Page 4 of Ace of Spades

And did I get the job?

He stands, pushes the desk chair back and walks over to the door silently. And just as he opens the door, he looks over his shoulder at me and waves my resume in the air.

“We’ll be in touch.”

Chapter2

Sienna

Ididn’t come to Breaker’s Isle to party.

I came for two things: Pull my dream job and find the man who doesn’t know I exist.

But leave it to Julian to lure me off track with the promise of “the best night ever,”to get my mind off the fact that it’s been nearly a week and I have yet to get a call from Benji Morales, or anyone, at SKC for that matter.

I’ve already put in applications at the local diner and a few small businesses in town as back up.

But I’m embarrassed that I’ve jumped more times than I care to admit when an unknown number has called. And I’m genuinely broken every time my phone rings, and it's not the cool voice of one Levi Steele telling meCongratulations.I got the gig.

"That's no fair, since when does rock beat paper?" I shove my cousin's shoulder playfully as I slide into the passenger seat of his spotless sedan.

He sips the last of his Dr. Pepper before answering, "Ever since you decided to ride shotgun instead of offering to drive. So rude."

"It's your car," I remind him, clicking my seatbelt into place.

"Nope, nope. I see how it is. I let you crash at my place and this is how you repay me?"

“I’m repaying you by actually paying you, you idiot.”

He chuckles. “Oh yeah.”

We pull out of the movie theater parking lot and head in the direction of the party that he just got a text about five minutes ago.

"Are you sure about this, J? We're not even dressed for the occasion."

My protest is weak, but persistent. After spending the week settling in, job hunting, and getting rejected at every turn, I'm wrecked.

There aren’t many people jumping to hire a high school dropout. Even if I did spend the last year of my life grieving while working to get my GED. That’s not something I can just say on a resume.

The last thing I want to do is make small talk with strangers when I'm running on fumes and helmet hair.

"That was the whole point of a Halloween movie night. No costumes. No mingling. Or did you conveniently forget?"

Julian’s eyes flick to me before refocusing on the road. "You're in riding gear. That’s basically a costume."

I glance down at my outfit—worn boots, fitted jacket, dark riding jeans that cling to me like a second skin.

The only reason I’m wearing this is because I took my bike out earlier to get my mind wrapped around the fact that tomorrow I’ll be doing what feels like the hardest thing yet, since losing mom.

But Julian had rushed me out the second I got back, insisting we were late for the double feature.

"Where is this party, anyway?" I say, through a yawn.

"That, my dearest Sienna, is the best part."

He wiggles his brows, and I fight the urge to shove him again. Roughhousing has been our love language since... well, since diapers.

My mom always said that when Julian was born—just nine months after me—I claimed dominance by grabbing his hair and refusing to let go.

---