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)
“Drugs?” I stare at him blankly. I tried taking an “adult gummy” once with some friends but it didn’t calm me down a bit. In fact, it made me feel nervous and paranoid and my heart pounded so hard I thought I was having a panic attack. That was years ago and I’ve never tried anything like it since. I should have known better—almost all medication has the opposite of its intended effect on me.
But knowing that makes this even more absurd.
“Who accused me?” I demand, frowning at my manager. “I don’t take anything at all—not even aspirin or ibuprofen.” Neither pain reliever does much of anything for me, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Mr. Philbens purses his lips in that prissy way he has.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss who made the accusation. Sufficient to say that management considered it credible.”
By “management” I know he means himself. He’s never liked me—I’m not subservient enough.
“Why would you consider it credible?” I demand, putting a hand on my hip. “Have I been exhibiting any kind of strange behavior at work that would lead you to believe I’m on drugs?”
“Well—” he begins…and then trails off. Because there’s nothing to say. I’m not some flighty young thing who goes out drinking and dancing and drugging at clubs every night. I’m thirty-two and I like to be home in bed with a book by nine every night. Ten at the latest.
“That’s right—you haven’t,” I say, answering my own question. “Because there is no strange behavior. I’m a competent, reliable employee who never calls in sick or makes trouble. So I find your willingness to believe I’m suddenly on drugs extremely offensive.”
For a moment, Mr. Philbens looks taken aback—I really have him on the hind foot, as my Grandma would have said. Then he straightens up and clears his throat.
“Be that as it may, the accusation has been made and we have to follow through with it. When you came to work at Sutherland and Sons, you signed an employment contract agreeing to mandatory drug testing at any time,” he says. “Now, are you going to allow the testing or are you leaving us today? And I promise you, Miss Carter, if you leave it will not be with any kind of reference or recommendation from me!”
We stand there glaring at each other for a moment and I can see in his narrow little eyes exactly how much he dislikes me. I don’t know why that is. Or wait—maybe I do.
I read an article awhile back about how scientists put men into a functional MRI scanner and took pictures of their brains while they showed them pictures of the opposite sex. Guess what part of the brain lit up for men when they saw a woman they considered “fat” or “unattractive.” That’s right—it was the part responsible for irritation and annoyance.
They proved that men actually get angry when they see a woman they think is ugly. (I’m not kidding—this is true. It was a real study with real results.)
Is that what’s going on here? Does Mr. Philbens hate me because I’m not his type—because I’m a size twenty instead of a size two? Who knows. But it’s a definite fact that my manager has never liked me and I can tell he’d be more than happy to fire me if he got the chance.
So I can’t give him the chance.
“Fine,” I say at last. “I’ll take the test but I’m still offended.”
“Duly noted,” he says stiffly. “Now this gentleman here will be taking a sample of your blood so we can hopefully clear your name and get you back to work.”
“A blood test?” I frown. “But I thought mandatory drug testing was a urine test. Don’t I need to pee in a cup or something?”
“Well, pretty lady, if you want to give me a sample of piss, I’ll take it, so I will. The piss of a Curvy Queen is liquid gold—useful in potions and the like.” The man in the lab coat speaks rapidly, grinning as he does. His amber eyes flash strangely. Does he have slitted pupils like a cat? Surely not. And what the Hell is he talking about?
“I’m sorry—what?” I ask, staring at him blankly. “Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m nothing but a lowly lab tech, my lady.” He ducks his head and the grin slides off his narrow face.
His eyes look normal again but his speech patterns are strange. He sounds like he’s from another country. Ireland maybe? Or Scotland? But even if he didn’t speak like a Leprechaun, calling urine “liquid gold” is really weird and creepy.
“Mr. Whistler here has been sent by the lab company to take your blood,” Mr. Philbens says grimly. “Please roll up your sleeve, Miss Carter.”
There doesn’t seem to be anything else I can do. Feeling sure this must be some big misunderstanding, I unbutton the sleeve of my blue silk shirt and roll it up past my elbow. I hold out my arm to the lab tech and watch as he fumbles in his kit for an alcohol swab.