Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) Gemma Halliday (13 ebook reader TXT) 📖

"Uh…" Chase looked to Sam. She shrugged. "No. We didn't."

"That's fine," the woman said, grabbing a couple of papers from a stack on the counter. "Put your name on the list, and you can fill out an application while you wait. Ms. Lyons is conducting interviews on a first-come first-served basis today." She glanced around the room. "So, you probably have a little bit of a wait before she's ready to see you."

Fab. I glanced at my phone, noting the time. Mom still thought I was at the library doing schoolwork with Sam. Which, I sorta had been—I mean I was doing work on a story for a school paper. But if this dragged on too long, I had a bad feeling she'd get wise and start wondering where I was. Mom was no dummy. She knew I'd never last at the library for more than two hours.

Chase thanked the woman behind the counter and dispersed the applications to us. I grabbed a pen from the cup on the counter, and the three of us sat in free chairs in the center of the room.

"Name," Sam muttered beside me, filling in the blanks. "Address. Social security number." She glanced up at me. "I don't have mine memorized."

"Just put something down," I said, looking around the room. "It's not like we're really applying."

Sam cocked her head to the side. "I dunno. There could be worse places to spend a summer. I mean, this could look great on my Stanford application."

"What's Unreal Engine?" I asked, my eyes scanning down to the list of qualifications. "And Unity?"

"Development programs," Chase answered, his pen scribbling quickly as he filled in the form.

"You know them?" I asked, peeking a glance at his application. He had a lot less white space than I did.

Chase shook his head. "Not really. I mean, I've dabbled, but not well enough to really create content."

"Don't interns just get coffee and stuff?" I asked, glancing over at Sam's application. Her "experience" section looked chock-full of after-school enrichment classes.

I bit my lip as I looked back at my own paper. I'd handled the questions about name and address fabulously. And my penmanship was awesome. Everything else looked pretty empty.

"What are you putting for your personal integrity statement?" Sam asked.

"Integrity statement?" That's it. I was destined to work at a drive-thru.

By the time the other half dozen applicants who'd come in before us had been called up one by one, Sam and Chase had filled in almost every line on their applications, and I had come to the realization I was useless in the job market.

"Erikson." A thin guy in jeans and a black hoodie holding a clipboard stood next to the reception counter. "Chase Erikson?"

Chase stood. "That's me." He gestured for Sam and me to follow. If Clipboards thought it was weird that we all wanted to interview together, he didn't say anything, just ticking off my and Sam's names as we handed him our applications as well. We followed him around the corner to a small office along the far wall. The name Phoebe Lyons was etched in black on the frosted door. I spotted a similar closed door farther down. It didn't have a name on it, but I imagined it once read Connor Simon in the same boxy font.

As we approached, Lyons' door opened, and the last person Clipboards had shown in, the guy in the suit, walked out. His shoulders were rounded, and the way he avoided eye contact with each of us suggested the meeting had not gone well.

"Good luck," Clipboards told us, leading the way into the office.

The back wall was one-quarter sheetrock and three-quarters glass, looking out onto the Burger King across the street. Not the most attractive view, but the large windows made the space feel bigger than it was. A sleek black desk occupied one side of the narrow room, and a round table and chairs sat at the other. Black picture frames holding awards, magazine covers, and various game posters hung on the walls, and a thick black throw rug ran from the table to the desk, covering most of the floor beneath.

At first the room appeared empty, until I spotted a young woman standing in the corner on her phone. She was in her early twenties, probably close to Simon's age, and petite. She had brown, shoulder-length hair parted in the middle and big brown eyes behind a pair of red-rimmed glasses. In a red skirt, a light gray jacket over a white tank top, and a pair of navy sneakers, she looked more like an intern herself than the boss. A shiny diamond nose ring completed her youthful look.

The woman turned and caught Clipboards' eye before quickly hanging up. "Hi. Sorry about that. Please, take a seat."

She pointed to two gray cushioned chairs rimmed in chrome that faced her desk before sitting herself in the tall-backed leather one behind it. Chase grabbed a chair from the table and brought it over while Sam and I sat in the others, and Clipboards handed the woman our applications. She picked up a pen from her desk and gave Clipboards a curt nod before perusing them in silence as Clipboards slipped out of the room, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.

I could tell as she got to mine because her eyebrows lifted and she looked up at the three of us, scrutinizing as if trying to figure out which one didn't belong.

"I'm mostly here for moral support," I said, feeling my cheeks heat. "Uh, Hartley Featherstone."

"Ah. Nice to meet you, Ms. Featherstone. And you must be Samantha Kramer," she said, addressing Sam. "And Mr. Erikson."

Chase gave her a wide smile. "It's an honor to meet you, Ms. Lyons. I'm a big fan of your games."