“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.
