On the Brink (Vol. 1) (The On the Brink Series) (3 page)

Chapter
Five

The
next morning, I woke later than usual, and found my shoulders and arms a bit
stiff. Moxie was right; I should get up and stretch more often. For the moment,
a few minutes of yoga stretches would have to do—I didn’t have much time.
I picked up my rubbery blue yoga mat and plodded, barefoot, to the middle of
the living room, the only area of the apartment with enough space.

Duncan
was sprawled on the couch, reading a book.

“Good
morning!” he said, putting the book down. “How was your first day at the new job?”

“Not
bad,” I replied, moving into downward dog position. Stretching my shoulders
felt amazing, albeit with a hint of soreness. “Transcription is dull work, but
at least the office manager, Moxie, has a sense of humor. And the boss, Berta,
doesn’t seem too bad either, just dog crazy. I mean, her dog shits on a plastic
plant and she gives him a treat.”

“Points
for novelty. Seriously, though, do you think it’ll work out?”

“Oh,
definitely. It’s not fascinating work, and I need to remind myself to get up
and stretch once in awhile, but they’ll give me as many hours as I want. In
fact, they’re so busy that they’re looking for more transcriptionists.”

“Too
bad I never got past hunting and pecking with two fingers. But I’ll have better
shifts at work before long. One of the bartenders who works Friday and Saturday
nights is leaving soon to work at 20 Newbury, and I’m next in line.”

Duncan
had started tending bar at Absinthe in Boston’s artsy South End while we were
still in school, each working toward our master of fine arts degrees, me in
painting and Duncan in photography. Named for the legendary, once-banned spirit
nicknamed “the green fairy” by turn-of-the-century Parisian artists and
writers, Absinthe had gradually emerged as one of the trendiest bars in Boston.

“That’s
fabulous news, Duncan! Now that Absinthe is such a hotspot, you’ll double your
income working weekend nights.”

“Or
triple it,” Duncan replied. “The weekend nights are insane. Our clientele
mostly used to be artists and writers, who run up a good tab but don’t tip for
shit. Now that the moneyed set is showing up, the sky’s the limit. One of my
coworkers, Martin, got a thousand dollar tip last Friday.”

“A
thousand dollars? What did he do for that? A striptease?”

“Nothing
out of the ordinary. Service with a smile for a table of eight drunk, raucous
Financial District types. One of them puked on a shrub in the outdoor seating
area, and another managed to spill a Long Island Iced Tea down Martin’s pants.”

I
laughed, imagining
 
Duncan’s
coworker’s expression when the cold drink hit his pants. “Did the drunk
apologize?”

“Sort
of. Told Martin he’d buy him a new pair of pants. Coming from a rich hedge fund
guy, I suppose that’s as close to an apology as you’re going to get. Probably
what the thousand-dollar tip was for. Do you want a cup of coffee? I’m about to
make some.”

“Sure.
I’ll join you in a minute after I take a quick shower and throw on some
clothes.”

I
showered and dressed, and then checked the time. Not good. I was about to be
late for class. Looking out the window, I saw that it was raining. Before
leaving the apartment, I would need to locate an umbrella from our motley
collection, which, thanks to Boston’s frequent rain and strong winds, tended
toward weather-induced decrepitude. Pulling on my coat and grabbing the
healthiest-looking umbrella, I headed for the door.

“See
you tonight. I’ll have to get a coffee later on—I’m totally out of time.”

“Wait
a minute. I have a Starbucks cup and lid from last night. Let me rinse it out
and put coffee in it for you. I’ve seen you try to operate without your morning
java, and it’s not pretty.”

I
took the cup from him, smiling. “You’re the best.” He knew me well. A bit
clumsy at the best of times, but without caffeine, I would probably trip into a
puddle, impale someone with my umbrella, or worse.

As
I walked toward the Davis Square subway, I realized that I would probably be
soaking wet by the time I reached the university. The rain fell fast and hard,
the wind blew toward me, and my umbrella and short coat provided limited
shielding.

Half
running, coffee in one hand, umbrella in the other, I reached the subway in
record time, damp but not soaked. Fortunately, my train roared into the station
just as I arrived, and I made it on board a second before the doors closed.

I
took a seat, inhaled a deep breath of relief, dropped the dripping umbrella
beside my feet, and took a sip of my now lukewarm coffee, which had
miraculously survived the journey.

The
subway car was half filled with the usual assortment of commuters. A teenager
in an olive-colored hoodie and a Red Sox cap listened to his iPod, elbows on
his knees, head down. A few seats down, two elderly women with empty canvas
totes and a folding metal cart were no doubt on their way to do some shopping.
A harried-looking man in a rumpled business suit texted on his Blackberry. A
young couple smiled at each other. Of slight build, with shaggy light brown
hair, he carried a backpack in addition to the sleeping child strapped to his
chest. Petite, with a chin-length blonde bob and a bright blue sweater, she
held on her lap a voluminous bag, likely stuffed with bottles and diapers.

Fortunately,
by the time I exited the subway, the rain had stopped. I made it to class with
five minutes to spare. The day’s class was easy. As one of a small fleet of
instructors teaching sections of Design I, I had eighteen students and a series
of assignments to take them through.

The
current assignment was collage, so I gave a brief demo illustrating how to use
a range of glues and adhesives. Then, I let the students work on their collage
projects. The three hours passed quickly, and soon I was on the train again,
gliding over the Charles River toward Kendall Square and an evening of
transcription.

Chapter
Six

When
I entered Perfect Transcripts, I was surprised to recognize Craig Manning
standing in front of Berta’s desk. At close range, he was even more gorgeous
than I had realized.

His
dark blue eyes made an unusual, piercing contrast with his flawless olive skin.
He was impeccably dressed in a fitted charcoal gray suit, paired with a
pristine white shirt, worn tieless with an unbuttoned collar. A trace of
stubble lined his strong jaw, and his slightly long black hair was attractively
tousled.

Neither
Berta nor Manning took any notice of my entrance, which was fine with me. The
entire space felt charged, electrified by his presence. I closed the door
quietly, not wanting to interrupt.

“What
you’re demanding is impossible. I simply don’t have the staff to get it all
done and proofed by Monday morning,” Berta was saying.

“Then
get more staff. Or have them work late. If you can’t meet my deadline, I’ll
take my business elsewhere.” His deep voice sounded like expensive chocolate
tasted: rich and silky, with an edge of darkness.

“Good
luck with that, Mr. Manning. Your business is your business, and you can take
it wherever you like, but Berta Klein will get it done faster and better than
anyone else. It’ll be done by close of business Tuesday night as we originally
agreed, unless you’re willing to pay a rush fee.”

“You
can have your rush fee, but I need the transcripts by Monday morning.”

“Double
the rush fee, and you’ll have them.”

“Fine,”
he said irritably. “You’ll get your money. But those transcripts had better be
on my desk by eight a.m. Monday.”

He
turned and stalked toward the door, his perfectly formed lips set in a hard
line. For a fleeting second, his intense blue gaze met my eyes. In that moment,
my wayward imagination spiraled through a series of unlikely images, mostly X-rated.
The door slammed behind him, and he was gone. Berta smiled expansively.

“Juliana,
come over here. Moxxxie! Bring everyone in from the back.”

Moxie
rushed in, followed by three women who she briefly introduced as Luanne, Sara,
and Crystal. Curious George trailed behind, scratching the back of his neck.

“Manning
Biotech is now rush status,” Berta said. “Fifteen dollars an hour. The office
will be open until midnight tonight through Sunday, and no one works on
anything but the Manning account. Any questions?”

Crystal,
a petite, thirtyish woman who just missed prettiness due to pale, fishy eyes
and a frizzy, aggressively highlighted bush of blonde hair, spoke up. “Does
that mean the office will be open all day Sunday?”

“Yes,
from 10 a.m. I’m counting on each of you to find at least ten extra hours that
you can work this week, on top of your current schedules. If the additional
hours put you into overtime, you’ll get time and a half, of course.”

Moxie
handed me my schedule, and I added every possible time slot. At this rate, the
November rent wouldn’t be a problem.

I
handed my revised schedule to Moxie. She glanced at it, and her eyebrows rose.
“Don’t kill yourself in your first week or anything,” she said.

“I
need the money, and appreciate the chance to work,” I replied, meaning it. With
the extra hours, maybe I could even start paying Duncan back sooner than I’d
planned. Between what I owed Duncan and my credit card, I was nearly three
thousand dollars behind, which was more than a little frightening.

We
returned to the transcription area and settled down to work. The audio Moxie
assigned me was clearly related to the Manning-Syngenomics lawsuit. While I
didn’t understand all the legal or medical details of what I transcribed, an
overall picture emerged.

Over
the past seven years, Manning Biotech had invested tremendous resources in the
development of an anti-cancer drug. The drug worked by blocking a specific
protein that existed on many types of cancer cells. This protein helped cancer
cells to hide from the immune system, and thereby survive. When the protein was
blocked, the immune system recognized and destroyed the cancer cells.

I
began to understand why biotech or pharmaceutical companies would compete to
bring such a drug to market. A drug that could use a patient’s own immune
system to kill cancer cells would have to be worth billions.

Checking
the time, I realized that ninety minutes had passed. Time to get up and
stretch. I decided to make myself a cup of tea, and headed for the breakroom.

Moxie
and Sara were sitting at the table. Sara’s small, neat body rested in one
orange chair, and her feet, encased in thick-soled, heavily buckled boots,
extended on another. Her light mocha skin and dark, almond-shaped eyes made an
attractive contrast with her green eye shadow and shoulder-length profusion of
tight black ringlets.
 
A few
contrasting locks near her face, dyed a brilliant hot pink, completed her funky
look.

“Moxie
tells me you’re a painter,” she said. “I’m a fashion designer, at least
theoretically. Transcription pays the bills.”

“Do
many artists work here?” I asked.

“We
have our share,” Moxie said. “The staff here turns over quite a bit, but we’re
generally one-third starving artists, one-third equally starving academics, and
one-third squirrels.”

“Squirrels?”
I said, not understanding.

“Squirrely
as in nutso. Cuckoo. Bats in the belfry. A few French fries short of a Happy
Meal. Like Curious George, or Luanne. Though at least Luanne can type. She’s a
religious freak. Quotes the Bible all the time. Her equally religious
ex-husband dumped her after three kids and thirty-six years of marriage for a
nineteen-year-old a few years ago. Asshole said Jesus came to him in a dream,
pointed the little slut out and told him she was the one. Personally, I think
something other than Jesus pointed the way.”

Sara
and I laughed hysterically.

“Moxie,
you’ve missed your calling,” Sara said. “You should be a comedienne on Saturday
Night Live or something, instead of a historian.”

“Luanne’s
been nice to me,” I said. “Sounds like her life hasn’t been easy.”

“She’s
nice enough, just bat-shit crazy.” Moxie changed the subject. “How about
today’s sighting of the deee-licious Mr. Craig Manning, girls? Speaking for
myself, the sight of his scrumptious ass never fails to brighten the day. Of
course, according to the interwebs, he’s dating a different actress or
supermodel every other week. But single is single, right?”

“You
know perfectly well that I prefer women, Moxie. Guys like that live on another
planet anyway,” Sara said. “Go after a nice, stable guy with a decent sense of
humor. That’s my advice.”

“You
think I should date someone nice and boring. That’s what you always say.” Moxie
grinned. “Sorry, Sara. Nice and boring just isn’t my cup of tea.”

Sara
grimaced. “I don’t know why I even bother. You’re a lost cause.”

“Come
on, you’re both right,” I said. “Craig Manning is drop-dead gorgeous.
Scrumptious, as Moxie put it. But he’s filthy rich, and guys like him really do
live in a different world. They’re used to having it all their way, all the
time.”

Moxie
rolled her eyes. “I’m just yanking your chain, girls. As it happens, I’ve got
my eye on one of the new security guards. Ex-marine. Obviously loves to work
out. Just my type.” Looking at her watch, she jumped up from her chair. “I’d
better get back to work. You too, if we’re going to finish this job on time.”