Me:I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run off this morning.
I stare at the phone, waiting for them to reply, even though I know it’s likely they’re asleep. My time with the Outlaws showed me that bikers tend to prefer a more nocturnal lifestyle. It takes me about twenty minutes to go through all the opening procedures. Turning on lights, opening blinds, checking voicemails and emails. Making sure the vets are properly scheduled for the day.
When I’m done, I check my phone again. No response. But why would there be? It’s too early.
“Isla,” Noah says, walking through the door.
His voice makes me jump, and I fumble putting my phone back into my purse.
“Noah. I thought your shift didn’t start until noon today.”
“It doesn’t.” He offers me one of two coffee cups in his hand. “I noticed you liked vanilla lattes. Thought you might like one this morning while I was getting one for myself.”
I glance at the cup, for a second, like it’s poison. For all I know, he put something in it. But then, the others should be here within the next half hour.
Still, that’s long enough to do something questionable.
I force myself to take a breath. To take a second. I’m being unreasonable…not to be wary of Noah, which I am. But the chances of his drugging my coffee when the rest of the staff is due here, at a practice he loves working at, is ridiculous. Yet, I don’t want him to think I owe him something in exchange.
“Thank you, Noah. But I already had plenty of caffeine this morning.”
He looks down at the cup, then back to me. For a second, I see a sliver of anger. Just a flash in the set of his thin lips. “I’m trying really hard here.”
Five words that tell me he isn’t getting the hint. Five words that tell me the flags about him are getting redder.
“Noah. We work together. For that reason alone, you and I will never be more than colleagues.”
It’s blunt. Maybe too direct. But it’s not personal. I would have the same rule for any person.
He bites back whatever he’s about to say and looks up at the clock on the wall. I can see the tic in the side of his jaw as he grinds his teeth. “We’ve been considering making cuts.”
“What?” Surely he isn’t suggesting what I think he’s suggesting.
“Yes, we need to make some cuts to hit budget. Supplies. Medication. Staff.”
My jaw opens. “Are you saying you’ll fire me if I don’t accept your coffee and all the strings that go along with it?”
He looks back at me and raises an eyebrow. “Not really. It would help, though, wouldn’t it, if we weren’t just colleagues? I could put in a good word. Make a case that you’re more effective than Miriam.”
Miriam, who’s struggling with some health issues and asked if her hours could be reduced, temporarily. Miriam, who can’t afford to simply take all the time off she needs because, without the income, she would be homeless, and without the health insurance, she wouldn’t be able to get better.
I shake my head but put my hand on my phone, in case I need it. “No. This whole conversation is making me feel uncomfortable. I’d like you to respect professional boundaries in the workplace.”
Noah chuckles. “Professional boundaries? I once went to a party at the Outlaws clubhouse. My cousin wanted to prospect for the club. Guess you were too busy fucking that biker, who comes in sometimes with Bones, to notice. So, don’t talk to me about boundaries when I know you don’t have any.”
Every bit of happiness and safety I’ve been accumulating crumbles in my gut like rotten cement. My breathing becomes shallow. It’s all I can manage.
Denials form in my head but never make it past my throat. That he must be mistaken. That I was never there. That I wouldn’t do such a thing.
“You looked good on that pool table,” Noah says, and I can’t tell whether the thought disgusts or arouses him. “I wantthatIsla. The one who plays the prim and proper receptionist during the day but knows how to fuck a man at night.”
There are too many accurate descriptions for him to be making it up. Tears sting my eyes, and I try to fight them back, but I find myself swiping one away, anyway.
He takes a step closer to me, the counter I stand behind still between us. But he reaches out to touch the ends of my braided hair.
Make a decision, Isla.
I can’t decide whether to run behind me to the overnight stay area or try to get past him to the door, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I swear I hear the click of a door opening. Should I scream?
