Page 12 of Reckless Devotion

Pepper:I could kiss you.

Rosie:Thanks, but you’re not my type.

Pepper:Rude.

Rosie:When you grow a ten-inch peen let me know.

Pepper:Yikes.

PEPPER

The Abbot Foundation logo glows back at me from my Mac screen, paired with a rotating timer to let me know the system is loading.

I love that my official, non-hacker, non-illegal, non-espionage job is with a charity that raises millions of dollars a year to help people in need, but I hate that it’s run like a corporate sweatshop. My digital design pipeline is crammed fullof projects that, quite frankly, I could use triple the manpower to get live in time.

The downside is that it’s also non-lucrative, non-relaxing, and sometimes non-fun. My favorite part is the design, when it’s just me buried in brand color swatches and mood boards—that initial creative brainstorming.That’sthe bit I enjoy. Not the strategy planning meetings that follow, or the SEO buzz word research, or the liaising with third-party press. But all that is a necessary evil to raise awareness for collaborations and events that raise money to level out a little of the inequality in our broken social system.

The words on the screen blur together and my attention is snatched away by a soft rustling from the cubicle next to mine. Something that absolutely shouldn’t be distracting, but my brain is screaming for any excuse to stop recounting how I ended up making a deal with the devil. A devil who won’t leave me the heck alone now that he has my phone number. I’m keeping to my side of the deal and investigating for him, but that doesn’t mean I have to speak to him until I have something. Peeking over, I see Jack’s hand stuffed into a bag of Sour Patch Kids.

“Friend tax,” I announce, laying my hand over the top of the partition.

“Check your top drawer, honey,” he drawls as he chucks a child-shaped candy into his mouth, never taking his eyes off his screen.

Blinking down, I slide open my top drawer and there, nestled in amongst the five staplers I’ve hoarded for no other reason than it makes my soul happy, is a bag of my very own.

“What does it say about me that this is the most romantic thing a man has done for me in a long time?” I muse, the packet crinkling as I pluck them out.

“That you date losers.” Jack snorts without hesitation.

I let out a low hum in response, because I can’t say he’s wrong. My policy on dating is simple. If you have any of the following, then you’re out: generational wealth, pinky rings, a watch that costs more than two hundred dollars, a Labrador, you play golf, or you’ve been to one of those big game hunting retreats in Africa. I mean, the last one is out for ethical reasons too. Add to that, if your hobbies on your dating profile include sailing, lacrosse, or hiking. Hiking just because I fucking hate it, but the rest because I do not want a man with even a whiff of money.

This leaves (bad) musicians, chefs, artists, or retail workers. My last boyfriend was a bike messenger called Steve. A nice guy, but so painfully boring and the three bikes racked on his bedroom wall hurt my eyes after a while.

“Pepper, I need you to pick up some double shifts next week.” Brian’s watery eyes appear over the other side of Jack’s cubicle, because walking around to actually speak to me without raising his voice would be too much effort.

“Sorry?” My spine unfurls, peering over the baffle board at my pig of a manager.

Jack shoots me a furtive glance and shuffles a little lower in his seat, trying to hide behind a curtain of shoulder-length golden hair.

“We’ve got a new campaign in the works with Esco Shoes and our sponsors are pushing for the marketing assets to be done, ‘like yesterday.’”

I hear the words, but my brain doesn’t accept them. “No,” I respond slowly, a light frown pulling my brow. “I’ve got paid time off booked next week.”

It’s been an age since Sunny and I got out of the city, and since she’s on break from school next week, I booked a trip to Coney Island to enjoy a few beach days together.

Brian raises one mud-colored brow, accentuating the sheen of light forehead perspiration in the fluorescent glare bleeding down from the strip lights high above. “Says here that we need you to cancel your vacation.” He flaps the sheet of paper in his hand obnoxiously loud, as if that explains everything.

“But that leave was approved months ago,” I splutter, shooting violently to my feet. The accommodation wasn’t cheap and Sunny has been bouncing-off-the-walls excited, spending hours compiling a road trip playlist and researching things for us to do while we’re there.

“Pepper, this comes straight from the top.” He tilts his grey-speckled head in the direction of the large, glass-walled executives office on the floor above, overlooking the bullpen of marketing grunts like royalty to a peasant gallery. Where the CEO pulls at the strings of our fates like a marionette and takes a fat salary while he’s at it. “There arelotsof candidates who would love to have this job, so I suggest you consider that before you make a decision.”

Now do you see why he’s a pig?

I want to tell Big Turd Brian that I would rather have a homeless man’s nut sack nailed to my forehead for life, but I don’t. Instead, I paste a tight smile onto my face that I’m sure looks closer to a grimace, because Ineedto keep this job. “Consider it cancelled.”

Satisfied with my compliance, Brian begins to stalk away, throwing over his shoulder, “Excellent—and loop in with Esther Walker’s people on this, it’s the annual Walker Charity Fashion Show that these shoes are being showcased in.”

My smile drops along with my jaw and anger rips around my bloodstream like a little Pac-Man, eating up the anticipation and excitement for the doomed trip. Replacing it with another healthy dollop of bitter resentment for the egotistical ass thathappens to be Esther Walker’s son. The son who’s been blowing my phone up all day.