Page 8 of Fangs with Benefits

I know ‘password’–that term is not foreign to me. It’s not uncommon to have to share a word or phrase to gain entrance to vampiric establishments. Dylan told me I was supposed to have a password on my phone, but having even one more barrier of entry would mean I would likely never use the device, so we forwent the endeavour.

‘Pumpernickel,’ I recite, and she stares blankly at me. ‘The password. I choose pumpernickel.’

‘Oh, I–no, you’re not supposed to tell me. It’s a misconception that IT knows everyone’s passwords.’

‘I keep it to myself? What if I forget?’

Molly clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and leans back in the chair. It rocks slightly, but she doesn’t seem discomfited by it.

‘I mean, do you often forget your passwords? You don’t have a password manager on your phone?’

‘I do,’ I lie. I have never met a password manager, much less kept one on retainer in my phone. ‘All right, I’ve got one in mind then.’

I determine mahogany to be my new password, but I do not say it out loud. I sit back in my own chair and await the next instructions.

Molly pinches the top of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. ‘You have to type it in.’

‘Ah.’ I sit forward, then survey the keys, clicking each, but when I look to the screen to see if I’ve done it correctly, the letters I’ve typed display only as little circles. ‘Have I done it wrong? I can’t read it.’

‘No, it’s–that’s normal.’ Molly props an elbow in the arm rest and her head on top of her fist. She looks tired, like how I feel after too much exposure to the sun. ‘While you get your password sorted, I’ll get us something to drink. Do you want tea, coffee, or lukewarm water?’

She stands, and as she does, I can’t help but notice again how exceptional she smells. It’s distracting. I think I’d enjoy pressing my nose right into her hair and taking a long breath. This, of course, would get me removed from the premises which would mean janitorial nights for my foreseeable future.

‘No thank you.’ She looks like I’ve said something incorrect again. I gesture towards the metal bottle. ‘I’ve got my own.’

Tea, coffee, water, blood–they’re not so different in their ways. They all provide some sort of hydration. Molly leaves without saying anything else, and I slowly track her progress through the open door as she goes first to Devi’s desk and leans across it to whisper something to the woman. She’s just far enough away that I can’t make it out, but eavesdropping is a nasty habit anyway. They both turn to look at me, so I quickly avert my eyes.

I sort out the password after a series of errors. First, the hidden words don’t match one line to another. Then, when I repeat the process, they do match, but it’s needful that there be a number. Then, once I’ve added a four to the end, the system alerts me that there’s no special symbol. I add a comma and, at last, the computer chimes that it’s accepted my password before the screen moves to another screen, this one with many words and rotating photos. I decide to wait for Molly before I attempt to progress further.

She returns six minutes later with a black mug, which she sets down on the desk atop a sticky note. It’s the perfect size to sit beneath it, so much so that I wonder if it is one of the sticky note’s intended utilities.

She pulls open the same drawer as before, retrieving a notebook that she hands to me. It’s empty beneath the cover, which reads drummond innovation. Her hands look soft with long fingers and plum-coloured nails. When I shook her hand, it was warm, full of life.

‘Okay, this is going to be a fire hose of information, so you’ll want to take a bunch of notes.’

‘Right.’

She sips from her steaming mug, then sits back down on the moving chair. I am impressed again that she has no issue with keeping the seat stable.

Molly spends the next hour showing me one thing after the next on the computer, typing and talking faster than I can really keep up with, especially when she’s using words like scrum, sprints, support tickets, order fulfilment, and parcel tracking.

I take as detailed notes as I can and circle the words I’d like to ask Dylan about later. There are many of them.

It’s an incredible amount of information, and when she tells me it’s time to stop for lunch, she reports that we’re only about 30 per cent through the topics she thought we’d be able to cover today.

I recognise with a sinking in my stomach that it’s in my best interest if I quit this job. I cannot imagine ever learning the information enough to be adequate, much less proficient. I had to compel the hiring manager to let me in, and if I want to stay, I’m going to have to compel everyone in the building to keep believing I’m qualified for this position.

Not for the first time since moving here, I am forced to ask, What have I done?

My days in my estate were quieter, simpler. No computers, no metal bottles full of tepid blood. I had a library card for the town over, a DVD player and a box set of all seasons of Sex and the City, among other things. Now I have no money, no bed to lounge upon, only the lumpy couch in Dylan’s studio apartment and his goodwill.

I need this job, and in this, I need Molly’s help. Desperately.

‘You are very good at all of this. It’s been a long time since I started somewhere new.’ I tap my pen against the pad. ‘It’s difficult, starting over.’

Her lips part, and it’s like I can see her thinking. I admire this, giving thought before speaking. She blinks and looks away from me.

‘Well, you won’t be new forever.’