Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,16
smells spicier. One deep inhale almost throws me off. Damn the power of scent.
“Calm down.” He says it softly, like he’s soothing an angry dog. And just like that, I shift back to angry and annoyed that he chooses to use that tone.
“No, you . . .” I struggle to finish my sentence. The ache to scream a long list of obscenities at him is strong, but that won’t fly. Not after scolding him about swearing. I scrape the innards of my brain for the right non–curse words to spew, but I can’t find any. His face reddens and his chest stills. He must be holding in his breath. I take a step back and drop the catalog at his feet. Finally, he exhales.
I dart down the hall to the single-occupancy women’s bathroom. Locking the door, I steady myself against the sink. I was seconds away from either lashing out at Tate or slapping him in the face with a tool catalog. A few deep breaths and a splash of water to the cheeks later, and I’m almost back to my steely self.
I don’t have to stand for this. I have every right to report him to Will. He’s our supervisor after all, and a boss needs to know when one of his employees is out of line. But when I make it to Will’s office, his door is still shut. Low murmurs echo from behind it, indicating he’s probably still on his conference call. I can’t wait, though. From the corner of my eye, I spot a flash of white blond at the far end of the hallway.
The urge to confront Tate takes hold before I can think to do anything else. I don’t need Will to do my bidding. I’ll confront Tate myself. My rage from minutes ago has cooled to simmering, a promising sign. I’ll be able to face him sternly yet professionally.
The heavy metal door to the staircase swings shut, and I have to scurry to keep up. I’m probably thirty seconds behind him. Hustling down the stairwell, I dart through the door to the warehouse. In the distance amidst the endless towering carousels loaded with inventory, I spot Tate’s unmistakable blond curls.
He turns the corner, and I nearly lose sight of him. I open my mouth to call after him while rounding the last carousel, but my breath catches at the sight in front of me.
In the darkened corner of the warehouse is Cal, the delivery driver. He rests on a stool, a wide smile filling his face. Tate is crouched down next to him, paper lunch bag in hand. He hands it to Cal before patting him on the back. Cal gives a nod, then digs into the bag. He fishes out a giant plastic container filled with some sort of casserole, a bag of chips, some fruit, and a packet of cookies.
I’m impressed. That’s a far cry from the megahealthy lunch I see Tate eat every single day: an organic turkey sandwich with lettuce, tomato, and mustard on multigrain Ezekiel bread. Always with carrot sticks, an apple, and a giant bottle of water. He’s a glutton for monotony. If I ate the same sandwich every day, I’d raze cities. And I know it’s organic because when I offered him part of my ham sandwich his first week of work, he inquired if it was organic. There was definite nose crinkling when I said no, and then he muttered something about the harmful effect of nitrates.
Cal must be his one exception.
I stumble back behind the carousel so they can’t see me. In the distance, the beeping of a forklift chimes through the warehouse. I squint for a better look while the two chat in hushed tones. I can’t hear much until the beeping stops.
“I appreciate it. More than you’ll ever know,” Cal says in a gruff voice.
“I’m happy to. And here.” Tate pulls some bills from his pocket.
Cal frowns before waving a hand at him. “No way. That’s too much.”
“You fixed my taillight. It’s what I owe you.”
“That’s triple what I charge.”
I didn’t know Cal did auto repair on the side.
“This is what I want to pay.” Tate’s cash-filled hand stills. I have a feeling he’s going to win this standoff.
A shy smile spreads across Cal’s face. “What am I supposed to tell Miriam when I come home with a wad of twenties?”
In the dim light, Tate’s mouth lifts into a smile. I nearly choke. I didn’t know his face could look so gentle,