The Beautiful Ones

“What a pretty kitty!” it was a whispered awe. The cat that was sleep on the lap of the man in the big chair behind the desk lifted his head. He leapt neatly out of the lap of his master and padded towards Cassandra.
“Hey cutie,” she bent to pet him.

Cassandra scooped up the cat, who purred happily, rubbing his fuzzy face against her cheek. The man continued to sleep. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, shivering in the air conditioning. It didn’t help that her clothes were soaked right through.

“Excuse me?” she said softly. The man didn’t stir. She looked at him for a moment, took in the way the carefully style hair framed his face, took in the chiseled look of his cheekbones, and the way his lips parted when he slept. Ridiculous, she scolded herself. This could be your potential employer.
Or a bum who happened to be sitting in an important looking chair. Either way, it was probably best to wake him up and find out.
“Excuse me?” she repeated. To her shock, the man snapped awake.

**

He had been dreaming about water. The sound of the waves crashing against sad, the feeling of it against his skin, the smell of salt in his nose. It was soothing, and Criss wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up.

Until he heard her voice, probing him away.

Criss’s brown eyes took in the drowned rat standing before him. His cat was cradled in her arms, and the little brat seemed to be enjoying it immensely. He always was a traitor when it came to women, perhaps because he knew they would fawn over him.

“You’re soaked.” He said in a much grumpier voice than he intended. Her eyes widened and then narrowed slightly.

“It’s raining out.”

“You didn’t drive?”

“It wasn’t a long walk.” She shrugged and gave Hammie one last cuddle before putting him down. He jumped onto the desk and began to wash his face.

“But you’re DRENCHED.” And she didn’t look especially professional, really. Black denim skirt, a black button down dress shirt that looked like it had probably seen better days, cheap nylons, and tennis shoes.

Who wore tennis shoes to a job interview? The girl looked down at herself, brown hair falling out of the careful style and clinging to her wet face. Her blue eyes looked slightly panicked before she masked it.

“Like I said, it’s raining. You’re C. Angel?”

“Criss Angel,” he reached out to shake her hand, noted the way it trembled slightly. He couldn’t tell if she was nervous or if she was cold.
“Have a seat,” he gestured to the plush arm chairs. She shook her head, water droplets hitting him in the forehead.

“I’m too wet.”

“Mmm,” he walked into another room and brought back a plain folding chair. Cassandra seated herself on the edge and crossed her legs.
“Do you have a resume?”

“My computer hasn’t been shipped yet.” She shook her head. It was alarming how quickly she was learning to lie. She hoped the faint blush on her cheeks wouldn’t give her away.

“Well,” Criss sighed as he sat down. “What was your name?”

“Cassandra Gabrielle Addison,” he nodded.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen. I’ll be nineteen this fall.” She folded her hands, turning her knuckles white. Criss nodded again.

“Do you know what I do for a living, Ms. Addison?” Ugh. The way he said that was enough to make her cringe. She hated being called Ms. Addison. It made her feel like a fifty year old spinster.

Which, when she thought about it, she was probably on the road to becoming. She wondered how many times Michael had tried to call her. She wondered if anyone had picked up her cell phone from the side of the road.

“No, I don’t,” she murmured, shaking her head, feeling more water drip. There was a small puddle surrounding the chair, and she tried to keep herself from shivering too much.

“I’m an illusionist.” There was a pause while she blinked.

“Well, that’s interesting.” To say the least, Cassandra had never met anyone from that particular profession. Sure, there were the kids who could do little card tricks in the cafeteria, but it was never a really big deal.

“I have a TV show. Mindfreak?” she shook her head blankly.

“I don’t have cable.” She said apologetically.

“Oh. Well I did a show on NBC----.” He trailed off. Clearly she’d never heard of him. If that wasn’t a kick to his ego, he didn’t know what was. Hammie wandered back over to Cassandra, and she bent to scratch his favorite spot behind his ears.

“So, just what are you requiring me for, Mr. Angel?”

Mr. Angel. She stumbled over the term. It just didn’t sound right in her mouth, and he could tell that she wanted to call him Criss. But what she lacked in business attire, she made up for in manners.

“I need someone to answer my phones, file my paper work, do some typing, sort my fan mail, run a few of my small errands here at the hotel, keep track of my appointment book,” he was ticking things off on his fingers.
“Oh, and I needed someone to go on stage with me.”

There was an awkward silence before Cassandra laughed nervously.

“You’re funny.”

“Stand up,” Criss demanded. Curious and a bit frightened, Cassandra obeyed.
“Hmm,” he circled her. “Well, you’re pretty short.”

“I’m sorry?” Cassandra blinked again. This interview was getting stranger and stranger. She had expected it to be like when she interviewed at Burger King.

“You’re a little pudgy.” He frowned. It was true, she wasn’t fat, but she certainly wasn’t in any fear of looking terribly thin anytime soon. Her cheeks burned and she felt her ire rising.

And then he reached out and touched one of her hips. It was like faint electric sparks shoot up her body. Cassandra bit down on her lower lip.

“I beg your pardon---,” she began; ready to give him a piece of her mind. She knew she was risking the job, but at this point she wasn’t sure it was a position she could see herself filling, to say the least.

“And you look a little weak…” he frowned thoughtfully.

“Now just a minute!” her cheeks were really red and her hands were going to her hips, a sure sign she was pissed.

“You’re hired,” Criss said smoothly.