Temping is Hell Read Free

stuff.” Maggie sniffed. “So do that.”
    Kate walked over to the desk, picked up one of the “questionnaires” that was littered across the surface. “Wait… these are all hand written?”
    “Yes,” Maggie said. “So?”
    So why didn’t you have everyone fill out an electronic form that was searchable? Kate thumbed through the paperwork. There were easily four pages full of everything—salary, social security numbers, passwords, you name it. All stacked haphazardly in boxes in an out-of-the-way, unlocked closet.
    Nice and secure.
    No question: “Ms. Maggie” was an idiot.
    “What if someone has to change something?” Kate asked, appalled.
    “They can fill out a new form,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, Kate, it’s not that difficult. Some people even filled it out in pencil, so they could erase it if they had to.”
    Kate bit her lip. “All right. I can make up a phone directory.” It shouldn’t take that long, she reasoned.
    “For all these,” Maggie said, gesturing to the boxes.
    Kate swallowed. Okay, strike that. It would take that long. “Um… when do you want it done?”
    Maggie looked at her watch, then smiled, like a cat toying with a half-dead mouse.
    “By the time I get in tomorrow will be fine.” Maggie’s eyes gleamed. “If you’re the whiz you claim to be, that should be more than enough time. And if you’re not… well, I don’t know how well you’re going to work out at Fiendish, dear. We expect a lot.”
    “What, by nine in the morning? Tomorrow?” Kate echoed. Or I’m going to get fired?
    “Eight forty-five,” Maggie corrected. “Guess you’re going to be crazy busy today, too, hmm?”
    …
    Thomas Kestrel had become a millionaire by the time he was eighteen years old, a billionaire by thirty. He was said to be one of the smartest, savviest, street-wise, self-made businessmen to hit the country in a century.
    And here I am, lost in my own office building.
    He scowled as he tried taking another turn. In his defense, he’d only transferred to the new headquarters a day ago; he’d been too busy tying up loose ends in the old building in North Carolina, including its demolition. And the labyrinthine design of the new headquarters, while deliberate and mystic and supposedly full of protective chi or some such, was also a real pain in the ass to figure out.
    He was getting ready to stoop to using his phone’s GPS when he heard the strange noises. There was a ribbon of light spooling out from the bottom of a closed doorway.
    His heart started pounding.
    Who the hell is in my building at this time of night?
    He approached cautiously. Fiendish Headquarters was built specifically to be an impregnable fortress, in more ways than one, but he knew better than to let his guard down.
    “My anaconda don’t want none unless she’s got BUNS, hon… ”
    His eyes widened.
    Apparently, whoever was skulking around at one in the morning was a Sir Mix-a-Lot fan.
    He opened the door cautiously, peering inside. The woman he saw was thin, maybe five-six, wearing an ugly gray-green blouse and a shapeless khaki skirt. That alone told him she didn’t work for Fiendish. His employees wore strictly Fiendish Fashion clothing, and he’d know if they sold anything that damned ugly. She had long, ruby red hair pulled up into a haphazard ponytail, with straggling curls escaping.
    She was also “shaking her money maker,” every now and then, shutting a file cabinet drawer with one jaunty hip shimmy.
    “. . .baby got baaaaaaaacccck! ” she shrieked, finally catching sight of him.
    He couldn’t help himself. He grinned broadly. She had square framed glasses that were slipping down on a cute nose. She looked like an absent minded librarian, or a vaguely frumpy co-ed. She held up a stapler like she meant business.
    “Um, hi. Just heard somebody singing, thought I’d investigate.” He held out his hand. “I’m Thomas.”
    “Hi. I’m mortified.” Putting down the stapler, she