Death Layer (The Depraved Club) Read Online Free Page A

Clark, your last
meal of choice?”
    I’m still staring at Peterson.
    “Hm? Oh. Last meal.” Before I can think I hear myself say,
“Definitely whiskey. I’d need it to be whiskey.”
    Carrot-top starts to laugh but disguises it as a cough. Mr.
King turns and looks at him pointedly before riveting me again with those
burning-cold iceberg eyes of his, scratching his chin. I notice how strong and
manicured his fingers are, then try to un-notice so that I can concentrate.
    “Yes, whiskey and maybe pizza.” I assert. “New York pizza,
obviously. But mostly just the whiskey if it’s my last meal, as I don’t want to
feel anything that’s coming next. A whole bottle of whiskey, maybe a whole
barrel, and go out with a bang!”
    Mr. King stares at me for a long moment and I feel heat
swirling in my belly. The corners of his mouth twitch. I can’t read him. Either
he stifling a laugh like carrot-top or he is offended. I mentally curse myself
for being so un-corporate. That was probably an inappropriate answer.
    Finally he clears his throat and stares down at the papers
in front of him.
    “Ladies,” he says evenly, “Thank you for your time today.
Gerard will escort you out. You will be hearing from us within two business
days. Goodbye.”
    Wow, that was fast.
    Carrot-top, or Gerard I guess, waves for us to follow him
out the door. Walker and Peterson both murmur thank-you and scuttle out. As I
follow, I turn for one parting glance at our beautiful, weird interviewer. I
find those piercing baby blues following me and a sort of a pleasant chill
washes down my spine. He winks. I redden and run.
    Gerard leads us through the white labyrinth back to the
elevator.
    “Good luck,” he says crisply before disappearing again.
    The same secretary is at the desk and doesn’t glance up when
the elevator door opens for us. I rush into the elevator, determined not to
look out the window. Peterson, Walker and I squeeze together uncomfortably
close. The door slides closed and the elevator shoots downward.
    “Well,” I quip as my stomach lurches several floors above
me, “That wasn’t the weirdest interview I’ve ever had or anything.”
    Peterson pulls out her phone without responding. Walker
tries to smile while avoiding eye contact with me, and accidentally makes eye
contact with the elevator attendant, who almost hits his face on the wall in
his rush to look away.
    Awkward.
    My phone rings. I had forgotten to silence it! Thank
goodness it didn’t ring until now. It must be Rachel. I dig in my purse for
about four rings, drawing an annoyed glance from Peterson. Finally, I find the
dang thing and see that it’s a number I don’t recognize.
    “Hello?”
    “Miss Clark.”
    My spine tingles at that low, cool voice.
    “Mr. King!” My voice almost cracks. Now Peterson and Walker
are staring at me, open-mouthed. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
    “It’s more what I can do for you, Miss Clark.” There’s an
almost-smile in his voice. It’s tantalizing. “I was impressed with your
originality and think we’d have good working chemistry together. In fact, you
had me at painting the walls. The whiskey just sealed the deal. I’m rather a
fan of Scotch myself.”
    “Right, me too, big, big Scotch fan,” I stammer. “Who
isn’t?”
    “I could use a person with a spine and personality, Miss
Clark. You think outside the box.”
    “And color outside the lines.”
    He chuckles, a low and rich sound that makes me feel good.
“I often find that you creative types are a welcome and refreshing addition, a
revitalizing square-peg in the round-hole corporate world. I’d like to extend
you an official offer for the position of my Personal and Executive Assistant.”
    “Oh, wow, thank you sir. That was fast.”
    “I don’t like to waste time once I know what I want.”
    I check my watch. It’s only 9:15am. “I can see that.”
    “Miss Johnson has emailed you the paperwork detailing our
financial contract and, most