Page 3 of Hate Notes

I raised an eyebrow. I had to respect the backbone. Nobody had ever tried that one on me. "One thousand, and you can only read two."

He looked down at his stack of notecards. There were at least twenty of them. "Ten," he said. "If I only read two, it'll be too obvious."

"Three, and you get seven hundred instead. Final offer."

Matthew pressed his lips together. "Dammit. Alright. Alright. My rent is due.”

I slipped him the money, then folded my arms and waited, my stance radiating the same confidence that had helped me close multi-million-dollar deals.

Matthew lifted the first card, cleared his throat, and projected his voice so everybody could hear. Part of the gimmick with this company was that the employee had to read the card with real emotion, as if they were angry, too.

Matthew met my eyes, glancing down occasionally at the card to remember his lines.

"Dear Mr. Foster,

You suck. You SUCK. Did I mention you suck? And I bet if your company had a dick, you'd suck that, too. You just love your company so much. I bet you stay late so you can whisper sweet nothings in its ear, don't you? I bet you'd drill a hole in the wall and, uh..."

Matthew trailed off,flipped the card to the back, and started reading. I could see there had been a lot more written onthat card. Apparently, Matthew was too embarrassed to read it aloud.

"Dear Mr. Foster, Ever wonder why your coffee tastes weird? I bet you do. I'd love to tell you what we put in it when you're not looking. But I won't tell you, because I'd rather picture you up all night wondering if it was toenails, hair, or spit. Or maybe all three? I'll give you a hint. It was all three. Bahahaha. Yeah! Fire that, bitch!

With Deepest Animosity,

Somebody You Should Have Been Nicer To"

Damn. I made a mental note to warn my secretary they were tampering with his coffee. I didn't touch the stuff myself—caffeine was too crude a tool for peak performance—but they obviously assumed he was making it for me.

Idiots.

Matthew flipped through a few cards as if looking for the right one. He stopped, licking his lips. "Dear Orion (Yeah, I used your stupid first name, you little asshole. How do you like that? Can't do shit to me because you don't even know who I am! HAH! Rub that on your face, you prick-whistler)

"Anyway, you got my white elephant gift at the Christmas party. And I can't believe you just threw it away. WHAT THE FUCK, ORION? A blanket with sleeves and a hole for your head is the greatest thing that has ever been invented by mankind. Or do you prefer to stay cold like your shriveled, dead heart?

"GOD. You are the WORST! I hope you forget how to breathe and drop dead, asshole.

"P.S. I don't even pray, but I started praying every night just to ask if God could please smite you for me. Eventually, he's going to get tired of me asking and end you."

Matthew tucked the rest of the cards in his fanny pack—yes, he was wearing a fanny pack. "Alright, folks. That's it for today."

"What?" one of the people in the crowd shouted. "You had more cards!"

Matthew shook his head. "Those are for other clients. I just had them mixed up."

There was some disappointed grumbling, but I ignored it all and told Remmy I'd see her later. She smiled, waved, and headed off to work.

Matthew was probably getting fired for not reading all those cards. I wondered who they'd send next. Whoever it was, I'd enjoy finding their price. Everybody had one, after all.

That was something else people said about me: I always got what I wanted.

They weren't wrong about that one.

2

EMBER

"Trust me, Em. I'd rather not have to do this," Cole said, his voice dripping false sympathy.

"Then don't," I suggested, hating how small my voice sounded. I didn't do small. I was the girl who once organized an office-wide protest when they tried to replace the broken vending machine that sometimes gave free sodas. I once orchestrated a two-year-long petty prank involving ping-pong balls and the locker of a guy who broke my best friend’s heart. Small wasn’t my style.

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