Read The Position for Free Online Page A

tell right away what the deal is with Celestina. As I slip out the door and head down the hall to the reception area, I can’t help but imagine what it must be like to undress Jude Lazarus. Undress him completely. I happen to have a very visual imagination, and I shudder with pleasure at the thought.  
    “Everything good with the first day?” I turn to find Eva leaning against the reception desk flipping through the pages of a file. Christian is already gone. I expect her to follow up with a barbed comment but she doesn’t. Whatever she might think of me personally, the woman obviously knows when she’s lost a fight. She gives me a wide, insincere smile. “Figure it all out okay?”  
    “I did,” I say, returning the phony smile. “Thanks to the brilliant manual. It’s so detailed. Did you write it?”  
    Eva’s smile disappears and her lips pucker with disgust. “Heavens no. That was someone who worked with us long ago. I’m glad she left one positive thing behind.”  
    I nod as if I understand, but of course I don’t. There’s something about the way the manual is written that almost goes beyond the office. But I can’t place my finger on what it is. I wonder to myself if Lazarus had an affair with her and that’s why she knew him so well. I excuse myself and slip out the door. The elevator hasn’t even reached the first floor when I hear my phone buzz in my purse. I pull it out. It’s from J. Lazarus. I feel a rush of adrenaline at the sight of his name. When I read the message, my stomach does a summersault.  
    Meet me for dinner. 6pm, Il Vecino, 2345 16 th Street.

Chapter Eight

    I’ve been sitting alone in the booth looking out the window for almost twenty minutes. Outside, people are gathering for after-work dinner or drinks, little gaggles of well-dressed professionals cutting loose. The women are wearing hip-hugging skirts that fall just above the knees and blouses cut to accentuate their waistlines and show off their boobs. That’s probably what Celestina Marquez looks like, I think. What Lazarus goes for, I’m certain of it. Why wouldn’t he? I smooth the fabric of my flower print blouse, wishing that it showed off a little more of my body, but it just hangs over me like a burlap sack.
    The restaurant is exactly the kind I’ve walked past a hundred times, barely resisting the urge to press my nose against the window. It’s all dim lights and dark wood, and it smells of firewood and roasting meat. The wait staff contrasts the formal setting by being vastly tatted up and wearing edgy, big city clothes. Each one of them, male and female, is gorgeous. I flash back to the Denny’s restaurant where my father would take us when there was some “big occasion,” like somebody’s birthday, and the way it always smelled of grease and floor cleaner.
    “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”  
    Startled from my thoughts, I nearly knock over my water glass. It’s Lazarus. He slips into the booth pulling off his jacket, sending a subtle waft of musky cologne through the air. The smell of him makes me unconsciously squeeze my thighs together.  
    “It’s okay,” I say. I take a self-conscious sip of water.
    He holds up a finger and summons the waitress, who is wearing a ribbed wife beater and torn jeans. A tattooed rose vine twists and wraps around her right arm. She rushes over with a big smile and moony eyes. He must get that a lot.  
    “Bourbon,” he says. “Neat.” He points to me solicitously. “Something to drink? Take the edge off your day?”  
    That’s exactly what I need, I think. Something to calm me the fuck down. “White wine,” I say with a gracious smile. I push the loose strands of hair behind my ears, knowing the waitress is wondering what he’s doing having dinner with me.  
    Since I’m not specific, Lazarus chooses some kind of Pinot Grigio, and then orders something called charcuterie. When the waitress leaves he leans back against the banquette with a loud