Page 6 of Penny for Your Saints

“Let’s say that I agree to this premise,” I start, cautiously testing the ground as I go. “It takes more than one person to make this work, Compton—I can only guarantee my own complicity, and I doubt the bureau is going to be cool with me being a single mother?” I bare my teeth, my sigma nature threatening to get the better of me when I should be more submissive and turn the other cheek.

“I’ve already got a solution for that.” Compton waves his hand dismissively, turning away from me to pull an acrylic clipboard loaded with paperwork from the top of a file cabinet.

“A solution for what?” I snap back with more attitude than I should, Compton halting mid-pass to dangle the rectangle of plastic and paper between us.

“Drop the attitude, Penny, or I’ll be suggesting administrative leave instead of a short pack-placement retreat.”

The room seems to spin slightly as I process his words.

I’m so taken off guard by this bold overstep that my expression must change, because all the heat of anger leaves Compton’s features and he completes the motion of passing me the clipboard.

“Listen Penny, I don’t like this any more than you do. You’re my most competent resource. I’ve got McBride, but he’s still soundly second place.” Walter heaves an exhausted sigh as my eyes scan the pages—schedules and services for the most prestigious partner placement center for omegas and sigmas in the country detailed alongside signup sheets and registration requests stapled just behind.

“I know reproductive leave is a fucking racket, but my hands are tied. If you don’t do this, I can’t make a path forward for you.” He crumbles into his desk chair, looking defeated, but prepared to act on my response—whichever way it goes.

“So… I go to this glorified matchmaking spa, get myself paired off with some eligible alpha and/or his pack, I put dates in the calendar to pop a baby out—and I’ve paid my dues?” I grit through my teeth, my knuckles bloodless white as they clutch the clipboard.

“As soon as you’ve met your minimum repro requirements, yes. I get to tell the rest of the bureau to fuck off. Just like Lowry and Joshy—nothing but smooth sailing until my dinosaur ass retires and you inherit this fucking mess.”

I look down at Compton—his hands extended, gesturing to the open seat across from him at his desk—a glistening fountain pen laid out for me.

For a fraction of a second I contemplate breaking the clipboard over my knee—telling Compton off and storming down the hall—my entire career and everything I’ve worked for be damned.

Then I think of my mother and father, proud and smiling in the front row of my graduation from Yale—how excited they were when I decided to start my masters at Harvard—Uncle Martin introducing me to his superiors with pride at Lowry’s retirement gala; Lowry herself, my champion and professional mentor—handing me the keys to her hard won empire if only I would take them and the heavy responsibility that comes with such power.

Almost as an afterthought, I think of myself—of my own romantic life or lack thereof. I’ve never felt that deep, abiding affection for anyone—only the biological imperative of heats. There’s no romanticism, no one that got away to mourn—only my surprising indifference to romantic and emotional attractionbeyond my need to… well, meet my needs every few weeks. Even then, I’ve managed through plenty of heats with lackluster partners or heat helpers not to mention that one time… well I’d rather not think about it—but that was once and out of necessity due to being in the field.

“Penny! Earth to Penny! Are you still with us, Louise?” Compton grumbles, thumping his hands on the table, bringing me back to myself.

“Yes, sir,” I grumble, doing my best to play at something more resembling demure than defeated as I take a seat before him and lift the pen from the table. “It says here…” I follow my fingertip to the first line of the crowded itinerary. “I start the program at the end of the week!?” I hiccup, incredulous, as I actually read the words aloud.

“Good to see that you can still read, Penny. I was worried your wires had gotten crossed or something. It looked like smoke was coming out of your ears,” Compton snorts, sitting back in his chair—eyes on the pen in my hands.

With a deep breath, I swallow my pride and sign my name on the dotted line.

Ispent most of the night tossing and turning, my small duffel bag glaring at me accusingly from the wingback chair in the corner of my otherwise Spartan bedroom.

One could blame the doubles of whiskey I had at the bar, griping about my plight to Dennis, my ex field partner—and the only person who I might be able to pass off as a ‘friend’ besides Lowry. Lord knows Dennis himself would. He was in rare form last night, seemingly in a dastardly mood—even though I’m the one being shipped off to an expensive matchmaking center on the government’s dime for the next few weeks; an expectation that I’ll get pumped full of babies hanging over my head like an axe waiting to fall.

When dawn finally breaks, pinky orange and freezing cold—I drag my hungover ass out of bed and into the shower, preparing to face my fate.

Out of paranoia, I had already locked up all my personal ‘research’ materials into my parent’s deaths in the fire safe in my bedroom closet—the hard drives for my personal computer tucked lovingly into my duffel bag along with the trappings ofmy placement center stay. What can I say? I haven’t ever been upset about making arrangements for ‘just in case’. Better safe than sorry.

I arrive at the Diamond Center for Pack Placement just before lunch hour, the bright eyed and bushy tailed receptionist at the front desk beams at me as I push through the revolving doors in my sage green lounge wear and oversized sunglasses—duffel bag slung over one shoulder, like some kind of disgraced celebrity shuffling conspicuously into an expensive rehab facility.

“Welcome to the Diamond Center, Miss Penny!” The perky blond attendant chimes as she makes her way around the huge glass reception desk.

I offer her a curt nod.

“We’ll start with a little tour, then we’ll get right into getting you nice and rested and relaxed—you look exhausted!” Her smile only widens as she takes in my rigid posture and the sunken wells of darkness beneath my eyes, still visible beneath the frames of my sunglasses.

The spritely young lady starts off at a brisk pace down the hall, leading me to a bank of elevators as she continues yapping a mile a minute about the top-notch facilities the center has to offer.

“Your room is part of the Diamond Club Concierge level of service and has a beautiful view of our very own botanical gardens, as well as access to the Diamond Club lounge that serves a curated continental breakfast, elegant high tea, and horsd'oeuvres and cocktails at happy hour each day,” she explains as we pack into one of the elevators, her perfectly manicured finger pressing the button for the 5th floor as the brushed stainless doors close us in.

“We have some bodywork sessions scheduled for you this morning, a hot stone massage followed by some pampering pedicure and haircare time in our premiere on-premises salon.” The receptionist gestures to the smartphone in my hands, her customer service smile still sparkling. “At any time, you can see what your schedule is via the Diamond Center app.” She waits expectantly for me to open the application, so I do—demonstrating my ability to find my schedule by navigating the minimalist menus.

“Tonight after dinner, which is served either in the main dining room—or in one of our à la carte eateries starting at six P.M., you’ll have an appointment with one of our department of reproduction certified scent matching specialists to get the process of matching with your potential mate or mates underway.” She gives me a cheeky wink, gesturing to the elevator doors as they peel open.

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