Page 9 of Faker
“They’re calledHitachi, Perry.” My back is ramrod straight and I stare at him without blinking.
He rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately, we havezeroin 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-dominatedenvironment. 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 thoseHitachihammer 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’tnoticed, 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 microscopic space, but I manage. When I stare at him, I refuse to blink. The way we sit across from each other—our backs straight, our eye contact unbroken—it’s more like we’re in the middle of an intense salary negotiation rather than a brainstorming session.
“What ideas do you have?” I employ my most polite, even voice. Maybe feigned professionalism will work this time.
His eyebrows lift in what I assume is surprise, but before I candecide for sure, he narrows them back to his standard frown. He consults his notes.
“I came up with hashtags for all the social media posts regarding the charity homebuilding project.” He slides the paper so I can see the list he’s compiled. “That way our message is consistent and clear at all times.”
“I like it,” I force myself to say.
The look on his face is one of slight shock, but again, it disappears before I can be sure.
He stares at me blankly. “Your turn.”
