Chapter 1 Jules
Jules
JULIE “JULES” CARTER — Accountant at Sutherland and Sons
I’m at work when I feel that itching between my shoulder blades again—that feeling like someone is watching me.
I look around the office, trying to see who it is. Is that creepy Donald Pugh trying to stare down my blouse or up my skirt again? He’s a senior accountant who works on the same floor as me and he’s always sneaking around, trying to get his clammy hands on me.
I tried complaining to HR after the last Christmas party when he got drunk and grabbed my ass, but I was brushed off.
The head of HR—who is a man, by the way—hinted that I ought to be happy about the situation.
Apparently, the fact that I’m “plus-sized” as he put it, should make me desperate enough to welcome male attention from anyone—even a creep like Donald Pugh. Ugh.
If you’re wondering why I didn’t quit on the spot, well, have you seen the economy lately?
The job market is so tight everyone is afraid to breathe wrong for fear of losing their position.
And since everything keeps going up—except wages of course—I literally can’t afford to be offended.
So I’m just watching my back now and making damn sure I’m never alone with my creepy coworker.
But it’s not Donald—in fact, I don’t see anyone watching me at all.
Everyone has their heads down, focusing on work.
You have to look busy all the time here at S&S—it’s one of the worst parts of the job.
If you take a minute too long in the break room pouring a cup of coffee, or dare to linger in the hall chatting with a coworker, the department manager, Mr. Philbens, will pop up and start talking about “stealing time from the company.” It’s enough to make you want to scream.
I put my head back down, staring at the spreadsheet on my computer screen. I have to concentrate—I need to get this done so I can leave on time tonight. I have plans. No, not a date. I’m a curvy girl which makes me invisible to most men—other than pervs like Donald.
But I don’t give a damn—I don’t need a man to be happy. And I’m not going to give up everything I love and starve myself to try and catch one either. True love can pass me by for all I care—I have Mr. Mittens, my cat. He’s as much male company as I’ll ever need.
I bury myself in the numbers—I’ve always been good at math. I’d be a senior accountant myself if it wasn’t for the glass ceiling here at Sutherland and Sons. Actually, it’s more of a stone ceiling. There aren’t any women in the management here at all—not even one. If they would just—
My thoughts are interrupted by a tap on my shoulder.
I look up to see Mr. Philbens, my manager, glaring down at me.
He’s a small, prissy man with short grey hair and reading glasses that always sit perched on the far end of his knobbly nose.
I’ve been waiting for years to see them fall off but so far, they never have.
My stomach tightens like a fist as the look on his face. What can he possibly have to complain about? I’m doing my work—not chatting in the break room or taking too long to do my “lady business” in the bathroom as he calls it. So what is it?
“Yes, Mr. Philbens?” I ask, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes.
“Miss Carter, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come with me,” he says and the tone in his voice makes it clear I’m in trouble.
I scramble up from my desk, made clumsy by fear. If I lose this job I won’t be able to pay rent and I’ll have to beg to sleep on someone’s couch. I can’t do that.
“What’s this about?” I ask in a low voice as he leads me through the maze of desks. At S&S we have an “open concept office” which means all the desks are out in the open and nobody gets any privacy. I used to work at a place with cubicles and I loathed them. Now I wish for one desperately.
As we walk, I can feel all eyes on me. I glance around and sure enough, my coworkers are casting surreptitious glances as Mr. Philbens leads me on the walk of shame that leads to his office.
Nothing good ever happens when he calls you into a private meeting.
It’s always a warning or a reprimand or—worst of all—“a termination,” which is what they call it when you get fired around here.
“Mr. Philbens?” I ask again, since he didn’t answer me the first time.
He shoots me a reproving look.
“You’ll see in just a moment. This way, please.”
We’ve reached his office—it has glass walls covered in blinds which are always kept open, so the department manager can keep an eye on all of us without leaving his desk.
This time the blinds are closed.
Philbens pushes open the door and nods me through.
I step into his office and see it’s already occupied.
Standing by his desk is a man in a white lab coat that hangs off his skinny frame.
He has long brown hair with streaks of silver in it and when he looks up at me, his eyes are a strange shade of amber I’ve never seen before.
“Uh…Mr. Philbens?” I ask as he closes the door behind us. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is that you’ve been accused of using drugs,” he snaps. “Which means you’ll need to take a test.” He’s frowning in a way that tells me that, in his mind at least, I’m already guilty.
“Drugs?” I stare at him blankly. I tried taking an “adult gummy” once with some friends but it didn’t calm me down a bit.
In fact, it made me feel nervous and paranoid and my heart pounded so hard I thought I was having a panic attack.
That was years ago and I’ve never tried anything like it since.
I should have known better—almost all medication has the opposite of its intended effect on me.
But knowing that makes this even more absurd.
“Who accused me?” I demand, frowning at my manager. “I don’t take anything at all—not even aspirin or ibuprofen.” Neither pain reliever does much of anything for me, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Mr. Philbens purses his lips in that prissy way he has.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss who made the accusation. Sufficient to say that management considered it credible.”
By “management” I know he means himself. He’s never liked me—I’m not subservient enough.
“Why would you consider it credible?” I demand, putting a hand on my hip. “Have I been exhibiting any kind of strange behavior at work that would lead you to believe I’m on drugs?”
“Well—” he begins…and then trails off. Because there’s nothing to say. I’m not some flighty young thing who goes out drinking and dancing and drugging at clubs every night. I’m thirty-two and I like to be home in bed with a book by nine every night. Ten at the latest.
“That’s right—you haven’t,” I say, answering my own question. “Because there is no strange behavior. I’m a competent, reliable employee who never calls in sick or makes trouble. So I find your willingness to believe I’m suddenly on drugs extremely offensive.”
For a moment, Mr. Philbens looks taken aback—I really have him on the hind foot, as my Grandma would have said. Then he straightens up and clears his throat.
“Be that as it may, the accusation has been made and we have to follow through with it. When you came to work at Sutherland and Sons, you signed an employment contract agreeing to mandatory drug testing at any time,” he says.
“Now, are you going to allow the testing or are you leaving us today? And I promise you, Miss Carter, if you leave it will not be with any kind of reference or recommendation from me!”
We stand there glaring at each other for a moment and I can see in his narrow little eyes exactly how much he dislikes me. I don’t know why that is. Or wait—maybe I do.
I read an article awhile back about how scientists put men into a functional MRI scanner and took pictures of their brains while they showed them pictures of the opposite sex.
Guess what part of the brain lit up for men when they saw a woman they considered “fat” or “unattractive.” That’s right—it was the part responsible for irritation and annoyance.
They proved that men actually get angry when they see a woman they think is ugly. (I’m not kidding—this is true. It was a real study with real results.)
Is that what’s going on here? Does Mr. Philbens hate me because I’m not his type—because I’m a size twenty instead of a size two? Who knows. But it’s a definite fact that my manager has never liked me and I can tell he’d be more than happy to fire me if he got the chance.
So I can’t give him the chance.
“Fine,” I say at last. “I’ll take the test but I’m still offended.”
“Duly noted,” he says stiffly. “Now this gentleman here will be taking a sample of your blood so we can hopefully clear your name and get you back to work.”
“A blood test?” I frown. “But I thought mandatory drug testing was a urine test. Don’t I need to pee in a cup or something?”
“Well, pretty lady, if you want to give me a sample of piss, I’ll take it, so I will.
The piss of a Curvy Queen is liquid gold—useful in potions and the like.
” The man in the lab coat speaks rapidly, grinning as he does.
His amber eyes flash strangely. Does he have slitted pupils like a cat?
Surely not. And what the Hell is he talking about?
“I’m sorry—what?” I ask, staring at him blankly. “Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m nothing but a lowly lab tech, my lady.” He ducks his head and the grin slides off his narrow face.
His eyes look normal again but his speech patterns are strange. He sounds like he’s from another country. Ireland maybe? Or Scotland? But even if he didn’t speak like a Leprechaun, calling urine “liquid gold” is really weird and creepy.
“Mr. Whistler here has been sent by the lab company to take your blood,” Mr. Philbens says grimly. “Please roll up your sleeve, Miss Carter.”
There doesn’t seem to be anything else I can do. Feeling sure this must be some big misunderstanding, I unbutton the sleeve of my blue silk shirt and roll it up past my elbow. I hold out my arm to the lab tech and watch as he fumbles in his kit for an alcohol swab.
He tears it open and swipes it over the blue veins visible under my pale skin.
I have one of those complexions where I’m either pasty white or burning red if I spend too much time in the sun.
Since I don’t want skin cancer, I choose pasty white.
It’s really inconvenient, considering that I live in Florida.
The tech doesn’t even ask if I’d like to sit down before he pulls out a needle and stabs it into my arm.
“Ouch!” I exclaim, but the blood is already flowing into the vial he hooked to the tubing. It’s a big vial too—how much do they need to know I’m not some kind of a junkie?
“Such pretty veins,” he mutters to himself as we both watch the vial fill. “Good producer too—look at that flow! No wonder the Head Fanger wants you all to himself.”
“Excuse me? What are you talking about?” I demand.
He only shakes his head, his long, brown and silver hair whipping around his thin face.
“Nothing, nothing. Whistler likes to talk to himself sometimes, that’s all. Ah look at that—almost full already!”
“You’re taking an awful lot,” I protest as he watches the crimson liquid flow into his oversized vial.
I hope I won’t be dizzy after this. I fainted the last time I gave blood at a blood drive, but that was because I filled the bag so fast and they were taking so much.
Also, I hadn’t eaten beforehand, which you’re supposed to do.
It’s been a long time since lunch though and I only had half a ham sandwich and a small apple. I’ve been saving my appetite for tonight.
“There we are, there we are.” The strange lab tech called “Whistler” finally pulls the needle out of my arm. He slaps a bandage on the small wound and then tucks the oversized vial of my blood into a small cooler he apparently brought for the purpose.
“That’s all then?” Mr. Philbens sounds disappointed—like maybe he was hoping the tech would drain me completely dry. “When will we know?” he asks the tech.
“Oh, by and by.” Whistler waves one bony hand vaguely. “My people will get in touch with your people. We’ll let you know.”
“Yes, but when?” Mr. Philbens demands. “I can’t let her go back to work until I’m certain she’s drug free!”
“Soon…soon,” he promises. “We’ll be in touch. Now, I must go.”
“But—“ my manager begins.
But the lab tech is already out the door, the cooler tucked securely under his arm. Mr. Philbens is left standing there, staring after him as though he doesn’t know what to do.
I’m not sure what to do either.
“Mr. Philbens, are you saying that I can’t work until you get the results of that test?” I demand, turning to him. “Because that was the shadiest lab tech I’ve ever seen. What company does he even work for?”
“Er…he didn’t say.” Mr. Philbens clears his throat. “I suppose you may return to work for the present, but don’t get too comfortable. If we get confirmation that you’re using illegal substances—”
“I’m not,” I say flatly, cutting him off. “And I’d still like to know who made this ridiculous accusation in the first place? Was it Donald? Is he trying to get back at me for reporting him to HR when he grabbed my ass at the Christmas party?”
Mr. Philbens stiffens.
“I told you, I’m not at liberty to say. Now go back to your desk.”
I know when I’m being dismissed. I give him a final look—a look that tells him exactly what I think of him, even though I can’t say it out loud—and push my way out of his office.
What a dick. He probably scheduled the drug test himself just to hassle me.
I have no idea how wrong I am…but I’m going to find out soon.