“Can you do that?” he asks when I don’t respond, like I might be dense.
“I can…” I say.
“Great.” He tosses his credit card on my desk. It takes all the strength of my will not to snap at him, to bare my teeth and growl.
Because he clearly lacks basic survival instincts, he adds, “Oh, and make sure you fetch some diet coke while you’re at it. It’s Gary’s favorite.”
With that, he turns on his heels and is gone, leaving me to stare down at the credit card he tossed on my desk.
Fetch? Did this fool really just tell me to fetch some diet coke?
Maybe I’m being sensitive, I think as my blood boils in my veins. Maybe he meant nothing by it. Of course, fetching lunch is not in my job description, and I could just go find the asshole and tell him to get his own damn sandwich, but on the other hand, I wouldn’t mind escaping the building for a bit, getting away from all the prying eyes and whispered gossip I’ve been ignoring all morning.
Sometimes super hearing is a curse as much as it is a blessing.
One guess as to what the hot topic of the day is.
That’s right. Ya girl Harper muthafuckin’ Beauregard making headlines!
Gods, sometimes I hate humans the same as they seem to hate me.
I snatch up the credit card and grab my phone and car keys. Then I’m out the door.
Sweet, sweet freedom.
Riding through the city with my windows down and my radio up, I feel less like an animal in a cage, and more like myself than I have all day.
Here was glass half full for that ass! Instead of getting pissed off (or maybe alongside getting pissed off would be more accurate) I was out of the office, enjoying the summer sun and listening to Shawn Mendez sing his heart out on the radio. Not so bad after all.
I still wasn’t happy about any of the day’s developments, and I may only be a couple years shy of thirty, but I knew enough about existing to know that sometimes one had to find the good in the bad.
Today was one of those days.
I get the sandwiches—and the dumbass diet coke—and head back to the office, glad for the opportunity to get away for a bit. That fleeting happiness evaporates as soon as I reenter the building, food and drinks dangling from my hands in plastic bags.
I feel like a damn idiot. Harper Beauregard: Werewolf and Errand Girl. There was a tagline for you. Ugh.
Just drop off the food and move on with the day, Harp, I tell myself. Who cares what those men think about you? Who cares if you had to “fetch” their food? If you wanted to, you could make a meal out of them.
Right, I tell myself. Damn right.
This was a job, and I needed the money. Throughout the history of capitalism, that very thought has been the driving force in the lives of so many. A little degrading? Maybe, but degrading beats unemployed when a bitch has to eat, ya dig?
I reach the conference room where the men are, including the one who’d come into my cubicle and tossed me his credit card. Without looking at them, I set the bags of food on the table and lay out the spread. While I’m setting out the cups and the drinks, I pick up bits of conversation that I know are not meant for me.
There are six executives in the room (including Mark Humphrey), and they are at the opposite end of where I’m setting up the food, though I can feel their gazes on my back like a touch. With the dimensions of the space, the conversation between two of the men that I pick up really wouldn’t be audible to a human. But to my wolf ears, the words are clear as day.
“A supe,” says Chris Dendler, a tall, thin white man with beady, watchful eyes and strange yellow-orange hair. “You saw the video?”
Jon Sherr, a short, bearded white mine who is fond of suspenders, nods. I don’t see the action, but I can hear it in the movement of the air, even with my back turned away from them.
“Fuckin’ crazy,” Jon mumbles.
“Fuckin’ scary is more like it,” Chris replies. “You really can’t trust anyone nowadays. There’s no way to know what you’re dealing with.” His voice lowers further still. “You see how she disarmed that guy and knocked him out? The way she crushed that gun in her hand? We had a name for that back in our day.”
Jon nods again. “Sure did.”
Together, they say, “Freak.”
I finish what I’m doing and move toward the door. I need to get out of here before I do something I regret.
“I don’t even know if we should eat that food she brought,” I hear Chris say as I slip out.
“Hey, sweetheart!” I hear from within the room.
Keep walking, Harp, I tell myself. Your name is not “sweetheart” so you do not have to respond to that shit.
“Harper!”
That’s Mark Humphrey’s voice calling me back. Fuck. There’s a split second where I consider how much I really need this job.
Then I turn on my heels and poke my head back in, forcing a smile to my lips.
“Yes, Mr. Humphrey?” I say.
Damn if I know how my voice manages to come out normal and not a feral growl. I’m pretty sure my smile is a little toothy, though.
Mr. Humphrey looks at the man who’d sent me on the errand in the first place, who must’ve been the one who’d called out “sweetheart” in an attempt to get my attention.
“Where’s my card?” says the man. “And the receipt?”
I point to the table where I’d laid out the food. Also where I’d left his stupid credit card and receipt.
“Great. Thanks,” he says, and with a flick of his hand, I’m dismissed.
6 1:45 p.m.
And, that, right there,
