The Werewolf Prince and I (2 page)

I beam up at Tony, all the while crossing my fingers under the desk. Please let him
not
ask about how he’s doing. It’s such a friendship killer.

He returns my smile with an upper curl with his lip. “I forgot to change something in my update.”

Oh. Right. Maybe he’s too busy for a friendly chat. There’s always tomorrow.

I give Tony his papers back.

“Thanks,” he says stiffly a moment later.

I look back at the document, wondering which of his mistakes he’s corrected.

SUPPLIES INVENTORY UPDATE

Four (4)
Five (5) AA batterys

Forteen (14) ballpens (black)

Three (3) AAA batterys

Right.

It’s time for another breathing exercise.

After, I pick up my red-ink pen with a sigh. Tony’s going to hate me even more when he gets his update report back and sees all the red circles, strikethroughs, and text inserts I’m about to make.

God, I’m bored.

12:00 NN

Lunch break in Moretti Inc. is a torture. Outcasts like me eat alone. Taking my lunch bag from the bottom drawer of my table, I lock everything up and quickly leave Cubicle 85 and the rest of
Ze Morgue
behind me before the zombies blast me with their pitying looks again. If they pity me so much, why don’t they just give me a chance and let me have lunch with them?

But of course I know the answer to that. They don’t really pity me. They just plain hate my guts for whatever reason.

Finding a private space to enjoy my peanut butter sandwich and orange juice is never easy. You see, my workplace also happens to be one of the city’s major tourist attractions, thanks to its 18
^th
floor viewing deck, which continues to snap architectural awards left and right.
Veganista
is also located on that floor, a world-renowned restaurant that caters exclusively to human herbivores. It’s always fully booked for months ahead, but twenty of its 200-plus seats are reserved every day for walk-in patrons. The lines for those twenty seats sometimes force me to take the stairs instead.

I take a short trip to the ground floor lobby to see if there are any available spaces on the lounge areas left. There’s none, with every seat occupied by Asian tourists. I smack my forehead. I forgot about that. A memo’s been posted about it since last week, telling us that we’re having busloads of tourists from China for some cultural exchange project Moretti Inc. has with a Beijing company.

Stepping back into the private employees’ elevator, which is surprisingly empty, I swipe my card then punch 5 on the digital keyboard. It’s where the library and records center is, and in the two months I’ve been working here I’ve never bumped into another soul there.

I take out my peanut butter sandwich and start eating. It’s been my favorite since my orphanage days, mostly because we only get to choose between this and rice broth for breakfast. My BFF then, a Chinese girl named Mei Li, was the only one who went for the rice broth. Nothing against it, but my Western mind’s been preconditioned to only have it when I’m burning with fever in bed.

But there’s always a first for everything,
I think moments later with a sinking heart. The good news: there are finally employees than myself who appreciate what 5/F has to offer. The bad news: we don’t appreciate it for the same reasons. I come here for the free books, these two come here for the free --- privacy, I guess? Or so they thought.

In full view from the elevators is Janice Rudely, the glamazon lipstick monster who works as receptionist of
Ze Morgue
. She’s on her knees, head bobbing up and down, like a constantly bowing servant.

Before her is William Grant, the balding octogenarian mid-management executive from 10
^th
floor, pants pooled around his ankles.

Ding-dong.
It’s the elevator, alerting the lovers to the fact that they have a reluctant Peeping Tom in their midst.

Oh, shick.

It’s a word I made up for the twins and me so we don’t end up swearing in front of Nicole and Andy. And if this moment isn’t shicky then I don’t know what is.

I spin back to the elevator, stuffing my half-eaten sandwich into my mouth so I can slam my free hand on the down button.

Sharp fingers dig deep into my shoulder.

SHICK!

Clawed into place, I turn around to face Janice with a weak smile, but she’s clearly less than thrilled to see me.

“
Hello, Janice
.” But the words come out all wrong since I’m speaking with my mouth full.

In the background, I see William Grant hastily tucking his shirt back into his pants, which are still unzipped, revealing a protruding, limp---

I do my best not to gag.

For the love of---

That was so---

Okay, I’m gagging.

“Fuck!” Janice jumps back as I puke out the last bites of my sandwich on the carpet. “God, you’re gross!”

I was gross?
That’s rich, coming from a woman who thinks nothing of---

I gag again.

“You will not tell anyone what you saw.”

I nod in wholehearted agreement. In fact, I’m already wishing I can forget the entire nightmarish episode.

“Swear it,” she screeches.

“I swear,” I mumble, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I take several gulps from my plastic tumbler. Powdered juice has never tasted this great.

“I’ll kill you when I hear one word about this,” she says when I finally force myself to meet her eyes again.

“I already promised I won’t.” If I do, I’d have to recount every second of what happened, including what I saw---

I gag for the tenth time.

Her face has hardened into a stony mask when I recover from my last puke fest. Maintenance will kill me for this.

“One word,” she hisses.

I force myself not to rear back. This woman’s terrifying when she’s mad. She looks like she wants to eat me. The only time I’ve been
this
scared was when the kids had corralled me to watching Paranormal Activity 4 with them.

Her mascara-heavy eyes bore through me. “Not a word.”

“Not a word,” I repeat nevertheless, trying not to sound too fervent as I do.

The elevator’s bell rings again, this time like a boxing referee and it's a draw so far. Janice walks past me and into the elevator head held high.

William follows, but when he reaches my side, he whispers in an oily voice, “Let me know if you want the same thing.”

I rush to the restroom even before the doors close on their faces. There goes the rest of my lunch.

4:35 PM

My phone makes a beep. It’s Nanette, my foster mother.

I need $200. Withdraw on your way home.

OK,
I text back. It’s not like I have a choice. She actually steals Andy’s allowance when I don’t. Andy – who’s five years old and the most adorable boy in the world. In my lowest days, I think of her as a pedophile because she preys on kids as much as pervs – just without the sex. But most time, I try to fool myself with some feel-good Ellen DeGeneres philosophy. Forgive her, for she knows not what she does. Pray for her, so that she may go to Hell.  

There’s another beep. This time it’s from Kevin. He’s three years younger at eighteen and he and Kelly are closest to my age. The orphanage says that the twins are half-American, half-something-European. Apparently, a still-anonymous woman had made the mistake of literally dumping the twins in the arms of a semi-deaf nun. When she took the twins to the orphanage, she couldn’t remember whether the woman had said the twins’ name was Pedro/Pedra or Petro/Petra.

Personally, I think they’re half-Italian, but Nicole insists the twins look half-Greek. Something about their
swarthy
complexions and all that. I’m just three credits away from having my Mass Communication degree, but even I don’t know what swarthy means. Whatever. Kids these days are so nerdy it’s uncool.

Still, it doesn’t really matter either way since the twins don’t give a shick about their lineage – to the point of opting for the Americanized names of Kevin and Kelly when Nanette adopted them.

I tap on the unopened message in my inbox.

Nanette has another.

Shick. Drat. FRACK.

I’m blaming Angelina Jolie for this. It’s
her
fault that Nanette’s turned foster care and adoption into a lifelong business.

I hurriedly text Kevin back.
We’ll fix it later.

4:45 PM

“Misty?” It’s Ed again, but this time he doesn’t look into my eyes. He pulls on his collar, which he has a reason for doing since it’s buttoned all the way up, choking him with the stiffness of its starched fabric.

“Yes?”

“You’re, ahh, asked to go to the CEO’s office at the penthouse.”

My heart stops beating.

Interns don’t get called by the CEO for nothing. The word ‘intern’ isn’t even supposed to
exist
in a CEO’s vocabulary unless---

It’s Janice and William
, I think to myself dully. They hadn’t trusted me to keep my mouth shut so they’ve concocted some wild story to get me fired by the CEO himself. Fracking apeholes. Cunning of them but really – apeholes.

I clear my throat. Maybe Ed’s heard wrong. Maybe it’s Do…Donaldo from 14/F who’s looking for me and not the Big Boss himself. “If you’re really sure,” I say slowly, silently begging him
not
to be sure.

Ed still doesn’t meet my eyes. “I received the call myself,” he mumbles. “He even gave your complete name, Misty,” he adds unhappily.

What the hell did those two apeholes tell the CEO anyway? That I grammatically sabotaged their papers or something? It’s not like I can do anything else.

Ed coughs, drawing my attention back to him. I have a feeling he wants to wish me good luck but doesn’t want to because that means something is wrong. And nothing can be wrong in his happy place.

He’s a good man, really. Nerdy, meek, but a good guy still. I’m secretly terrified I’ll be like him if my life doesn’t change in the next few years.

Wait –

I shouldn’t be terrified. I should be ecstatic. Boring is good. Boring is safe. Boring puts food on the table and doesn’t get called out by the CEO to get royally fired.

Why do you listen to me, God? I’m stupid. I don’t know what I’m asking for. Don’t listen to me again.

The walk to the elevator is like the green mile, and I feel the zombies of
Ze Morgue
grinning behind me. The elevator’s mirrored walls taunt me with my reflection. It’s saying –
you don’t look boring enough
. That should teach me and my big, fat mental mouth.