The Lucky Doberman

Chapter 2: A Hundred an Hour

"What's the job for?" Nikki asked.
"It's a simple assistant job. I assume I'm gonna be working for some ceo or lawyer or some crap," I explained.
"Probably some old guy that can't move around on his own," Nikki snickered.
"Yea, but regardless, the pay is worth it," I shrugged.
"How much?"
"A hundred an hour."
"Are you serious?!" she exclaimed.

I went through my phone to show her the link.
"I spoke to the receptionist yesterday and my interview is in two hours." I said as she read through the description.

"Zoe, did you read this?" she asked me.
I looked at what her finger pointed to.

'Job isn't meant for the weak. Don't apply if you get sick to the stomach easy.' it read.

"Hm..."
"What do you think that means? They didn't exactly say what you'd be doing there," she stated.
"I don't know. Maybe I'll do away with dead bodies," I joked.
"That's not funny, that could be true. There are comments saying it sounds worrisome."
"Relax, I'm sure it's like a lot of cleaning or something. It doesn't really matter to me. I need money and they're willing to hand it over."
"Why is your interview at 8pm?" she questioned.
"I don't know." I shrugged.
"Zoe, I don't like this. You should try something different. This sounds really sketchy."
"Nikki, it's money. Money we've been without for a while now. I'm willing to send feet pictures at this point."
She sighed.

"It's okay. I'll call you on my way there and I'll tell you everywhere I go. I'll even send you a voice memo of what happens while I'm there. Just to have evidence since you worry so much."
"Okay..." she agreed. I could hear the reluctance in her voice.
"Everything's gonna be fine. Trust me."
"You're just always putting yourself in dangerous situations." she scoffed.
"When have I ever done that?!"
"When you gave that homeless man a ride thinking it was to his brother's place, but he sent you to a drug house, robbed it, then used you as a getaway car and you now have three bullet holes in the back of your Camry."

That did happen.

"That wasn't my fault." I stated.
"You're right. But...you're just too optimistic. You try to see the good in everything and sometimes that's not the case. I wish you had less of a backbone. It sounds weird, but you don't worry enough. Your happiness and hopefulness scares me." She walked off to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water.

I thought on her words.

I guess she was right.
Personally, I would think that she worries too much, but I know that probably isn't the case.

But from when I was a little girl, all the way up until now, I'd had very few problems. I'd survived this long and I'd been pretty lucky. My mom and dad started calling me Lucky as a nickname since I was little because I would always barely slip away from the hands of death or pain. I've never even had an injury. Not even a bug bite. That's why I'm never worried. Trauma is something I see on tv. Deep down I can't fathom the idea of it. The same way as I can't fathom being able to fly or being invisible. I know trauma is real. But if I've never experienced it, and I know I'm always okay. How am I supposed to be worried about it?
It never comes to mind.

"I'll try to be safe." I promised.
"Thank you. Please do. And call me. And record everything. And send me your location."
I snickered, "Okay, Nik, I promise. I'm gonna go get ready."
"Okay. Nothing too revealing. You don't know these people."
"Yes, ma'am," I sighed as I walked to my bedroom.

I was sure it was still a corporate job since they were the only ones who really used assistants.

I chose a nice, well covering, top and a pair of pants so that Nikki wouldn't have a heart attack.
She acts as though she's my mom. Her and my mom have actually gotten brunch together and discussed things like my asthma or my grades when I was in school as if they were my parental figures.
Which is fitting. I'd need two since my dad was more of a best friend.
He's been confronted by my mother for telling me to do things most dads wouldn't tell their kids. Like taking a shot with him. Or going to a shooting range. Every so often he'll roll his eyes at her when he realizes he needs to be a parent then looks at me and say, "Hey, don't be a dick."
My father is Italian. As long as I'm not an asshole or a bum, he doesn't really care.
My mother is the complete opposite and is not Italian.
She and Nikki are my parents basically.