It’s as stimulating as you’d imagine.

Day of Employment:

377

3:33 a.m.

“NOOOOOOOO…”

Huh? Huh—What the—? Oh. Oh, shit. It is me.

I haven’t had this many nightmares in a while.

They seem to be stress-induced. Occurring more frequently now. Go figure.

In my youth they happened all the time. Always different, but with one important element often the same: Mr. Lincoln.

Dude is scary. Just picture him out in a field, stoic eyes and stovepipe hat, staring. Shudder.

Tonight he was in the closet. Not like that. Waiting. Breathing. Getting beard hairs on all my borrowed business clothes.

Then Abe made his presence known. Dumped thousands of pennies on me. Drank all Canon’s coffee.

Yeah, I’m messed up. Other people get nightmares with mangy-furred werewolves tearing the shingles from their roof. I’m terrorized by Abraham Fucking Lincoln.

No point in trying to go back to sleep. I hit the fitness center.

7:00 a.m.

*

Clothes

: Black pantsuit.

*

Canon

: Dressed. Foiled again.

NOT GOING IN EARLY TODAY. He says there’s no point if they’re expecting it.

Worrisome. He may be beginning to make sense to me.

“I will need those figures from corporate.” He’s straightening his tie in the mirror.

“They’re in your email as well as hardcopies in my case.”

The tie is not cooperating. “They don’t do me any good in your case.”

I bite my tongue and pull the stack of papers out for him. It’s not really a stack so much as a ream.

It hits the desk with a thud. Help yourself. Might wanna bend at the knees when you lift it.

The sound draws him away from his battle with the rabbit and its hole. He looks like he’s about to say something but then thinks better of it. He yanks the tie free in frustration.

Wordlessly I step around the desk and hold my hands out, offering to tie it. He pulls his head back slightly and seems surprised, then takes the step to me, to where our feet touch.

So close together. Close. The soft sound of his breath fills my ears. I work, then slide the knot up and linger near his throat for a moment.

Warmth. I’m aware of every hair on my neck. Slowly, I smooth the tie down over his chest with my hand.

“Better?” My voice is hoarse in my ears.

He glances in the mirror, gives a nod.

Computers and papers are packed in silence.

10:05 a.m.

“THIS HERE’S THE MAIN FLOOR for pick-and-pack. Four tiers high for the runners. The fork trucks can reach clean up to the top.” Sean Becket, floor supervisor, has been the most personable of all the personnel.

Of course, we’re scheduled to spend a whopping ten whole minutes with him.

Peters and Fralin, however, are practically shadows. Boring, whorish shadows.

The distribution center appears monumentally efficient.

If I listen closely, I can hear the gears in Canon’s head turning. Copying it has become his plan.

Mine is still under revision.

Lagging behind, I film the operation with my phone.

I may or may not have filmed Canon’s ass. Twice.

11:37 a.m.

*

Deli Delivery Driver

: Driving me mad.

“NO, NO, A DISCOUNT is most certainly not okay. Not only will you not be paid for this, but you will be back on these premises with a suitable substitute in under twenty-three minutes.”

The deli delivery person does not seem to comprehend that some people cannot be bought with 15% off.

Wrong is wrong.

“But, ma’am, it’s over ten minutes one way.”

“Then you better call in an order to a nearby Quiznos.”

He looks aghast. He hasn’t read the COYA file. Seriously, dude. I’m not going down because your people slathered honey mustard on his sandwich.

Actually, I’m onboard with this particular preference. Honey is gross. Bee vomit. I have no idea why people willfully choose to ingest it.

The driver hustles off. Behind me, I hear movement.

“Mr. Canon. I didn’t see you there. Are we headed back in?”

His mouth may turn up. “Not yet. Everything seem to be in order?”

“It will be.” I hedge and hope Deli Man pulls this off.

Pursing his lips, almost pouting, he looks at me. Really looks. I start to feel self-conscious, flushed.

Is there something on my face? Something wrong I have not noticed? Without thinking, I tilt my head and look at him questioningly.

His eyes widen for a moment, and just when I think he’s going to inform me that I have toured the facility and met a hundred-plus people with spinach omelet in my teeth, he coughs.

“Would you like a drink, Ms. Baker?”

Knock me over with a feather. “Yes, yes, actually I would.”

“Good. Pick me up one, too,” he says and disappears into the conference room.

My nostrils flare like a dragon guarding a pile of gold.

9:00 p.m.

*

Location

: Bed. Alone. As ever.

*

Plans

: Highly overrated as a concept, it seems.

*

Homework

: Untouched.

BOSS MAN WRAPPED THINGS UP early tonight. I have rewarded myself with sleep in celebration of removing the anchovy garnish from his room service Caesar salad without detection.

Deep in pre-dream fantasy about negative calorie brownies, my phone rings.

“Request the POs for the last five years.” Well, hello to you, too.

“Will do, sir.”

“Also, the older sales contacts lists. We will need to cross-reference.”

“I’m on it.” I smother my yawn with a pillow.

“There are spec sheets for the warehouse. I need them.”

“Yes, sir.” Anything, just let me sleep.

“Now. I need them now.” Oh. Oh.

“I’ll be right there.”

Clara’s robe is a beautiful black kimono. I don’t own a robe, so it’s better than none; however, I see now that it’s rather sheer. Sheer, as in see-through.

My nightgown is pretty much a gray slip and covers everything, so that’s not an issue, but this would not have been my first choice for traipsing across the hall to my boss’s room. Well, there’s nothing for it.

I knock, and his door swings open. Suffice it to say, Canon did not anticipate sheer anything.

While I’m standing in the hall, his eyes dart quickly to see if anyone else is there—as if that would make a lick of difference—and he yanks me inside.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He starts pacing rapidly in the small space of the room. If he rakes his hair any harder, he’s going to need plugs.

“Sir?”

“Why are you in my room like…like…like that?” His hands wave wildly around my frame.

“You said ‘now’ so I came now.”

“I have to be able to trust you. Do the right thing. Tell me.”

“Trust me?” Well now, doesn’t this just frost my buns. “You’re calling trust into question? You’ve said you’re a fair man. I want to believe that. But you’re not being fair now…sir.” I want to spit.

“Is it fair to parade around in lingerie?” He paces, his shoulders brush against the curtains.

“This is not lingerie.” I reach in the robe and pull out the very non-see-through corner of my gown. “Trust me—if I wore lingerie, you’d know it.”

“You may have boundary issues. I should have redirected you after you showed up in my room the first day.”