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Despite it, despite all the warning bells going off in my head telling me not to provoke her, I can’t stop myself from hissing, “I amnotyour mate. I’m not any of your mates.”
The laughter cuts off, making my blood run cold. “Those bite marks on your body say different, bitch. No matter what you say, you’re ours.”
The noises around the office–the clicking of fingers on keyboards and the thrum of conversation–filter in like noise underwater. But I raise my head from the floor, and my eyes unfocus enough that I lock eyes with Houston in reception. My face must give me away because he stands from his seat and walks through the glass doors separating reception from the rest of the floor, making his way toward me at a brisk pace. Almost a run.
“You think that security guard will be able to save you? As if we’d actually be discouraged by a group of disgraced rent-a-cops. You’ll be back in our house soon, darling. And you’ll bear your punishment in silence.” With that parting line, the call drops just as Houston takes the phone from my hand. Numbly, I let him, not putting up an ounce of fight.
On par with his persona, he doesn’t say a word. Just listens through the receiver for a second, sighs, and then hangs up and looks at me for an explanation. Quickly, I explain what she said, and he nods when I’ve finished.
“I’ll make some calls to a few tech friends we’ve got. See if there is a way to trace a call after it’s been made. We may not have any luck, though. I’ll also have them look into the security cameras in the office. They must have found a way to tap into one. There’s no other way she would have seen me coming. This floor is secure. So just go about the rest of your day like it didn’t happen. I’ll let you know what I hear.” Then he pivots and walks back to reception, phone already at his ear by the time he reaches his chair again.
Go about my day.
As if. There is no way I’m eating at my desk now. I go to grab my lunch box and stop when I see how badly my hand is shaking. I squeeze them both into tight fists to stop the trembling, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. When I’m somewhat back in control, and the nerves are no longer shooting through my body at a rapid pace, I snatch my lunchbox and head to a break room.
The first one is full, as I expected. The other assistants are all gathered around the two tables, whispering and laughing without a care in the world. I hustle on through the mostly empty hallway until I come to the second break room. It’s at the end of the floor where there aren’t a lot of cubicles. So, when I get there, one table is occupied by a few men I recognize from the IT department, but the other is open. I settle in an empty seat and pull out the contents that Brooklyn was sweet enough to pack for me. She said she woke up really early–on account of sleeping on the couch–and made chili for all of us to take today. They’re all eating packed lunches for the time being, as well.
In solidarity.
I tried to tell them it was sweet but not necessary. They insisted. But as I pull off the lid to my thermos and take a bite, I hardly register the stinging heat or the savory flavors. The chili tastes like little more than ash on my tongue.
* * *
I’m just finishing my lunch when I see Jerrick walk past the doorway of the break room. I pack my things and follow after him back to my desk. Confusion ripples through me when I see him open his office, grab his backpack, and walk right back out, shutting the door behind him again.
“Oh. Hey, Summer. Great. I caught you.” I set my things on my desktop.
“Are you heading back out? I didn’t see any meetings on your schedule this afternoon.” I chew my lip, worried I missed something.
He chuckles. “No, I didn’t have anything on the schedule. I’m taking a personal day for the rest of the afternoon. Something came up. But Brandon said he’s dipping into Doherty’s manuscript when he gets back from lunch. So you can head to his office and shadow him the rest of the day. Cool?”
Hope fills my chest. “What about your phones?” If I didn’t have to worry about every incoming call the rest of the day, stressing that every call would be Jade on the other line. Or Connor or Brody. It would be a huge boon.
Jerrick shrugs. “Let ‘em go to voicemail. If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”
Thank the Goddess.
A genuine smile flits across my lips for a moment. There and gone, but there nonetheless. “Oh, there’s Brandon now. Give him a second to get settled, and then you can head over. See you tomorrow.” And with that, he’s walking toward reception. Houston sees Jerrick leave again and gives me a once-over. Probably seeing if I’m about to pack up and leave, too. Instead, I put my lunchbox back in the bottom drawer and grab a notebook and pencil to take notes. After twiddling my thumbs for a few more minutes, I head to Brandon’s office.
“Perfect timing, I was about to come find you,” Brandon says as I knock on his open door and poke my head in. “Come in. Pull that seat around.” He points to one of the two chairs facing the front of his desk. Large, heavy wooden chairs. I set my notepad on his desk and use both hands to drag the chair around his desk. Thank the Goddess for carpeted floors because I cannot lift this chair with my abysmal upper body strength. The noise it would make on tiled floors would be like nails on a chalkboard.
After a minute of struggling, none of which Brandon notices, I breathe out through my nose to try to catch my breath without him noticing how out of shape I am. An alpha, with their heightened sense of smell and sound, may have noticed my labored breathing or smelled the sheen of sweat that broke out on my upper lip. But Brandon is a beta, and one very uninterested in anything outside of his computer. Thanks to small mercies.
“Okay, here is Dillon’s manuscript. I’ve already started making some notes here in the margins,” he says, pointing to the screen at the tiny red print off to the side of the document. I lean in to get a closer look to see what it says and pull back immediately. His scent is awful. Not like body odor or in any way that suggests he’s bad at grooming. But sour. Overly pungent, that may be pleasant to some, but it makes the hairs in my nose burn.
Great.
Looks like I’ll be breathing out of my mouth for the next four hours. Brandon looks back at me, completely oblivious to my newly nauseous state, and smiles. He’s not an unattractive male. His features are symmetrical, facial hair kempt, straight white teeth, and kind brown eyes. All things that someone may be attracted to, but I can’t get past his scent. I lean all the way back in my chair subtly. It helps a little.
“Okay, it may be useful to hear where you’re at with structural editing. What do you know?”
Heat singes my cheeks. Will he not want to teach me when he hears how little I know? For a second, I contemplate telling a little white lie and exaggerating what I know. But then what if he asks me to explain or expects me to be able to do the work? Instead, I go with honesty.
“Nothing. This is my first job in the publishing world, and I don’t have any kind of editing experience at all.” He must see the fear in my eyes because he gives me a reassuring grin.
“That’s okay. From the beginning, then. Crash course.” He slaps his knees and spins his chair around to face me fully, ignoring his computer for now. “Basically, a structural editor is concerned with the overall structure and organization of a piece of writing.” When I nod, he continues, holding up a finger with each point he makes. “They make sure there is a consistent voice throughout the piece, they look at the language as a whole to make sure the voice is the same start to finish, pay attention to character development–namely that there is some and it makes sense to the story–and pay attention to the tone and style of the content.”
So far, so good. Simply reading all my life has given me at least some basic knowledge so I can keep up with him. I jot down a few key words on my notepad. When I look back up, he gives me a kind smile and goes on.
