"Numbers. Accounting. The boring shit that makes businesses run." She leans forward, elbows on the table. "Steel Kittens needs someone to clean up the paperwork. The last girl who handled it was skimming, and since then it's been a mess. Klutch has been doing what he can, but he's got enough on his plate."
"I—" I hesitate. Accounting wasn't exactly my strong suit in college. But I took a few business classes, learned the basics. And how hard can it be? "I can try. I'm a quick learner."
"Good enough for me." Tawny grins. "I'll talk to Leviathan, get you set up. It'll be nice to have someone competent handling that shit for once."
Something warm blooms in my chest.
It's small—just a chance to do some paperwork—but it feels like a beginning.
A first step toward being something other than a victim.
"Thank you," I say.
"Don't thank me yet." Tawny's grin turns wicked. "Wait until you see the state of those files. You might change your mind."
She wasn't kidding about the files.
Steel Kittens' back office looks like a paper bomb went off.
Receipts stuffed into shoeboxes.
Invoices scattered across every surface.
A filing cabinet with drawers that won't close because they're crammed too full.
And in the center of it all, an ancient desktop computer that wheezes when I turn it on.
"Jesus," I mutter, surveying the chaos.
"Told you." Tawny leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "The girl before you was more interested in stealing than organizing. By the time we figured it out, she'd already done a number on the records."
"How long ago was that?"
"Six months. Maybe seven." She shrugs. "We've been operating on vibes ever since."
I pick up a random receipt, squinting at the faded ink.
It's for a liquor delivery, dated three months ago.
No indication of whether it was ever paid or filed properly.
"This is going to take a while," I say.
"You up for it?"
I look around the office again.
At the mountain of work waiting to be done.
At the opportunity to prove myself, to contribute, to be more than just the Prez's woman hiding in the clubhouse.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm up for it."
I throw myself into the work.
For the next several days, the back office of Steel Kittens becomes my domain.
I sort through every piece of paper, creating systems where none existed, entering data into spreadsheets, reconciling accounts that haven't been balanced in months.
