Page 4 of Kidnapped By The Messy Dragon

“I don’t want the story.” She lifts the carrier from my hand and scowls at the middle cup, where coffee has crept out under the lid and ringed the cardboard. “And this is a mess. Deliver cleaner cups next time.”

You try running in front-office heels.

I nod. “I’ll do that.”

“Get to work.” She’s already turning to her monitor. “I’ll call when it’s time for the intercept.”

I head for records with empty hands, and my breathing evens out somewhere past the copy room.

Records is quiet, and that suits me. I drop into my chair and work my heels half off under the desk.

I’ve barely sat still when Renee comes around the shelving with a box that takes both of her arms. She sets it in front of me with a thump.

“Intake overflow,” she says. “All yours.”

Renee is the only person in this building I’d call a friend. She wears gold hoops, long braids pinned up off her neck, and reading glasses that live on top of her head. She’s the one who showed me where the good vending machine is.

I frown at the box. Running Whitney’s errands is full-time, and so is the job I was actually hired for. My review doesn’t grade on a curve. A year of this place is draining the life out of me, and it still pays better than anything else I found. So the box stays mine.

“Before you wear that frown all day,” Renee says, “I already cleared the top half for you.”

I wipe the sweat off my forehead and mouth a thank-you.

“Bar after work?” she asks, backing toward her desk.

“Sure,” I say. “If I don’t pass out first.”

Renee laughs. “Dinner’s on me tonight.” She sits back down and picks up her typing where she left it.

I give myself a little while longer in the chair. Then I stand and get my thumbs under the box lid.

My work phone rings before it comes off. The display says WHITNEY.

I flop back into my chair and stare at the ceiling while it rings. Then I grab it, because sending Whitney to voicemail is how careers end at Stillwater.

“The lunch order is placed,” Whitney says instead of hello. “Pickup is at Marcelline’s in two hours. After that you’ll do the intercept. Don’t be late for either.”

“What about my desk duties?” I ask. “The box that just?—”

“Not my problem.” The line clicks off.

“Bitch,” I mutter at the dead receiver.

Then I move. Renee’s half is already sorted, so I work mine standing up, vendor files in one stack, shipping manifests in another, personnel to the locked cabinet. My hands find the rhythm fast, and my feet complain in their heels. The box gives up its last folder with time to spare.

I earn myself a bathroom break before the pickup. At the sink, the soap dispenser is new, a white pump with the Stillwater name across it and a quieter clean printed underneath in small letters. I didn’t know we made hand soap.

I pump some into my palm and hold it to my nose. It has no smell at all.

What the hell is this?

I’d better not have an allergic reaction to it. I wash my hands with it anyway, and it rinses away quick and clean, like it was never there. I check my bun in the mirror, tuck one edge back down, and go collect Whitney’s lunch.

Marcelline’s is four blocks of wind and cobblestone, and the bag they hand me is heavy enough to be feeding six. The bakery next door has a new sticker in the window, a red circle stamped over a wolf silhouette. I don’t slow down for it. This town keeps its ugly small and printed, and none of it is my business.

The walk back is where I do my talking.

“Errands on top of errands,” I tell the sidewalk under my breath. “Whitney and Ms. Hale. The nightmares of this whole company. Can’t stand either of them, and neither can anyone else in that building. They just hide it better than me.”