woman in the turban is not cowed. She stands tall and sturdy and walks right up to him, unafraid. Chelsea knows she should turn and run but freezing is built into her DNA, and there’s something fascinating about this interaction.
“I’m asking you to calm down if you want this job. If not, there’s the door. She’ll let you leave.” She tilts her head toward the door, eyebrows up. Chelsea is still barefoot, tight as a bowstring, and if she turned and bolted, she could be out the door, but the woman adds, “You should have a seat, too. You go out that door, I can’t help you.”
That last bit dangles there, implying that if Chelsea stays, she’ll get help.
God, it would be so nice to have help right now.
Her muscles twitch, and then she’s collapsing back in her chair, her flip-flops splayed where she left them in the center of the room. The surfer guy sits, too. The woman in the turban puts her hands on her hips and stares at each person as they return to their seats. Chelsea recognizes that look on their faces—helpless resignation. They need this job as much as she does.
“I’m going through that other door.” The woman points at the metal door that leads deeper into the building, where Chelsea can only suppose the actual interviews are being held. “You all can leave now if you want to, if you’re scared, because you’re almost certain to come into contact with infected people here. Self-control and good interpersonal skills are necessary for anyone who works with us, so if you don’t have either, do us a favor and check on out. And I don’t want to see a single phone in use until we’ve sorted this out.”
She glances back at them one more time like a stern but dedicated kindergarten teacher before disappearing through the metal door, leaving it cracked. Chelsea stares at her feet, her throat dry, feeling that same smallness she felt around David.
“Is it true?” the brunette asks. She’s got little sprays of stars tattooed around the corners of her eyes and looping snakes along the sides of her neck.
When Chelsea doesn’t answer, the surfer guy waves his arm and snaps his fingers. “Hey, lady. We deserve to know. Is it true?”
Chelsea looks up, a gaping hole of emotions, and is about to answer when the metal door flies open and the biggest guy she has ever seen bursts out like the Kool-Aid Man. He must be six-foot-seven and three hundred pounds, and he has to duck just to get through the door.
“Hot shit! It’s Florida Woman!” he crows with a southern accent. The closer he gets, the smaller and filthier and more bare Chelsea feels. He’s got a man bun and sunglasses and leather cuff bracelets and one of those breezy infinity scarves that only movie stars can get away with, but muscles bulge out of his black T-shirt and his sweatpants look painted on and expensive. He’s familiar somehow, but Chelsea doesn’t know why. She is desperately aware on an animal level that if she tried to run or fight, he could easily tie her into a pretzel and throw her over the building.
“I told you,” the woman in the turban says, smirking.
“Five points to Arlene,” the man says, accenting it with finger guns. He looms over Chelsea, but cheerfully, like an overenthusiastic St. Bernard, and she fights the urge to shrink away. When he sticks out his hand, she flinches. “I’m Harlan Payne. You might know me as Rampage.” He grins, showing teeth so white that they’re almost blue. “Three-time winner of the Majestic Meltdown in the World Wrestling Conglomerate.” His smile goes crooked, showing a gold tooth. “When it existed.”
Chelsea automatically sticks her hand out, and it’s engulfed by both of his, warm and dry and mostly callus, far gentler than she’d expected.
“What’s your name again, Florida Woman?”
No point in not telling him; it’s already on her application—and splashed across the news.
“Chelsea Martin.”
“Well, I’d like to talk to you about an exciting opportunity, Ms. Martin. If you’ll join us?” He releases her hand and gives a little bow, directing her to the metal door. She stands, feeling shaky and as if she’s living in someone else’s dream, as nothing that’s happened today makes any sense.
“Mr. Payne, sir?”
It’s the surfer guy who wanted to zip-tie her and call the police, and he’s blushing and stammering. “I’m a big fan.” He holds out his leg to show a capital R shaped like a howling wolf on his calf. “I used to love watching you and Rayna—”
“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Harlan snarls. “And let you walk away with your dignity and both your arms attached.”
The surfer guy’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, but then Harlan’s hands clench into fists with a creak like old leather and the guy hurries for the door.
“He knows who I am,” Chelsea murmurs quietly so that only Harlan can hear it; right now, she feels like he’s the only adult in a room full of children. “He’s going to tell them—”
“Hey, kid.”
The surfer guy turns back to Harlan, eyes alight. “Yes, sir?”
“You tell anybody you met Florida Woman here, and I will personally hunt you down and tear you apart and feed you to my pet hyena. We got his vitals, Arlene?”
Arlene is by her desk and she holds up an application, her eyebrows up.
“We do, boss.”
“Well, then.”
Surfer guy nods in agreement, so red he looks like he’s gonna puke, and bolts.
Chelsea relaxes, just a little. She has never believed anyone’s threats as much as she believes that Harlan will do exactly what he says he will do. She’s fairly certain he has that pet hyena somewhere, too. And yet…she feels safer now.
“Thank you,” she tells him.
He puts a huge hand on her shoulder. “Don’t let little shits like that scare you. The world is full of ’em. They wiped the floor with me until I had my growth spurt and hit the gym.” His voice is softer than it was before, and even though everyone in the room is staring at them, it somehow feels as if they’re all alone in the world. And it’s not like she’s attracted to him—he’s just got this way about him. She met a dog whisperer once, and it’s like that, but for people. And something about that terrifies her.
“You want her application, boss?” Arlene asks, holding it up.
Harlan takes it with a grin. “You know it. Come on back.”