Page 1 of Property of Azrael

HALLIE

I hate my job.

When my parents warned me about getting into customer service, I should have listened. I was naïve, but I never imagined it would be the eighth circle of hell. If only the royalties from my self-published books could pay all my bills. As much as I want to be a full-time romance writer, my sales aren’t steady enough to quit my job at the hospital. But a girl can dream, right? At this rate, I’ll need a miracle or a viral TikTok video. Maybe even a priest’s blessing on my career to make it big in the writing community.

My only saving grace is that after COVID-19 hit, my job was transitioned to remote status. Getting to sit at home in my pajamas while dealing with customers is the only bright side to this gig. Plus, I can write during my breaks without people stopping at my desk to ask questions. I’m able to really unplug and dedicate time to writing. A luxury a lot of bi-vocational writers don’t have these days. Now, if I could only get through this call so I can finish my work and get back into my newest book boyfriend, Dante, and his motorcycle club.

“Mm-hmm… Yes, ma’am. I understand,” I mumble into the headset between her ramblings. My cat, Jezebel, seems unfazed as my customer only gets louder. She lays in my lap, begging for pets with her claws digging into my hand when I ignore her. I barely stifle a yelp when she sinks her teeth into my flesh next. Damn needy cat.

“I don’t think you do.”

The woman repeats her complaint in a louder tone, as if that will fix everything. It’s not my fault that her surgeon’s diagnostic coder didn’t read through the description of her procedure more thoroughly. As a result, her insurance is refusing to cover a portion of her procedure.

“Mrs. Floyd, as I mentioned previously, I cannot just change the code in the system. I work for the hospital, not the surgeon.” Before she can roar out another protest, I add, “I’ll put in the review request right now. But again, it can take five to seven business days for the review to take place.”

“It’s your job to fix this, so fix it, or I’ll sue you and your hospital.” She groans in frustration. “This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to call to force you to fix your mistakes.”

Instant gratification and medical billing are not terms that remotely work together. We seem to have more red tape than the government.

“Did you hear me? I will sue!” she bellows so loudly, I nearly jump out of my chair. I’m pretty sure my next-door neighbor heard her. Maybe even the old lady with the bad hearing aids on the first floor of my apartment building as well.

“Yes, I heard you.” Loud and clear, lady. “Would you like me to give you the direct line to our legal department?” My words come out more clipped than I’d intended, but my paper-thin patience is all but gone at this point.

“How dare you use that tone with me! I want to speak to your manager right now.”

“She will not circumvent our process, Mrs. Floyd. We have protocols we have to follow.”

“Manager. Now,” she hisses.

“One moment, please.”

Rolling my eyes, I pull up Melinda’s name in our messaging system and click the icon to video chat with her. She answers almost immediately, a frown on her face.

“What now?” she groans. Her blonde, tightly coiled hair, normally styled to perfection, was in a messy bun. If I had to guess, her day is going about as well as mine is.

“Well, good morning to you too,” I purr teasingly.

“Frank melted half my tomato planters because he needed to burn some old dresser.”

When our positions went remote, Frank, her husband, retired early. And if you ask Melinda, it’s because he needed to be home to drive her crazy with all of his “retirement projects,” which, most of the time, turn into disasters and even more projects. The fire department has been to their house four times, at least. I’d joked that he was working on his frequent fire punch card to get the fifth accident free. Melinda didn’t find it nearly as funny as I did.

“Oof. Definitely a rough morning.”

“So what’s going on?” she asks flatly.

“Got a customer demanding to speak with you.”

Sighing, Melinda rubs her temples. “Give me the rundown so I know what I’m getting myself into.”

As I do, her frown deepens, her annoyance at the situation plain. It’s the unfortunate part of being the department manager. She gets paid the big bucks to deal with irate customers like Mrs. Floyd.

“She sounds like a peach.”

“Oh, she is. I’ll patch you through.” I forward the call to Melinda and disconnect as soon as I hear Mrs. Floyd reading her the riot act over something even she can’t force through our processes. May the odds be in my boss’s favor with this one.

I turn back to the stack of papers on my desk. The overdue balance sheets are the only things I loathe more than talking to customers. Thumbing through the top sheet, I start cross-checking the names on the list of the balances. I’m so deep into my work, I barely notice the pings coming from my phone. If it wasn’t for Jezebel’s hissing every time it goes off, I could ignore it and concentrate. But since neither seem to stop, I look down at the screen and notice a dozen or more notifications from my friend and fellow author friend, Eden. She and I have been chatting online for years, since meeting in an author support group on Facebook. She’s my long-distance best friend.

Check your e-mail. It’s big. Huge!

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