Page 5 of Penny for Your Saints

“Do you have the Karston reports?” he barks, his half-moon glasses almost dangling off the tip of his nose as he eyes me from his doorframe.

“Yes sir,” I chirp back, collecting a thick folio of documents from the wire rack on my desk.

“Bring those and the damn Tamerlin summary and get yourself a cup of coffee, Penny—I need to bend your ear on a couple of other things, too. I’ve got you for the next three hours, easy,” Compton adds before slamming his door closed.

I give my co-workers a withering look as McBride, Gertz, and Tennant all smirk at me from their desk chairs.

“Lowry’s not here to be your meat shield anymore, sweetie,” Gertz snickers, kicking his feet up on the edge of his desk, his fingers knit over his ample belly as he leers at me. “Compton’s going to be able to decide for himself whether or not you’rebest girlanymore.”

“Oh? What are you getting at Bob?” I play dumb, gathering the plastic summary binder and stacking it into my arms along with the Karston folio, my thick leather agenda and my work issue laptop—using the stack to knock Bob Gertz’s loafers off the corner of his desk, so I don’t risk the dirty rubber soles brushing against my navy Givenchy suit. “Are you gunning for my spot?” I scoff at him as he’s unexpectedly launched forward, his wheeled office chair tipping forward out of its reclined position with the shifting of his own body weight.

“What if I am?” Gertz grouses, barely catching himself from being dumped unceremoniously to the floor.

“Who says you’d be first choice?” Tennant sneers—flicking an elastic band at Gertz, striking him directly in the beer gut. “You’re a has-been, Gertz,” Scott Tennant scoffs, pushing his frameless glasses up the narrow bridge of his nose.

Gertz makes a blustering noise as if he’s going to respond, but Dennis cuts him off.

“C’mon Scotty, Bob isn’t a has-been,” he begins, soothing Gertz’s bruised ego—spreading his hands in a benevolent gesture as I prepare to pass his desk—the closest to Compton’s closed door.

“Oh, yeah?” Tennant crosses his arms—sinking into his desk chair with an air of challenge on his gaunt, rodent-like face.

“He’s a never-was.” Dennis snorts a cruel laugh before turning those ocean eyes on me, a smirk curling his full, coral lips. “Go get ‘em, killer.” He reaches out and gently punches my shoulder, and I feel the rare swell of affection for the idiot.

I give Dennis a wink and a single finger gun gesture before slipping inside Compton’s office.

“The paperwork you wanted, sir,” I offer dutifully, placing the stack of documentation on the richly stained mahogany desk that used to be Lowry’s. There’s still a trace of her here, technically; in an old picture from an awards presentation nearly a decade ago that I can just barely make out as Compton shuffles documents and folders in his weathered hands. Compton looks a much younger man in the photo even though it isn’t that long ago, Lowry, Jim Roach and Ned Bloom–the former section chief of the Department of Reproduction and AG accordingly; the three big wigs bracketed by a very young and impressionable looking Dennis Mcbride, and two handsome men I don’t recognize in their matching blue suits with square jaws and well coiffed hair looking like they’ve come straight from the Hooveradministration. All give tight smiles from behind the pressed glass of the picture frame.

In the present day, Walt Compton’s owly brows knit together in a stern expression—his gut grown soft enough to hang slightly over his polished brass belt buckle. He’s got more gray than chestnut brown in his hair, and even though he thinks it’s subtle—I notice his hand move self consciously to adjust the hair at the back of his head that covers his expanding bald spot, the gold of his wedding band winking under the lights as he brings his hand back down, all the while fixing me with his steely blue gaze.

“Penny, I don’t want to waste your time—so I’m going to get right to the point,” he cuts in gruffly, pulling his half moon bifocals off his nose, allowing the silver wire frames to dangle from his clasped hands as he rests his cleft chin atop the bridge of his knuckles.

“Very good, sir.” I stand up straight, settling into parade rest—since Compton hasn’t invited me to take a seat.

“Lowry always said you were her top dog—that you were her natural choice of successor,” he explains flatly.

I say nothing, just retain eye contact with Compton as he continues his monologue.

“I’ve watched you closely since you joined the BSU, so I’m inclined to agree with her,” he puffs imperiously, carefully folding his glasses closed before placing them beneath his desk lamp.

“That being said.” He winds up pushing back from his desk, slowly rising to standing on his middle-aged knees. “There’s the matter of your mando-repro leave.” He makes a little lasso motion with his right index finger.

“Sir, if I may—” I interject, but Compton silences me with an open palm, raising his hand in a wordless command of silence as he continues his spiel.

“I already heard from Lowry. You just broke up with the LDR boyfriend and you’re hoping to push it out for a year.” He glares at me like a disappointed father. “There’s no way I’m going to be able to keep you on a track to the top if you keep on dragging ass on getting knocked up—even if you aren’t going to get packed up.”

“Sir!” I protest, the word slipping past my lips as I ball my hands into fists.

“Don’t give me that face Penny, you know that Lowry had to deal with this kind of shit and then some to get to the top. Back in her day, she was the only bitch on the whole block—now there’s at least twenty of you here in the basement with us,” he warns, and I feel my rage surge. I don’t need a fucking history lesson on women in the bureau from fucking Walt Compton, but I hold my tongue.

“My superiors want you married or bonded with a fruitful repro leave under your belt before this time next year if you expect to be taken seriously as far as your career path goes.” Compton’s voice softens slightly, and he has the decency to look stricken by the details of the directive for which he has been charged to play messenger.

I feel a little dizzy and off balance as I do the mental gymnastics to process Compton’s news. He wants to help me climb the ladder straight to the top. He agrees with Lowry that I’m the best choice to helm the BSU for the long term—but to get there? He wants me to have a fucking baby in my arms by this time next year, when I don’t even have a casual hookup lined up after my still incredibly fresh breakup.

What the actual fuck?

“Sir, with all due respect,” I begin, grasping the edge of his desk to steady myself. “I’m not entirely sure I can guarantee that—I don’t know if it’s possible.” I shake my head, staring at Compton in disbelief.

“You can—you have to if you want this job, Penny.” He crosses his arms definitively in front of his chest, his cleft chin jutting out as he looks down at me—his alpha scent; cordite and white pine reaching my nose across the short distance between us.

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