Ash to Steele by Karen-Anne Stewart Read Free Book Online Page A

alarm blares, but I get up anyway; fifteen minutes will do nothing to shake the exhaustion from my bones.  Almost an hour and a half later, I’m chugging my coffee, wishing I could inject the caffeine directly into my veins, or that I had at least thought to have brought the entire pot with me.
       “Mr. Harris is chewing nails, ready to spew them at the next person he sees,” Braden warns in hushed tones, smiling as I walk by his desk.
       “What else is new?” I smirk before yawning.
       “Late night?”
       “Yeah, and not nearly enough happy juice.”
       “I figured you’d be dragging yourself in here dog tired again,” Braden winks, handing me a steaming cup of my favorite blend from the coffee shop down the street. 
       “Thank you!” I give my superior a grateful smile as I take a long sip.  “It’s on me next time we go.”
       “No problem, just thought you might need it.”
       “You thought right.  Thanks, again.”
       “Ms. Jones, nice of you to join us this morning,” Mr. Harris glares down at me from his imposing six-five frame. 
       Despite being ten minutes early, I keep my mouth shut.  It does no good to point out the obvious with my impetuously cranky boss, no matter how nicely I present it.
       “The editor will be in my office in a half hour.  I expect you to hand in your work to me ready and presentable for me to show him,” he barks.
       Always am and always is.  “Yes, sir.”  
       Mr. Harris walks away without any of the usual pleasantries decent people bestow before leaving. 
       “Such an ass,” Braden cracks, bumping my shoulder. 
       Mr. Harris is my head superior while Braden is the department superior, and there’s a huge difference between their ways of managing.  Tipping my coffee cup at Braden, I make my way to my desk before Mr. Harris’ wrath is thrust my way.  My computer comes to life as I pull my drawings from the bag Dad bought mom for her thirtieth birthday when she decided she was going to go back to work after I started first grade.  Mom was one of those Super Moms, always gracefully juggling a million things at once.  I inherited her chestnut hair, but that’s all of her that was passed down to me.  Between working two jobs and painting, I’m barely able to hold myself together, much less a family like she did.  Mom only had one job, but being a social worker required long hours, sometimes unpredictable hours.  She was always there for Dad and me, never missing one of my plays or school parties.
       I gently rub the leather between my fingers before hanging the bag on the back of my chair and getting to work.  Carefully inspecting the drawings, I smile, satisfied with how they turned out and feeling confident the editor will approve of them.  Mr. Harris, he’s a different story. He never likes anything I present, but I’ve learned to not take it personally; he doesn’t like anything that anyone presents. 
       “You’re up, Emma,” Braden taps the top of the half-wall cubicle.  “Maybe your derriere will still be in one piece when you leave.  I’m not sure I have anything left to sit on.”
       “Your articles are the most popular piece of the paper. Don’t let him get to you,” I encourage. 
       “Always the encouraging one,” he teases.  “Want to grab some lunch later?”
       “I brought mine today, but thanks.”
       “You should go out every once in awhile; that’s the only joy of working at Shallonelles, getting to escape for an hour every day,” Braden jokes as I muse how he is unlike any boss I’ve ever had, very relaxed and open.
       Mr. Harris’ gruff voice interrupts the conversation, “Ms. Jones, I’m waiting!”
       “Time is an elusive concept for him isn’t it?” I laugh, shuffling the drawings into the folder before heading into the 7:30 meeting at 7:15.
     
       The wind whips around the corner of the building at what feels like sub-zero