This might not just be a travesty, it might be….an opportunity.
It was time for some espionage.
#
I cast a surreptitious eye over the rest of the office. Empty. Good. The Douchebros had long since headed home along with everyone else. No one had batted an eye at me working late, since every time I had managed to make it in lately I’d been staying until the wee small hours; I had to, just to keep even vaguely on top of things.
I left my computer running and took the route with no security cameras to Chad’s desk.
Of course he got an actual office room, instead of a cubicle, even though he hadn’t been with the company much longer than me and, numbers-wise, had a much worse track record. Still, however much I resented that, it did give me a tiny bit of privacy once I picked the lock.
During the day, this was Douchebro Central, and in the dim half-light of evening, you could still see the signs of their presence, the chip bags and the energy drink cans they’d left littered across the floor or snagged in the miniature basketball hoop over the door. Because why pick up after yourself when Housekeeping will be in later to do it for you?
I cut off my mental censure before I could really get going; if I let myself, I’d just stand here judging them all night. I went straight to Chad’s computer and breathed a sigh of relief. The asshole never shut it down or even logged it off, but I’d still spent the last few hours worrying that he’d suddenly become environmentally conscious or something.
I pulled up his work e-mail; we used Outlook, so that didn’t require a password either. Quickly scrolling through the recent exchanges—and doing my best not to roll my eyes at his terrible attempt at flirting with Andi from accounting, which was either going to end in a harassment lawsuit or Andi’s fist in his face (Andi did roller derby and she was hardcore)—I located a long e-mail string from Chuck, and began to speed read.
I hadn’t misheard that phone call; there was nothing Chuck could do without Hunter’s approval for the buyout. He had attached the relevant clause in the board articles, as well as quoted it in the body of the e-mail: because of the family name, Hunter had to agree to a sell-off.
“Yes!” I whispered fiercely, and gave the air a small victory punch.
And then I heard a noise outside the office.
Shit. Shit shit shit. Who else would be here at this time of night? Housekeeping, yes, but they started vacuuming on the other side of the building, I should have had—I checked my watch—a good fifteen minutes yet. And Security stayed down at their desk eating take-out unless they had a good reason to go elsewhere and I had avoided their cameras, I knew I had—
Well, it didn’t matter. Someone was out there, and probably getting closer every second I dithered over what to do.
I closed Outlook and stood. I would have liked to print the e-mails for proof, but Hunter was just going to have to trust me. I cast a quick eye over the room to make sure that everything was still in place as quickly as I could, and ducked out of the office, scurrying down the hall until I was far enough that I felt safe slowing down to a casual walk.
…a casual walk right around the corner, and then almost directly into my boss.
We both jerked back, startled.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted.
“I—I could ask you the same, missy,” my boss stammered before pulling himself together and managing a more affirmative: “What on earth is keeping you here at this time of night?”
“Just working late,” I said innocently. My palms sweated as I lied; I forced myself not to wipe them on my dress and give myself away. “Catching up, you know. There’s still a lot of stuff I need to get done.”
“Your desk is over there,” he pointed out, suspicion beginning to creep into his eyes.
“My legs were cramping up; I needed to stretch them,” I said. “Besides, sometimes you need a little mental break, you know? To keep from going stir-crazy.”
“Hmmph,” he said. “Well, I hope you’re not expecting to get paid for these ‘mental breaks.’”
Asshole. “Of course not, sir.”
“Good.” He fussed with his tie, straightening it. “Where are you at with the hygiene products, then?”
“Almost finished!” I assured him. “Just waiting to hear back from Sandra. And I’m halfway through those forms you left for me. When I’m done, if there are any projects that need taking on—”
“Everything’s already been assigned several months out,” he interrupted. “And we can’t give you anything until your schedule’s more regular, you understand? Of course, after the way things went last time, we think it’s best to take it slow, give you a nice soft ball out of the park.”
Could he be any more patronizing?