Page 9 of Savage Mates
CHAPTER 3
Lauren
Fifteen minutes.
The various men and women from the Office of Research Development who’d been tasked to peruse my formal application and decide my fate had taken all of fifteen minutes to make a determination. Fifteen. Minutes.
I’d been prepared with twenty-four ounces of my favorite flavored coffee, a rom-com paperback, and a sweater in case I got cold while I was waiting.
Fifteen minutes and less than four ounces of coffee later, I was back inside the small auditorium. Along with the seven people sitting at a long table, there were a couple of other professors and a few of the university’s benefactors sitting in the audience. Why they’d been allowed there I didn’t know, but I knew better than to ask.
Nevertheless, you could easily hear a pin drop given the silence in the room.
I was freezing to death, my teeth chattering from nervousness.
“Dr. Radcliff,” Dean Armstrong began. “First, I want to thank you for a marvelous presentation.”
Even before he continued, I already knew the outcome.
Less than four minutes later, I walked out the door. Months of work for less than an hour before my grant request was shot to shit.
I was livid.
I was upset.
I was sad.
Damn it. If my mother were alive, she’d tell me this was fate’s way of telling me I shouldn’t go. Right now, I didn’t care about fate. I cared about the lions, more now since I knew they could be being mistreated or worse.
Had I wanted to play God?
The answer should turn my stomach.
Yes.
Somehow, I managed to hold my head high, cringing from hearing my heels clicking in hollowness on the tile floor. Only when I was outside the building did I throw my fist in the air from rage. “Damn it all to fucking hell, you motherfuckers.” My outburst wasn’t my typical behavior, but they hadn’t asked a single question. Not one.
They’d made the determination before I’d walked through the door. Why had I bothered?
A sudden dark laugh behind me ripped my attention from my nasty tantrum. Great. Someone was making fun of me. Tamping back my anger, I spun around to come face to face with a kind-looking older gentleman.
Wait a minute.
He’d been in the room and had seen my dreams crushed like a bug smashed under a boot.
“I have those feelings every day about bureaucracy,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. When I didn’t say anything, he threw out his hand. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me for listening in on your private conversation without identifying myself. I’m Dr. Walter Zimmerman.”
I was a little bit floored when I recognized his name. As a huge benefactor of the university, he even had a building on campus named after him.
“I’m sorry. I’m not typically prone to violent outbursts.” I shook his hand, wondering why he’d stopped me.
He chuckled. “Well, I don’t blame you. They certainly didn’t give you, your work, or your excellent presentation the consideration it deserved. By the way, I’m a fan of your brilliant mind and how you process the physical and emotional state of wild animals.”
“You are?” I’d never heard my work put in those terms.
“Absolutely. Your development of a potential cure for the canine distemper virus that’s become increasingly prevalent in lions is extremely impressive.”
Why did it seem as if he wanted to say something else?
