Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
If you’re wondering why I didn’t quit on the spot, well, have you seen the economy lately? The job market is so tight everyone is afraid to breathe wrong for fear of losing their position. And since everything keeps going up—except wages of course—I literally can’t afford to be offended. So I’m just watching my back now and making damn sure I’m never alone with my creepy coworker.
But it’s not Donald—in fact, I don’t see anyone watching me at all. Everyone has their heads down, focusing on work. You have to look busy all the time here at S&S—it’s one of the worst parts of the job. If you take a minute too long in the break room pouring a cup of coffee, or dare to linger in the hall chatting with a coworker, the department manager, Mr. Philbens, will pop up and start talking about “stealing time from the company.” It’s enough to make you want to scream.
I put my head back down, staring at the spreadsheet on my computer screen. I have to concentrate—I need to get this done so I can leave on time tonight. I have plans. No, not a date. I’m a curvy girl which makes me invisible to most men—other than pervs like Donald.
But I don’t give a damn—I don’t need a man to be happy. And I’m not going to give up everything I love and starve myself to try and catch one either. True love can pass me by for all I care—I have Mr. Mittens, my cat. He’s as much male company as I’ll ever need.
I bury myself in the numbers—I’ve always been good at math. I’d be a senior accountant myself if it wasn’t for the glass ceiling here at Sutherland and Sons. Actually, it’s more of a stone ceiling. There aren’t any women in the management here at all—not even one. If they would just—
My thoughts are interrupted by a tap on my shoulder. I look up to see Mr. Philbens, my manager, glaring down at me. He’s a small, prissy man with short grey hair and reading glasses that always sit perched on the far end of his knobbly nose. I’ve been waiting for years to see them fall off but so far, they never have.
My stomach tightens like a fist as the look on his face. What can he possibly have to complain about? I’m doing my work—not chatting in the break room or taking too long to do my “lady business” in the bathroom as he calls it. So what is it?
“Yes, Mr. Philbens?” I ask, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes.
“Miss Carter, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come with me,” he says and the tone in his voice makes it clear I’m in trouble.
I scramble up from my desk, made clumsy by fear. If I lose this job I won’t be able to pay rent and I’ll have to beg to sleep on someone’s couch. I can’t do that.
“What’s this about?” I ask in a low voice as he leads me through the maze of desks. At S&S we have an “open concept office” which means all the desks are out in the open and nobody gets any privacy. I used to work at a place with cubicles and I loathed them. Now I wish for one desperately.
As we walk, I can feel all eyes on me. I glance around and sure enough, my coworkers are casting surreptitious glances as Mr. Philbens leads me on the walk of shame that leads to his office. Nothing good ever happens when he calls you into a private meeting. It’s always a warning or a reprimand or—worst of all—“a termination,” which is what they call it when you get fired around here.
“Mr. Philbens?” I ask again, since he didn’t answer me the first time.
He shoots me a reproving look.
“You’ll see in just a moment. This way, please.”
We’ve reached his office—it has glass walls covered in blinds which are always kept open, so the department manager can keep an eye on all of us without leaving his desk.
This time the blinds are closed.
Philbens pushes open the door and nods me through. I step into his office and see it’s already occupied. Standing by his desk is a man in a white lab coat that hangs off his skinny frame. He has long brown hair with streaks of silver in it and when he looks up at me, his eyes are a strange shade of amber I’ve never seen before.
“Uh…Mr. Philbens?” I ask as he closes the door behind us. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is that you’ve been accused of using drugs,” he snaps. “Which means you’ll need to take a test.” He’s frowning in a way that tells me that, in his mind at least, I’m already guilty.