The Nation's Jackpot Girl (BWWM)

Chapter 3

Jocelyn's POV

"What a jerk!" I curse as I slam the door to his office.

Who gives a damn if it is a big corporation? Who cares to be modest here if their damned boss is a racist? I never imagined him to be one. Well, tabloids don't do justice to one's character. I hiss.

Some workers who pass by my side look at me like I'm some disgusting meal. I give them the sign forcing myself not to scream at them all for looking at me like a pest.

"Fuck y'all!" I storm into the elevator. I'm close to tears, but I choose not to let them roll off while in this horrible corporation ruled by Marcel Reynolds, that asshole. Everyone here is an asshole.

The elevator takes me to the last floor, and I dash out of the company, not bothering to stop momentarily. When I leave the building, the tears almost fall off my cheeks, so I dip my hand into my bag to get my handkerchief.

I wipe my face carefully to prevent my makeup from being ruined. I glance at my watch to check the time, and there's still much time for me to while away. It's still noon, so I decided to roam around. At least, time would have gone before I got back home.

"Let's stroll around New York," I say, sighing.

While roaming, my stomach growls. I had little for breakfast. Luckily for me, there's a restaurant down the corner. I walk down to it and order lunch. Within a few minutes, the attendant serves me my hamburger and a Coke bottle.

I pay her the fee after she serves me. "Enjoy your meal," she says while serving another customer.

An interview with Marcel Reynolds is worth the chilled Coke bottle before me. I eat up my meal as I recount the event of the day.

What kind of businessman would reject a hot cake like me because of racism? I have all the criteria to be his business administrator, yet he turned me away. Isn't that foolishness?

If he had turned me away at the door or told Mrs. Giovanni to send me away, that would have been better than sitting me down, asking me questions, and rejecting me without adequate reason. The nerve!

All because he is 'Marcel Reynolds' doesn't mean he owns the world. The rich always have their way all the time. I scoff. To think that I had thought I would bag the job still hurts. If there weren't any malpractice, I would have gotten the job.

I had prepared very well for this job, no doubt, and even downloaded likely questions to be asked. I slept late because I had to prepare, and then that man had to blow up my hopes. People are trooping in and out of the restaurant with their various needs.

I smile at a family of four seated by the corner to my right. They look so happy and content. I see love in the eyes of the Father as he looks at his family. Someday I wish to have something like that, but for now, I have to get a job.

What should I do next? It seems like a dead end. I had submitted my resume to some companies, but they hadn't gotten back to me. What if they didn't get back to me or if they had seen their candidate?

"Oh God," I exclaim.

I can not settle down with jobs that pay little peanuts as salaries. It wouldn't be enough. My thoughts are roaming.

By the time I recheck my time, it's 5 pm. It's high time I took my leave from the restaurant. I gulped down the remainder of my Coke and lay the bottle on the table before. Carrying my bag, I walk out of the restaurant.

Outside, the evening sun is dipping into the horizon. I walked down the street to where I'd take a cab home. The road is busy. Some boys are playing football. I called out for a taxi and told him my address.