Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,4
look like you’ll slit the throat of anyone who comes near. It’s quite the vibe.”
His raises an eyebrow. So smug. “Who says it’s a vibe?” It’s like I’ve complimented him, he seems so pleased with himself.
When he turns away, he fist-bumps Cal, the sixty-something delivery driver, as he walks by. Pleasantries and chuckles are exchanged. I have to blink twice at the scene. Cal is a sweetheart who I count as a friendly work acquaintance, pretty much the opposite of Tate. And I’ve never seen Tate chitchat with anyone at work. I didn’t know they were pals.
A second later Brett from Service and Repairs walks up to us, infiltrating the forbidden force field.
“Fancy seeing you here.” He shoots me a sleazy smirk and doesn’t even acknowledge Tate.
I know little about Brett other than he’s in his late thirties, uses too much gel on his thinning dark hair, and seems to love flirting with any woman in his vicinity. I find him exceptionally slimy. Even though he’s never said anything inappropriate to me, I still get an uneasy feeling whenever he’s near.
I scowl, recalling the advice I’ve read in countless blogs and articles on how to be a girl boss when you’re working with mostly dudes.
Quickest way to get rid of an unwanted smiler? Scowl. It embarrasses the offender into dropping it.
Brett doesn’t seem to know that he should feel embarrassment, because his grin doesn’t fade. “Sick of being cooped up upstairs?” He takes a step toward me.
“Nope. Just getting some knives.” Stick to short, terse answers.
“Knives, huh? Those are pretty dangerous. Don’t cut yourself.” He winks, but I hold my ground and cross my arms. I may be crawling out of my skin, but I sure as hell won’t show it.
“Don’t wink at me, Brett. That’s creepy.” Call out inappropriate behavior.
He simply laughs. Nothing short of “fuck off” would make him go away, but I can’t do that at work.
“Hey.” Tate barks while glowering at him. “Are you done skeeving us out?”
“Huh?” Brett glances at Tate like he’s just now noticing him.
“Are you done skeeving us out?” Tate’s slow tone implies Brett can’t understand basic English.
It seems to throw Brett off kilter. He stumbles back a step. “Jeez, what’s your problem?”
Tate hovers over him. “Do you think it’s a good use of company time to bother us?”
“Whatever, man. I’ll go. Chill out.”
I let out a breath, relieved he’s gone, but annoyed that Tate felt the need to butt in.
Gus’s minion hands me a small box of knives, and we walk back up to the office.
“You’re welcome,” Tate mumbles as we reach the top of the stairs.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Here, let me carry that.” He tries to grab the box from me, but I yank it away. We walk down the hall back to our offices.
“I’ve got it. What are you talking about?”
“I got rid of Brett, didn’t I?”
I roll my eyes and march to my office. The slap-rattle sound the knives make when I drop the box on the floor causes me to flinch.
He sits at his desk, shaking his mouse with impatience.
“You think I should thank you for being a jerk to Brett? You’re hilarious.” I stay standing and turn to face him.
“It seemed like you could use some help getting rid of him.”
I squeeze my hands into fists at his patronizing tone, then march to his doorway. “News flash: I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”
“Really? Is that what you were doing down there? Sack up and report Brett to management. He’d get the message real quick then.”
“There’s more than one way to send a message.”
Tate has a point, but how ridiculous would I sound making a complaint about Brett’s hard-to-define creepiness? He doesn’t say anything that’s outright inappropriate and keeps his hands to himself. His off-putting vibe exists in subtleties: standing too close, the way he says certain words. It would be easy for him to say I was taking it the wrong way. Then I would look like the overly sensitive female who can’t handle working with men.
“Whatever message you think you’re sending? It’s failing.” Tate frowns at me, and it’s pure condescension.
“I’m not a damsel in distress. Back off.” I stomp to my desk.
When I glance up, he’s staring at me. There are a few seconds where I think he’s going to say something, but the hard look in his eyes fades. He turns to his computer instead, the sound of his fingers banging on his keyboard filling the