Taylor raised an eyebrow at Isla. “Sounds thrilling.”
See? Passive-aggressive as shit.
“Speaking of the team,” she said, clicking her fingers and pointing at the door to the report-writing room. “Wendy made cake. Although, we may have already started on it.”
Taylor scratched his chin, giving a thoughtful hum. “Cake, you say?”
They followed Isla into the report-writing room, Taylor’s shark-like smile making a return, so Johnny pinched his arm and whispered, “Normal face, Tay. Normal fucking face.”
Taylor cleared his throat, pressing his lips together as he glanced at him over his shoulder. He swallowed, the bob of his Adam’s apple betraying how nervous he really was.
The report-writing room was fairly standard, with its beech desks, water dispenser and mandatory photograph of the Queen (God rest her soul) tacked wonkily above the photocopier. Therewas an ongoing conspiracy theory in the police that Liz was actually an alpha masking as a beta, becauseno onewas that stoic.
The report-writing room really was no different to West Newton’s, just a hell of a lot tidier.
“Welcome!” someone said as they rounded the corner, and Johnny looked up just in time to have a party popper let off right above his head. Isla sprang forward to brush the colourful strands of crepe paper from his hair before he came face-to-face with a massive hand-painted banner that read ‘WELCOME TO DINGLY HEATH!’
Isla sighed, shaking her head with a smile. “Don’t get too excited. Wendy used the same banner when I started.”
“Don’t say that, Sarge!” said an older beta woman with a mop of shoulder-length grey curls.
Johnny flinched, because the woman was wearing such a thick layer of make-up that she looked simultaneously forty and eighty years old. It was jarring, like when morticians paint a corpse’s lips on to make them look alive. The bright pink eye shadow was totally at odds with her old-style uniform, and it was starting to fuck with Johnny’s brain so he looked at her shoulder instead.
“We added glitter this time,” Wendy continued.
“Youadded glitter,” said a slender man with light brown skin and black hair that flopped over his forehead. He had huge honey coloured eyes and a softness to his face that could have only made him an omega. Pretty, on the taller side, and one hundred percent Taylor’s type.
Isla let out a nervous laugh. “Yes, I know you hate glitter, Amil.”
Johnny ran his tongue over a fang and glanced at Taylor, whose eyes had snapped straight to Amil like a fucking tractor beam.
“Howdy,” Taylor said, popping him a two-finger salute.
Johnny’s fingers twitched, because Taylor was staring, awkwardly so, and Amil responded by crossing his arms and squaring his shoulders. He set his jaw, making his chin jut out.
Johnny liked him already.
Clasping her hands, Isla turned to them. “John-Paul, Taylor, this is Wendy Truelove and Amil Dua. They’re my PCs.”
Amil cleared his throat and drifted towards one of the three computer stations in the room, clearly feeling that he had fulfilled his social obligations and wanting to get back to work. He didn’t look up from behind the monitor, only inclined his head whilst typing. “Go on, then,” he said, fingers like lightning over the keyboard. “How badly did you fuck up?”
Johnny’s mouth clicked open, then closed, then opened again. “It was… professional diff?—”
“Amil!” Isla gasped, gliding over to him. “No one in this office hasfucked up. Major Crime have sent them over to?—”
“Oh, come off it, Sarge. Everyone’s here because they’re on HR’s shit-list. I can smell the gun oil on their vests from here, so they either shot the wrong person or?—”
“Enough!” Isla said, slapping the top of the monitor. Amil withered as though suddenly realising he’d overstepped the mark. “That’s enough, Amil. Jesus Christ.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, waving a hand towards Johnny and Taylor. “Just… come up to my office. We’ll go through your induction pack and then we’ll get you settled in.”
She stomped off towards a set of stairs at the other end of the room, muttering a string of swear words under her breath. Johnny and Taylor looked at one another, shrugged and trailed after her.
“We’ll save you some cake!” Wendy called, but Johnny could already hear utensils scraping across plates.
“Sorry about that,” Isla said as they reached the top of the stairs. The upper floor was about as nondescript as the one below, only it had three empty offices one after another. Isla sighed as she pushed open the door to the one at the end.
There was a canvas print of ocean waves, a mini bonsai tree and a desk-sized water fountain next to a box of stomach tablets and lavender capsules.
She threw the tablets into her desk drawer with an awkward smile.
