Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,9
of my eye, I see Tate standing in my doorway, facing me.
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s pointless to meet with you if all you’re going to do is criticize my ideas. Don’t bother setting up another meeting until you’re ready to get something done.”
When I focus back on my computer, Tate is still standing. There’s a soft huff of breath, then the rasp of his voice. “Noted.”
He walks back to his desk while I deep breathe my way through the frustration. A minute later, Perry from the Purchasing department walks into my office. He doesn’t even bother to knock.
“Miss Emmie, a word if you will.”
Perry’s politeness is an act. Once a month, he drops by someone’s desk to correct a supposed mistake, no matter how insignificant, and launches into a condescending explanation. August is my month, apparently.
“I see you posted on the website that we’ve got a dozen of those new hammer drills in stock. You know, those green ones.”
Perry says “green” like I don’t know the brand name. It triggers my boss-bitch mode.
“They’re called Hitachi, Perry.” My back is ramrod straight and I stare at him without blinking.
He rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately, we have zero in stock. I don’t know why you would even put them online. Remember that email I sent you?” He lifts a smug brow at me. “I guess I get it. You’re new after all.”
I’d laugh if I weren’t so pissed. I’ve worked here for two years. “New” is code for female, and he’s used it on me before.
I employ techniques from every article I’ve ever read about how to be bulletproof when working in a male-dominated environment. My steady eye contact, my posture, my firm tone. It all works together to assert, to say, I know my shit, Perry, and I don’t have time for yours.
“First of all, Perry, lose the eye-rolling. It’s unprofessional, and I won’t stand for it. Second, no, I don’t remember that email because you haven’t emailed me in months.”
The words flow out in a hard rhythm that’s so unlike how I normally speak.
I pull up a message from three months ago and turn my screen to him. “As for those Hitachi hammer drills”—I emphasize the brand name once more before pulling up the inventory software and pointing to the screen—“you most definitely ordered them because those are your initials, PP, right next to the inventory info.”
PP. As in Piss Poor. Perpetual Pesterer. Perry the Plague.
His chapped lips purse before he exhales, clearly annoyed. Good. I want to frustrate him; I want to showcase his mistake; and I want him to think twice before confronting me with his mansplaining incompetence again.
“I don’t remember entering it in the inventory system,” he mutters.
“Don’t remember?” Tate chimes in.
Perry and I both twist around to look at Tate. He tosses Perry a death glare from behind his desk. Tate is the only person in the company who Perry hasn’t tried to confront. From the corner of my eye, I could swear Perry flinches.
“I don’t believe I was speaking to you, Tate.” There’s a barely detectable tremor in his voice.
Tate’s frown is like a bullet to the face. I have to look away, it’s so uncomfortable.
“That’s irrelevant.” Tate’s low groan booms. “If you haven’t noticed, Emmie’s office is just a few feet from mine. You’re practically in my office.”
Perry opens his mouth but seems to lose his nerve after waiting a second too long.
“When you come here to speak to her about nonexistent mistakes, I have to deal with your voice. Your volume. Your presence. It’s all unnecessary.”
Perry shuffles out of my office, head hanging low.
A ping of longing hits my chest. It’s times like this that catch me off guard, when we unwittingly work together to show up the company know-it-all. It makes me wish that despite our history, we could get along.
Writing boring descriptions about drill bits for the next hour is the only way I can distract myself from that hopeful feeling. It’s pathetic to want to be liked by someone who has made it clear they don’t like you. Forty-five minutes later, Tate crowds my doorway once more.
“Hey.” His jaw clenches, but his eyes are soft. “Try again? We need to get this done at some point. May as well be now.”
The urge to scoff is strong, but I shove it aside. He’s right.
“Okay,” I mutter and follow him to his office.
I notice he’s moved the second chair from the corner to in front of his desk. It’s a tight squeeze in this