Exposed: A Book Bite

me in an abyss of copier machines and paperclips, too-cold office temps and over-spritzed cologne.
Five o’clock is never coming. This is where I die. Right here, in this desk chair that hurts my lower back and staring at these computer screens. Take me now, cruel deity, and spare me from the never-ending, soul-destroying horror of cube-life.
Just kill me. Kill me now.
“Hey nerd,” says a voice from the other side of my cube.
I roll my eyes and continue on with my work.
“I know you hear me, nerd.”
I sigh and spin away from my screen. Peeking around the wall of my cube is George Frump. And, yes, that’s really dude’s name.
“What’s up, dork?” I say.
George’s voice lowers conspiratorially as he stares intensely at me from behind his thick-lensed glasses. The light of the fluorescents reflects off his forehead, where his messy hair line is receding.
“I saw the video,” he says.
“The porno?” I ask.
I say this purely for the scarlet that flares to his jowly cheeks. He sputters a few times, trying to get a word out. “N-no,” he says, and his voice lowers still. “The other video. The one in the convenience store.”
Bless George’s heart, but he is the worst at picking up social cues.
Case in point: I swivel back around to face my computer. He keeps talking.
“So what are you?” he asks.
About to throat-kick you, George. That’s what I am.
“Buzz off, George,” Lucy says, popping her head over from the opposite wall of the cubicle. “Nobody likes you.”
George ignores her, changing the subject. “You guys hear about Karen Stansel?” he asks.
George is always on top of the rumor mill. I take the bait, hoping it’ll make him go away faster.
“What happened?” I ask.
George’s eyes gleam behind his glasses as he leans forward, making his chair groan beneath him. “Her husband and son showed up last week with a huge bouquet and balloons. Karen refused to see them, had Vince go to the front desk and send them away… Apparently, they exchanged some heated words.” His voice lowers conspiratorially. “I hear Vince and Karen have been banging for months,” he says. His eyebrows waggle. “Having an office affair.”
Lucy scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Get a life, George, and maybe you won’t be so wrapped up in other people’s business. Also, for the love of all that is holy, never say the word ‘banging’ in my presence again.”
George and Lucy hate each other, so it’s no surprise when George grumbles unpleasant things and disappears back around to his side of the cube wall.
I shoot Lucy a grateful look, and she winks at me before disappearing, too. I turn back to my computer, ready to pick up where I left off when my phone buzzes.
Picking it up, I see I have a message from my cousin, Hera. It’s about her mating ceremony tonight.
Shit. I’d totally forgot about it. She wants to know if I’m still coming.
Gods know I don’t want to. The day has been long enough as it is. But I love both Hera and Henry, and I don’t want to hurt their feelings by not showing up.
I grit my teeth and force myself to text back.
I’ll be there.
Great. Now I can’t decide if I want five o’clock to come or not. The last thing I want to do is see every person in my extended family, right after my true identity has been revealed to the world.
Just thinking about what they’ll say when I see them threatens anxiety, so I shove the matter away for later.
I start to lose myself in my work, only to be jarred away by something else.
This time, it isn’t an annoying coworker or a group of entitled men. In fact, the feeling is so out of place in the office setting that it takes me a moment to reconcile it.
But though I live that white-collar life, I’m a predator beneath the clean finish, and there is no denying the sensation.
The ripple of energy I sense is fear. Pure and unadulterated. A half heartbeat later, Lucy’s head pops back around the divider.
Our eyes lock. We confirm our thoughts without needing words.
Yeah, I felt it, too.
Three heartbeats following that—gunshots.

8 3:15 p.m.
For a single breath, the world stops.
Nothing stirs and no one moves save for the tiny hairs that rise along the back of my neck and over my arms.
Then, some faceless person from another cube says in an almost whisper that is somehow loud enough to be heard by all, “What was that?”
There is no time to answer before more shots ring out, eliciting gasps and yelps from some of the others. The shots are coming from the first floor, I think, but that’s only separated from where we are by a staircase and a hallway.
I’m barely completing this thought when panic ensues.
All of a sudden, everyone is out of their chairs, staring at each other over the dividers with matching confused faces that are rapidly melting into horror. The logical part of our minds knows what is happening—workplace and school shootings are a damn epidemic in America these days—but those kinds of things happen in other places, to other people. They don’t show up on your personal front door.
Until they do.
Now the stench of fear permeates. The wolf in me perks up in response, and a glance at Lucy tells me that the fire demon is reacting the same way. We’re creatures of chaos by nature, no doubt part of the reason we get along.
“We have to get out of here,” says Mary Ann, a middle aged woman who’s fond of long, gray skirts and loose shirts, and always smells like cheese.
Lucy and I exchange a look that says, No shit, Sherlock.
Some people start running toward the exits, while others crawl under their desks or dart toward the supply closets. Still more people just sit there, staring into space as if they’ve lost the ability to compute thoughts.
I draw a breath. There are nearly one hundred and fifty people who work in this building, and half