Crossing Hathaway

by Adams, Jocelyn

  “That remains to be seen. Go to Richmond’s Grindhouse on the corner. Fetch me a Metropolitan latte, heavy on the whipped cream, two peach biscotti, and a cherry cheese Danish.”

  Brows pressed together, I chuckled and dragged fingers through the end of my ponytail, snagging on a snarl I found halfway down. “I’m sorry, I think you misunderstood me. I’m from the IT department. As in Information Technology. I’m here to do whatever Cameron Jones would have done for you.”

  “I didn’t misunderstand anything, Ms. Russell. Did you get my order, or do I need to speak slower?”

  Fists tightened to beating sticks, I fought to keep frustration off my face, though I didn’t imagine I’d succeeded, judging by the nerve twitching under my eye. “It’s Ms. Ross, Mr. Hathaway, and I—”

  “Perhaps a picture will aid your comprehension.”

  A monitor hummed to life, set into the wall in the upper corner of the room. After a few moments, a typed version of his order appeared on the screen. A storm of curses brewed in my mouth, an impending screw-you stew.

  “Are you capable of remembering all that, or shall I have Brent print you a copy?” Condescending much?

  I unclenched my teeth so I could speak and hoped profanity wouldn’t come spilling out. “Am I to understand that you paged me four times in a period of five minutes because you wanted a coffee and an afternoon snack?” My sarcastic tone left no room to misinterpret my utter dismay.

  “Very good, you can learn. Off with you now. Don’t be long.”

  The monitor blinked off and the door behind me swung open, spilling light into the room.

  I squinted for a moment, blinking at the brightness, muscles tighter than harp strings about to play a shrill tune that could have burst an eardrum. His, to be exact.

  I had shit to do, and he wanted me to get him a coffee? I’m not an effing errand girl!

  I turned and strode past Brent whose mouth gaped open in a large O, continued down the hallway, and hammered the button for the elevator. Five times. Maybe I’d broken it. Oh yeah, that’d be satisfying.

  Greg from quality control stared out at me when the elevator opened. He wore the stunned look he always did, mouth open, sand-brown eyes glazed until his focus landed on me. His back straightened and he ran fingers through his auburn hair, cut short and spiked up.

  Flying fuckballs.

  He’d asked me to go out with him a few days ago and I’d blown him off and bolted out of the copy room as if my ass were on fire and burning hot. If I’d had more time and didn’t have Mr. Hathaway royally screwing me over, I’d have taken the stairs in a heartbeat. I considered jumping out the window, but I didn’t like heights.

  With a deep breath to steady my nerve, I stepped in beside Greg, faced the corner, and inspected my fingernails as we rode down in strained silence.

  At the bottom, the doors had mercy on me and opened, and I stepped out onto the first floor. Greg exited and sped off toward his department. Thank God for small mercies.

  People swarmed the ridiculously large lobby of Hathaway Pharmaceuticals. The ceiling, three stories up, dangled crystal chandeliers the size of Volkswagen Beetles and probably four times as expensive as one. Strips of red carpeting looked like open wounds against the white marble tile, leading from the elevators to the security desk. The clacking of women’s heels joined the chorus of chatting voices. A group of men in tailored suits hung around the reception desk, chatting up the platinum blonde-haired woman who leaned over to give them all a flash of her mountain of boobs. The men all had slicked back hair and fake smiles—the hallmarks of sales reps. Gag me.

  I waded through the crowd, inhaling a jumble of aftershaves and the stench of burned coffee from the lobby’s café. I stopped. Blinked. Swore to myself. There was a café right in the building and he still wanted me to get soaked just to get him a stinking latte? I gave a mental shrug, trying to rein in my temper. Fine, fine, I’d play along with his game for Cam’s sake, but I didn’t have to like it.

  Sheets of rain washed down the glass doors. Wind pushed the downpour sideways for a moment before it came straight down again. I didn’t have time to get my coat so I trooped to the door and stepped into the deluge. Even in the rain a thick smog hung over Toronto’s downtown core. Traffic shuffled in small bits, horns honking and people shouting obscenities to one another as everyone got nowhere fast.

  By the time I made it to Grindhouse three blocks away, rain had soaked my cotton shirt, my black loafers squeaked, and I shivered. My mood didn’t improve when I saw the line of people snaking out the door and down the sidewalk for half a block.

  Shit, people. It’s coffee, not crack.

  Shoulders slumped, I tugged my wet shirt away from my body and stepped into line behind a woman holding the largest umbrella I’d ever seen. Of course, she kept it tilted forward and all to herself as she blathered on into a Bluetooth ear piece for her phone. Traffic ambled by, bumper to bumper, most of the drivers appearing as annoyed as I felt. At least they were dry and didn’t work for a total dick face.

  I peered into a bakery to my right where the smart ones had gone, sipping their coffee at little round tables, all nice and dry and warm. Water dripped into my eye. Nice. The scent of freshly baked breads and pastries drifted out the door each time its little bell announced another customer entering or leaving. Damn, that was heavenly. I found myself leaning toward the entrance, inhaling until I ended up snuffing up a few droplets into my nose and having a coughing fit.

  Mr. Hathaway’s phone buzzed against my thigh. I frowned, still hacking over the water in my nostril.

  Oh, you have got to be shitting me!

  I pulled Satan’s cell from my damp pocket and bent forward to keep the rain off. The text on the screen filled me with an urge to hurl the phone through the window into the bakery: I want my order today, Ms. Russell, and it had better be hot when you return.

  “You pompous, simple-minded, dick-for-brains!”

  The red-haired woman in front of me whirled around and scowled, her umbrella hoisted high above her. Little rivers rolled off the side of it right onto my head.

  I offered her my best evil smile. “Mind not soaking me anymore than I already am, toots?”

  Her lip wrinkled like a cat’s butt-hole—definitely a smoker. She whirled back around, but didn’t move her giant umbrella.

  The rain pelted down harder, bouncing off the sidewalk onto the only dry part of my pants. My fist itched to pound Mr. High and Mighty in the face, though I had to improvise in my fantasy because I had no idea what he looked like. What could be wrong with him that he wouldn’t want anyone to look at him? Images of Quasimodo with a bad case of elephantiasis of the face came to mind.

  Fifteen minutes later, after a marathon round of feet shifting and cracking knuckles, I made it into the building feeling like a cat dropped down a well. A freezing cold one. Ice water dripped from my ponytail onto my back.

  Umbrella-wielding Red Hair stared at the menu forever before she ordered and then changed her mind. Twice. Make that three times. My groan came out a little louder than I’d meant it to and I earned myself another death ray via her stare.

  I tapped my watch along with my foot. The lady, who hadn’t bothered to fold up her umbrella, poked me in the face with it as she paid and stepped aside, muttering something I didn’t bother to listen to.

  “Can I help you?” A young, petite girl I wouldn’t have put over the age of fourteen smiled from behind the counter.

  “Yes, please.” In my mind’s photograph, I summoned the image of Hathaway’s order when it had appeared on the monitor. My photographic memory came in handy now and then. “Can I have a Metropolitan latte, heavy on the whipped cream, two peach biscotti, and a cherry cheese Danish?”

  She raised two sculpted eyebrows at me, her crystal-blue eyes sparkling with humor. “Uh … I’m not sure what a Metropolitan latte is, and we don’t sell peach biscotti or Danishes.” She flashed a sympathetic smile, but the amusement in her expression f
lushed my skin.

  I gripped the edge of the counter until my fingers turned vampire-white.

  Very funny, you bastard.

  What the hell Columbia could I do now? Return empty-handed and look like a fool? Not bloody likely. Turn up with something he didn’t want? Hell no. I stared at the phone, considering who I could call. An idea hit me so hard I flinched. My lips twitched into what felt like a wicked grin. “Do you know Mr. Hathaway? You know, from Hathaway Pharmaceuticals down the street?”

  “Uh … no, sorry.” The girl leaned forward as if encouraging me to recover from my embarrassment.

  “How about his secretary, Brent? He has a blond pageboy cut, like Larry from the Three Stooges, as flaming as they come? Probably wearing alligator shoes.”

  She wrinkled her brow, stared at the counter for a moment, and shook her finger at me. “Yeah, I think I know who you mean. Total prima donna. He wears a pink trench coat and carries a gold Coach shoulder bag.”

  Bingo, baby! “Yep, that sounds like him.” A grin stretched my lips wide. Gotcha, asshole. “Does he usually get two separate orders when he comes?”

  “Yeah.” Her eyebrow arched.

  Bouncing my heel in excitement, I asked, “Does he ask to have one of the coffees wrapped so it stays warm?”

  She grinned. “How did you know that?”

  “Lucky guess. Can you please give me whatever he asks to have wrapped? My boss is kind of—” I circled a finger at my temple and grimaced.

  Laughing, a bright, infectious sound, she pulled a cardboard cup from the dispenser. “Sure thing. A large Mocha latte and four chocolate biscotti, coming right up.” Four? What a pig. Maybe he was four hundred pounds and that’s why he didn’t like anyone gawking at him.

  The girl packed everything into a paper bag stuffed with napkins and then slipped it inside a plastic bag to save it from the rain. I handed her a soggy five and ten dollar bill and told her to pocket the change. She’d saved my ass and deserved every penny.

  Wearing a satisfied smirk, I sprinted back to the office through the cold torrents. Water pooled in my shoes as it drained from the rest of me, but giddiness overrode annoyance. I couldn’t wait to see Hathaway’s face when I plunked his favorite down in front of him. I didn’t care if I wasn’t supposed to look, I was going to do it, anyway.

  I didn’t pause when Brent stood from his desk and made a beeline for me. Holding up the Grindhouse bag for him to see, I opened the door into the small room outside Hathaway’s office. “I have your coffee, Mr. Hathaway.” Rain dripped off my ponytail and pitter-pattered onto the carpet. I tended to agree with Cam’s assessment of it. The way it squished, I imagined it was quite expensive.

  A door squeaked open on the far side of the interrogation room. “Enter.”

  I took a deep breath and headed toward the corner where the voice emanated from. The lighting didn’t improve much beyond the door. The room opened into a large theater layout sloped toward a white wall at the far end. A projector hung from the middle of the ceiling, an Internet browser open to a competitor’s webpage. Some sort of blue pills shone in the upper left corner and a bunch of numbers and scientific jargon dotted the space below it. Sunlight shone around dark blinds along the two side walls of windows. Stairs ascended to the right into complete blackness. A faint hint of cologne lingered in the stale air.

  “Mr. Hathaway?” I shuffled closer to the computer on a desk below the projector, the only piece of equipment I could see in the dim light. Silence pressed on my ears—a soundproof room.

  Oh, balls. Was that so nobody could hear his victims screaming?

  “Set it on the desk.” His voice echoed from the top of the stairs, startling a peep out of me. God, he was a jerk! I shivered, my every instinct begging to search for him and whatever disfigurement he wanted to hide from the world, but I kept them trained on the wall for the time being. I put the bag on the desk, careful to keep the coffee cup upright.

  His footsteps padded down the stairs. My feet carried me back a few steps before I realized what I was doing and stopped. If I gave the guy an inch, he’d never let me work for him. I stared at the giant webpage.

  The bag crinkled, and Mr. Hathaway groaned. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I could make out dark wavy hair, a white dress shirt, and dark pants. “This isn’t what I asked for.” He slammed a hand down on the desk, the sound jolting through me like a thunderclap. “What use are you if you can’t follow a simple coffee order?”

  A growl burned in my throat and I didn’t do a thing to cover it. “I couldn’t buy what they didn’t—”

  “No excuses, Ms. Russell! Now get out of my office. I have work to do, and you’re dripping all over the carpet.”

  I wanted to unleash on him so badly my jaw quivered, but the memory of Cameron’s voice warned me. Despite his terminal geekiness, he’d given me a chance to work in IT when nobody else had, and I didn’t want to get him in trouble. I spun around and sped back through the door, imagining how satisfying it would be to flip Hathaway the bird. “You’re welcome, asshole,” I muttered once I’d made it out of earshot. He hadn’t even bothered to pay me for his crappy coffee. Not that I’d entertain the idea of going back to ask. I wasn’t completely insane.

  When I made it back to my cubicle after drying out what I could in the bathroom, I slouched forward, elbows propped on the desk. The air conditioner turned my wet shirt to ice. Why did I let him get to me so much? Cameron warned me the guy was a dick, but I still wanted to crawl into a hole and hug myself—a new sensation for me. Thank goodness it was Thursday.

  The iPhone buzzed again. I moaned, fished around in the soggy fabric, and held it up to my face in an iron grip: Be at my office first thing tomorrow, Cameron. We have work to do.

  “It couldn’t have been that important, asshole, I was right fucking there, in your office!”

  Employing every scrap of willpower in me, I set the phone on the desk instead of throwing it across the room and stomping on its remains. I picked up my office phone and dialed reception.

  “Reception, this is Carol.”

  “Hey, girl, have you heard from Cameron?”

  “Yeah, he called in a little while ago. Looks as if they’re in for a long night. Rachel’s stuck at one centimeter. He booked some time off so he doesn’t think he’ll be back until Tuesday, maybe Wednesday next week.”

  I palmed my forehead, letting my hand make a slow descent down my face. “Balls, balls, and more balls.”

  Carol cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “Nothing. If he calls in again, can you let him know I want to talk to him? I don’t want to bother him on his cell.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I waited until Carol hung up and slammed the receiver down a few times before I dropped it into its cradle.

  “You all right, dude?” Jeremy asked from behind me in a scared little boy voice.

  I didn’t bother to turn around. “Just ducky, thanks.”

  “Why are you all wet?”

  “Leave it alone, Jer.” A sick sensation swept over me, invaded my stomach, and churned up my peanut butter sandwich. The only man who’d ever done that to me before had been my dad. No amount of willing my body and mind to get over it made the feeling go away.

  “Sure … okay,” Jeremy said. “Payroll’s printer died again, and the new wiring we put in the VP’s office isn’t working. If you’ve got time, I could use the help.”

  I nodded and sighed, ecstatic to have something useful to do. “Yeah, boy howdy, do I have the time.” I stood and pulled my coat over sopping clothes to quiet my shaking, though if I was honest with myself, it had more to do with fury than cold. “Nice to know someone in this company doesn’t think I’m a useless dolt.”

  Without waiting for a response from the geek squad, I headed out the door toward the Payroll department.

  Chapter 3

  The alarm went off way too freakin’ early Friday morning. The incessant honking of cars and
the screeching brakes of busses filled my room with the usual cacophony of noise. My eyelids peeled up one at a time as I stretched the sleep from my bones, grunting with each extension of my arms and legs. The sunrise cast a warm, peach haze through the window of my apartment and painted the bedroom walls in the surreal shades of a dream. For a brief moment of bliss, it was just another day. One filled with regular stupid people and their self-imposed misery in the form of computer issues from forgotten passwords to complete meltdowns.

  My respite ended when Mr. Hathaway’s damn iPhone buzzed on the nightstand.

  Fuckballs.

  I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and checked the clock. 5:15 a.m. Oh, seriously? A.m. and I didn’t get along so well on the best of days. Add an asshole to the mix and it made for a grumpy start to my day. Groaning, I picked up the black devil and flipped it over to the message on the screen: I’m waiting, Cameron. Stop at Grindhouse on your way and bring my usual.

  “Was I talking to myself yesterday?” I shouted at the device, squeezing it and imagining Hathaway’s neck in its place. Moderately satisfying. “Cameron’s not coming in today, you twit.”

  After a brief shower—a cold one at that since it took three years for the hot water to make it to my third-floor apartment—I donned a pair of black dress pants and a white dress shirt with a gold HP embroidered on the left breast. I had a whole closet full of Hathaway Pharmaceuticals shirts, part of a dress code I had no idea why IT had to follow.

  Yeah, let’s put the people who crawl around under desks all day in expensive clothes. Genius at work.

  A half hour later under a cloud-filled sky, I climbed onto the TTC bus and flashed my pass before I plopped down onto the cold seat. The stench of greasy hair, pee, and dirty feet greeted me. Lovely. Did nobody wash before they went out in the morning? Sheesh. Toaster waffles curdled in my stomach and came back to visit a few times.

  Beside me, a tiny, blue-haired woman hunched over a tattered paperback, her thick glasses so close to the page her nose almost touched the book. She grunted and rocked as she read, while I edged away and tried not to let the crazy get to me.