Divine's Emporium Page 5

  Sometimes a Fae under punishment just couldn't get a break.

  * * * *

  "Well, if it ain't good old Ken." Allistair sauntered up to Ken in the hourly employees' lunchroom Monday at lunchtime. He carried a takeout box, as always, and wrinkled up his nose at Ken's brown bag lunch. "I thought for sure you'd give up schmoozing with the grunts, now that you finally have an inside track." He sneered as his gaze slid over the four members of the dock crew sitting at the round table in the corner.

  "I have no idea what you're talking about." Ken continued across the lunchroom to join his friends.

  He could usually count on the presence of the hourly employees to keep Allistair hiding in the executive lunchroom. Allistair wouldn't admit it, but he had a phobia for the 'great unwashed,' as he referred to the blue-collar employees. Something about the smell of sweat earned through honest labor repulsed him.

  Today, however, Allistair followed him. Always a bad sign.

  "I'm talking about kissing up to the old man's new secretary. She's not your type at all, is she? Must be pretty desperate, lowering your standards."

  Ken saw red. Harsh self-control let him put down his bag and three cartons of chocolate milk before he squeezed and destroyed his lunch. He didn't look at his waiting friends. He didn't need to see their faces, neutral but for the disgust in their eyes, directed at Allistair.

  Knowing his friends would let him handle his own fights helped Ken reduce his interior temperature by ten degrees. He nudged the chair out, preparing to sit, but took a deep breath and turned around to face Allistair.

  "If you're referring to Jo, I think I've improved my standards." Ken knew he was going too far, but Allistair had it coming. And Brittney, now that he thought about it.

  His ex-wife was a bag of bones compared to Jo. Ken had never understood Brittney's obsession with fashion and starving herself to attain the look. Jo had curves like a real woman, yet was sleek enough to pass for a boy when she wanted. Comparing the two women, knowing Brittney would shriek if she knew what he had said, made him grin. It helped his blood pressure.

  "See, that was your problem with Brittney. You have no grasp of reality," Allistair sneered. His new Italian loafers left another black streak on the lunchroom floor as he turned to leave. "It won't do you any good, kissing up to the new girl. If anything, you're just kissing your career good-bye. From what I've heard, the old man's taken quite a liking to her himself. If you know what I mean." He stomped into the executive lunchroom.

  Maurice landed on the edge of the ice cream vending machine and pointed his finger at Allistair, making him trip on the metal strip dividing the tiled floor from the carpeting of the executive section. When he stumbled, he lost his grip on his takeout carton so it flipped over three times and landed upside down right at the feet of Mr. Myerhausen. The creamy noodles and seafood slopped out, spattering the black, shiny tips of the CEO's shoes.

  Mr. Myerhausen was white-haired, heavy-set, usually jolly and relaxed, but his mouth went into a hard, flat line under his bushy moustache, and his eyes came close to shooting sparks at Allistair.

  Jo and her new office friends, Debbie and Karen, stopped short in the doorway from the hall, frozen. They muffled giggles and darted back out into the hall, as Allistair dropped to his knees and used his gray silk handkerchief to hurriedly wipe clean his boss's shoes.

  Slapping his hands together with satisfaction, Maurice took a running leap off the ice cream machine and coasted for two seconds, his wings spread flat and stiff in gliding formation. He landed on an artificial tree in the corner. It gave him a good view of both Jo and Ken.

  "Wish the big man had been here to hear him say that," Jake muttered.

  "You can bet Mr. M. isn't anywhere around," Doug added, nodding toward the door between the two lunchrooms. "Otherwise he'd have kept his filthy mouth shut."

  "What's his problem?" Mike said through a mouthful of meatloaf sandwich. "That Jo's one foxy lady. And really sweet, too." He swallowed and leaned closer to Ken, who couldn't seem to get the motivation to open up his lunch bag. "So, is it true, buddy? You and the lady are getting it on?"

  Maurice leaned forward, just as eager to hear the answer to that one. He caught a glimpse of Jo and her two friends peering in from the doorway, their eyes wide, just as interested.

  "I asked Jo to the company Christmas party. And no, we're not getting it on. Because she's a lady, understand?" Ken fought to keep his tone light, and not throttle Mike.

  Jo leaned into the lunchroom and peered around the doorframe. Maurice clearly saw that little smile she aimed at Ken.

  She likes him. He likes her. He stood up for her. She heard him. This is going great!

  Chortling in satisfaction, Maurice vanished, to reappear in Allistair's office. Jo and Ken didn't need any help with their relationship, but there was nothing in the rules against frustrating the enemy whenever possible.

  Allistair returned to his office to face an afternoon of chaos. Drawers refused to open. His computer turned off before he could save documents. His phone squealed in his ear every time he picked up the receiver. Ink cartridges sprung leaks whenever he tried to print something. And all four of his souvenir coffee mugs cracked when he tried to get coffee, leaking across his desk whenever he wasn't looking, all over the reports for tomorrow's meeting.

  Maurice checked in on Allistair half an hour before closing time and found him wrestling yet again to get a clean report reprinted. He had his phone tucked between shoulder and ear, and fought not to get printer ink from his hands onto the phone or his clothes. Maurice settled on the phone and tweaked it so the speaker came on, letting him overhear the conversation without Allistair losing the connection to the hand set.

  Maurice grinned when it occurred to him that maybe Allistair didn't want anyone to overhear the conversation. He snapped his fingers and connected the speaker to half a dozen other phones scattered throughout the company, letting others listen in.

  "You're not listening to me," a babydoll female voice whined.

  "Of course I am, babycakes," Allistair protested. "I heard every word you said."

  Maurice made a gag me gesture and decided this had to be the infamous Brittney. He had heard enough venom about Ken's soon-to-be-ex to loathe her just as much as Allistair.

  "I don't want to wait until Christmas. I need the new necklace for the opening night party at the Playhouse."

  "You got it. Don't I always come through for you, sugar?" Allistair scowled at the printer while drops of sweat beaded on his forehead and darkened his shirt collar.

  "Well, yeah, most of the time. But this is important."

  "Everything you say is important." He flung the ink cartridges into the garbage, snagged the last handful of tissues from the box on his desk, and cleaned his hands, somehow managing not to lose his grip on the phone caught between his shoulder and his ear. Allistair muffled a groan as he sat down at the desk and reached for a notepad. Maurice made the ink go dry in the pen. "Now, which store did you say it was at?"

  "Allistair!" The phone speaker squealed, and Maurice swore it gave off sparks.

  Allistair dropped the phone.

  "I'm just double-checking, honey-doll," he said after he picked it up. "I don't want to go to the wrong store."

  "You better not. Tomorrow is opening night. I have to have that necklace tonight!"

  "You'll have it." Allistair wiped sweat off his forehead, realizing too late that there was still ink on his hands. He reached for the now-empty tissue box.

  "Over my dead body, Allistair, old buddy," Maurice muttered, and vanished in a shower of poison green sparks. Next stop: the parking lot.

  He popped back into the office five minutes later, reasoning that Allistair would stay longer at work if his computer and printer actually cooperated. It was worth the extra magic taken out of his daily budget to see Allistair jerk and nearly fall out of his seat when the printer started working without any commands being given.

  Nearly two hou
rs later, Allistair was in his car in the empty parking lot, struggling with his car, cursing under his breath and rocking in the driver's seat, having a miniature temper tantrum. The car ground and growled and the engine almost clicked over, but never quite caught.

  Maurice conjured up ice skates and drew pictures of Ken and Jo's smiling faces in the paint job on the roof of the car, never losing his place in the delicate operation, despite the furious rocking of the car. When Allistair tried yet again to use his cell phone to call for help, it sparked and squealed.

  In fury, Allistair slammed the steering wheel with both fists. The horn sounded--and kept on sounding, echoing off the warehouse buildings and the ice coating sections of the parking lot.

  More than an hour later, Maurice was doing the backstroke through the air, keeping three yards precisely in front of Allistair as he struggled to get into the mall against the current of departing shoppers. He was much the worse for wear. His pants were wet from the knees down, there were oil smears all over his expensive overcoat, one glove was torn from the battle with the engine and the other glove was missing altogether, along with his hat.

  "You know, Allistair, a guy could almost feel sorry for you," Maurice said, with a sigh of satisfaction for a job well done. "Almost." He turned over, switching to the Australian crawl, leaving little ripples of red and green and gold light in his wake.

  A few children in strollers saw the light and let out oohs and aahs of delight. Maurice waved at them and they waved back, giggling.

  "There we are," he said, when Allistair finally got free of the crowds and stepped into another wing of the mall, one with only one-third of the traffic.

  Maurice nodded in satisfaction when he spotted the elegant, upscale jewelry store, with its security gates lowered almost two feet from their hidden overhead tracks. The manager was in a hurry to get out of there, obviously.

  The contents of the display cases wouldn't be moved into the safe until after the gates had come down. As long as Allistair saw the cases had jewelry still on display, he probably wouldn't notice the gates ready come down like a guillotine.

  One clerk stepped into the back room of the store, carrying a big cardboard display. The manager remained out front. Maurice could tell he was the manager because he had a sour twist to his mouth, the tip of his nose was up in the air higher than his eyebrows--and joy of joys, he had hearing aids in both ears.

  Instantly, Maurice had his plan in place. Allistair was still six stores away from the jewelry store. He'd slowed down, a satisfied, relieved smile on his face at the sight of his goal, still lit and open for business.

  "Not yet," Maurice muttered, as the manager stepped over to the controls for the security gates and pressed a conspicuous red button. There was a loud click as the gates unlocked. "Give the poor guy some hope. "

  Sparks shot from his fingertips to surround the gate mechanism. It resisted when the manager tried to pull it down. Maurice slowed to a stop and let Allistair catch up with him, then hitched a ride on his shoulder, watching carefully for just the right timing.

  When Allistair was two stores away from his goal, Maurice snapped his fingers. Red sparks shot through the air and the security gates jumped out of the manager's hand and slammed down, hitting the floor and snapping into the locking mechanism with a loud, final snap. At the same time, gold sparks surrounded the manager's hearing aid. Maurice zipped up to the ceiling as Allistair slid to a stop, hands gripping the security gate. He called to the manager, who had opened the first display case and picked up the velvet-lined tray of rings to carry into the back room. He never paused, because he never heard Allistair's pleas for mercy.

  "And then take that hope far away," Maurice said, nodding. He turned a backwards somersault. "My work here is done. I think the good guys can sleep a little better tonight, knowing that another soldier of the evil empire has been frustrated." He blew a kiss at Allistair, and vanished in a burst of green and red sparks.

  * * * *

  Tuesday morning, Jo was surprised to see Ken come into the reception area outside Mr. Myerhausen's office. She forced a smile, despite a choking sensation of impending doom that washed over her.

  Was he coming to say he had changed his mind and didn't want to take her to the company Christmas party? Jo had heard how respectful he was to the other secretaries in the company, and how he treated the blue-collar workers on the docks and in the warehouse as equals. She knew he would be kind when he delivered the dread news. He would probably claim a conflict had come up and he wasn't able to go to the party, and then he would probably stay home to avoid embarrassing her if she went by herself. Which she wouldn't do, but she couldn't tell him that, could she?

  "Hi, Jo." Ken stopped three feet away from her enormous desk. Mr. Myerhausen had joked on her first day that it could serve as a barricade in case the workers rioted. "Is Mr. M. in?"

  "Oh--uh--yes." She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. "On the phone, I think." She checked the switchboard and saw the green light was still lit. "Is something wrong?" She felt like giggling, relief hitting her like a shot of laughing gas when she realized he hadn't come to dump her.

  "I have no idea. I had an e-mail that he wants to see me as soon as I finished the meeting with the dock supervisors." Ken stepped to the right to settle into a chair.

  Jo dared to hope he chose that chair just because it was closest to her desk.

  Oh, get a grip, you nit! This isn't high school. Don't act like you're back there. For heaven's sake, don't, because you screwed up every time a guy showed interest in you.

  The scolding helped her calm down. Ken really was comfortable to be around, despite being so nice-looking. That let her relax around him. She liked knowing he went around the office in his shirt sleeves, with his tie loosened, instead of buttoned up and immaculately groomed all day long like the executives Mr. Myerhausen referred to as stuffed shirts. She especially liked the way he rolled up his sleeves, raked his fingers through his too-short hair and leaned against a wall when he talked with the guys from the warehouse and the dock.

  "What was that?" She blushed when she realized Ken had spoken to her and she hadn't heard a word.

  You idiot--you dream about hearing him say your name, but when he does talk, you're out in la-la-land!

  "I just wanted to know if you picked out your dress for the party on Saturday." Ken shrugged and offered a lopsided smile. "Everybody else has been planning their wardrobe since the date and place were announced."

  "Unfortunately, I've been a little busy. Maybe I'll go to Divine's after work and..." She swallowed down the groan rising in her throat. Admitting she only bought her clothes second-hand was no way to impress a man.

  "Angela always has the perfect thing." He nodded. "I bet you'll be gorgeous, whatever you find."

  "Why, Ken, are you flirting with my new secretary?" Mr. Myerhausen's Boston accent was just a little thicker than usual and his eyes were wide with genteel shock.

  "Ah... No, sir. Just talking about the Christmas party." Ken leaped up from the chair as if something had bitten his behind.

  Jo muffled a tiny giggle and fought the urge to shake her finger at Mr. Myerhausen. After only a week, she thought she could read her boss quite well. He was a dear, pretending to be gruff and stuffy to keep the snobs and Ivy League wannabes in their places. But he was neither when chatting with the truck drivers, mechanics and warehouse workers about their families and the company basketball league.

  His wife had visited the office on her first day of work and they had hit it off immediately. Jo had felt like she had found a long-lost aunt. It helped when Mrs. Myerhausen told her firmly not to let "that old bear" pick on her. Mr. Myerhausen had pretended to be indignant, but Jo had caught him pinching his wife's ample bottom a little while later, getting a squeak and a giggle from her, and a quick kiss. She'd been delighted with their teasing and the visible signs that the romance was still alive.

  Mr. Myerhausen winked, and gestured for Ken to precede
him into his office.

  * * * *

  "Sir, I think you should know I asked Jo--Miss August--to the company Christmas party. If that's a problem, sir, I'll back down," Ken said.

  No, he didn't speak, he babbled. He felt the sweat bead on his back, sticking his shirt to his skin.

  "Hmm, and leave me to explain how the previous ugliness in the outer office is affecting her? I think not." Mr. Myerhausen settled into his burgundy leather chair and leaned back. "If you're worried about what those idiots down the hall might say, don't. Miss August told me that you asked her, as soon as she realized that others in the company might try to cause you trouble because of your very kind invitation."

  "Sir?" Ken felt like the air had just been put back into the room. He finally obeyed Myerhausen's gesture to take a seat.

  "I think this company will soon owe you a great deal for your simple act of kindness to a stranger." Myerhausen chuckled when Ken just shook his head and frowned, with no idea what the man was talking about. "I'm quite impressed with your track record over the years, Ken. And I'm quite aware that others have used your initiative as a springboard for their own careers, without giving you any credit."

  Ken felt something drop in his gut. Should he be pleased or worried that Mr. Myerhausen was so aware of what went on among his executives? He supposed he came across as weak, for not getting revenge or at least protesting when sneaks like Allistair stole the march on him. He didn't like to be a whiner. He had always felt that griping whenever something didn't go his way would lose him sympathy, and people would be less prone to listen when something really crucial happened.

  "I assume that's good?" he ventured. His mother had always told him it was better to get the bad news out in the open right away, rather than suffer by waiting for it. "You don't think I'm a wimp?"

  "I think you care a little too much about coming across as a whiner and schemer, like others in this company I could mention. There's nothing wrong with bringing it to the attention of the proper authorities--me--that you believe others stole your hard work and passed it off as their own. Even when those unnamed others have the skills to erase all the evidence."