Side Effects May Include 1

One

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Dodge muttered, as he passed me the pile of papers he’d been handed in the standard take-one-and-pass-it-on gesture efficient people were so fond of.

We were in a long line populated by mangy looking students, waiting to be either admitted or turned away from a drug trial program – yes, we were that desperate for rent money. Given the steady stream of people trudging past us back down the line to the outer door with sour expressions and as they emitted disgruntled mutters, though, it seemed apparent that they had a much more extensive selection criteria than simply “able bodied and open minded” like they’d listed on the flyer. Each carried a text book of some description and was in various degrees of unkemptness.

“They must have advertised in the campus cafeterias,” I mused aloud, ignoring his complaints, the last thing I needed to do was encourage him. “And the bars,” I added as the latest discarded hopeful staggered past in that zigzagging pattern consistent only with severe inner ear infections, and drunkenness.

He was followed in swift succession by a woman who was quite obviously pregnant. She must not have even made it into the inner sanctum before being cast off.

We snorted in unified derision. That’s what I love about friends, you can be disgusted in people out loud without having to worry about offending anyone you’re hanging out with. Nobody likes that awkward moment when they look at you with a that was so cold look on their face.

“Did she really think she’d be accepted to a drug trial in her condition?” Dodge scoffed, seeming to relax into our tried and true, people mocking routine with surprising ease for a man who was opposed to the very idea of today’s purpose. I was grateful, though, because if I had to put up with his constant complaints and mutterings any longer I’d probably have to shoot him in the face... next time we played paintball. Since that’s the only time I’m ever allowed near a gun.

I linked my arm with his, leaning back against the wall beside him and tilting my head to his shoulder. “I’m really glad you’re doing this with me,” I told him.

“What good am I to you if I don’t share the experience of poisoning my body with unstable drugs that do God only knows what,” he replied, so tense that it was as if his jaw was wired shut. Even his lip movements were kept to a minimum as he glared at the foul smelling guy that walked passed.

“I’ll get you a salad on our way back to work to make up for it,” I assured him. I’d had to resort to blackmail to get Roger “Dodge” Benson, health nut and fitness fanatic, to agree to the trial.

I’d been late to work, bursting through the double glass doors of the lobby in a cloud of heat, humidity and hair and, like always, he was there waiting for me. I’m pretty sure he stalks the entrance waiting for my arrival just so that he could lecture me on the importance of punctuality. That and if he was there to announce to me that I was late he would get to here another one of my ridiculous excuses.

Which are hilarious, if I do say so myself. And I do.

On this particular occasion, I’d been trying to decide between the truth, which was unbelievable enough, since it involved an unicyclist. Or one of the excuses I’d written down in the little blue book I kept in my handbag. I’d just decided that he would never in a million years believe that I’d been knocked into a rare mud puddle by an out of control unicyclist, landing hard enough on my wrist to warrant a trip to the closest doctor and have it strapped up good an proper, and was pulling out my list of excuses when Dodge stepped up in front of me.

His light brown waves were tamed with the usual amount of hair gel – I’m pretty sure it’s three tubes per strand – and his immaculate uniform practically sparkled with cleanliness in comparison to my own mud splattered, wrinkled, and dishevelled clothing. Travelling his keen grey eyes over my person, he took a small step back, as if afraid that I would somehow transmit dirt across the two feet between us. That was the thing about Dodge, he may not be your typical gay, but he was still opposed to dirt when he wasn’t on the football field.

That’s right, football. My theory is, he plays football for the same reasons straight men dance. They get up close and personal with the opposite – or, in Dodge’s case, same – sex and on the occasion, there will be the necessity for them to get changed in front of you. It was a solid theory dating back to, well, I don’t know for sure, but the evidence was clear that if it weren’t working in the scoring dates department, it was at least satisfying an intimacy need. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that I had the hand eye co-ordination five year old and was more accident prone than Steve Urkel, I’d probably join the football team as well. As it was, though, the guys tend to take their practice to the other end of the field when they here I’m coming to watch. It’s like my presence somehow guarantees someone is going to get hurt.

Lucky for them, though, the odds that it is ever someone other than me is pretty slim. Not impossible. But slim.

“Late again, Bea,” Dodge informed me as I attempted to make myself invisible and sidle past him. It clearly wasn’t working as well as I planned, because his gaze followed me for a few feet before his body joined in as I continued toward the locker room. “That’s the third time this week.”

“And it’s only Wednesday,” I pointed out with forced cheer. “At least I’m consistent.”

He rolled his eyes at me. I was not off to a good start.

Dodge wasn’t my boss in any way shape or form, but he was the guy I reported to, even if it was just because he’d made it his duty long ago that he would keep me on task. He was built like a star athlete with rock hard abs and the kind of chiselled jaw you find in nineteen- fifties black and white movies. And he was staring at the back of my head as I walked, I could just feel those stormy grey eyes boring holes through my protective layer of curls. He didn’t approve of my choice of outfit of black Capri pants, a sheer, sleeveless top and knock off converse sneakers, but he approved of the dishevelled state of my clothes even less.

“What was it this time?” he asked, raising a single eyebrow at me as if to say he didn’t believe my story already. “An alien invasion on main-street? Gold fish has menopause? Dog died?”

I slid my bag into my locker and began unbuttoning my top in order to swap it for the mostly clean work shirt I kept in my locker. I didn’t bother to turn away from Dodge or hide myself in anyway, since I knew he wasn’t interested in my body the way other men were. The most Dodge would do was suggest a new moisturiser or offer to plan a workout routine to get rid of my love handles.

“If you must know,” I stated, pulling the shirt over my head. “I was captured by the Borg and reliably informed that resistance was futile.” As I rifled through my handbag in search of deodorant, my hand landed on a piece of paper and I pulled it out instead. “Check it out, though,” I said enthusiastically, “I found the solution to this month’s rent.”

He took the flyer from me and gave it a sceptical once over before reading it allowed to me. “Wanted: Volunteers for an experimental drug trial lead by the University of Romdan’s Medical Sciences Department. Successful candidates must be able bodied and open minded.” Dodge looked up from the page. “I dunno, Bea,” he said, “It sounds a bit like, ‘Hey they let us play with chemicals in the lab and now we wanna test our creations on you!’” He shuddered to make his point.

“But it’s five hundred bucks,” I pointed out, indicating the next section of text. “All we have to do is turn up, sign a waiver, they give us a pep talk and hand over the drugs. We keep a diary of how we feel each day, let them know of any side effects I experience. And we don’t have to worry about whether we’re gonna get enough hours here to cover rent and food for the rest of the month.”

I snatched up the deodorant and sprayed it all over in an attempt to mask the vaguely swampy smell that was clinging to me before making my way back to out into the office where my desk was waiting patiently for me to arrive.

“Is this even ethical?” he asked, following close behind me once more. I should have known he wouldn’t let it go so easily. Sometimes he was worse than my mother in the nagging department, and let me tell you, my mother is a master nagger.

“Who cares?” I retorted. “I need five hundred bucks.” I began sorting through my inbox one handed, avoiding his gaze as I piled all the copy jobs on my keyboard. “Besides, it’s totes probably just some new mixed vitamin or that super duper krill oil that wears capes and rescues your joints from danger or whatever. They’re not gonna test out the hardcore stuff on the unsuspecting public.”

“Then why haven’t they called it a Vitamin Trial?” Dodge asked, sliding behind the desk behind me and pulling a file folder closer to him.

I shrugged as I returned the other papers to the tray to be dealt with later. “Drug trial sounds cooler,” I informed him. “I would never be interested in a vitamin trial. You know I have a carefully balanced diet of junk and slop provided to me by fast food retailers, vending machines and the ready-made microwave meals in the cold section of the supermarket. I don’t want to mess that up.”

“How do you even find the energy to button your pants in the morning?” Dodge teased, reaching over to poke my only slightly pudgy belly. “I can’t’ believe you’re not the size of a house.”

I punched his arm, which provided more pain to me than to him. “I can’t believe you were lecturing me on being late and now you’re saying I’m fat.” I tossed the papers from on top of my keyboard into my little photocopying tub and made my way across the cluttered space that was our communal office to the tiny room at the back that housed my best friend, the photocopier.

I may be hopeless at almost everything I do, including dressing myself and maintaining a healthy lifestyle, but copying is the exception that proves the rule. When it came to copying, you name it and I could do it. I could do double sided, colour background title page, stapled at the side, colour printing, enlarging, shrinking, enhancing resolution. If there was a paper jam I could fix it. If it was out of toner, I was the only one in the office who knew how to refill it.

In short, I was the copy queen. Any copying that needed to be done, no matter how big or small, was put in my in-tray with a description of what was needed, usually not in technical terms, and I returned the completed jobs to their pigeon holes as they were completed. It had gotten to the stage that when we were ordering new name badges they’d suggested I actually make the title of Copy Queen official by having it under my name.

Beatrix Cooper

Office Assistant/Copy Queen

But, of course, the big boss hadn’t seen the need to do such a thing and I was just a plain old office assistant. Until Dodge had made up a sticky label to go on my badge.

Speaking of Dodge, he had forsaken his data entries to follow on my heels once more. Giving me an affectionate shove, he hopped up onto the table beside the machine and crossed his legs to watch me work my magic. “I’d never accuse you of being fat,” he assured me, continuing the conversation I thought we’d ended when I walked away from him. “Lazy, maybe. But never fat. And I’m confiscating this flyer. I don’t need you going off and getting yourself all drugged up before work.”

“That’s okay,” I replied cheerfully, tapping the little screen on the side of the machine. “You can keep it. I already saved the deets in my phone, and you’re gonna need a copy of them so you know the where’s and when’s of it.”

“I’m not going, Bea,” he stated firmly.

I sent him an innocent smile, hitting go and wriggling up beside him on the table, my swinging my legs back and forth like a third grader sitting on the top of the monkey bars. “Are you sure about that?” I asked him. “Because I seem to remember a certain hot date you had last month with a guy you were too insecure to approach. Who was it that chatted him up and introduced you again?"

His usually mildly pleasant expression turned to storm clouds as he glared at me. “You,” he grumbled reluctantly, crossing his arms over his chest. “But it didn’t last.”

“Ah,” I murmured knowingly. “But what was it you told me as he was leading you out of the club?”

“Alright, fine,” he gave in, dropping his arms to his side in a huff as he simultaneously clenched his fists, crinkling the flyer he still held. “I’ll do it with you, but you have to start jogging with me three mornings a week.” With that he was off the table and out of my sight, no doubt deliberately giving me no chance to protest. He knew I was morally opposed to mindless exercise. I couldn’t just jog for the sake of jogging. I needed motivation. Like jogging to the mall to get some cute new jogging shoes. Or jogging to the KFC on Green Street to get some popcorn chicken. Needless to say, Dodge didn’t approve of my view point. Unless he got cute new shoes as well.

Oh! That sparked an idea. I totes knew what I was getting him for his birthday this year. New shoes. What gay man doesn’t love new shoes?

“It has to be a real salad,” Dodge informed me, dragging me back to the present as we approached the door to the inner sanctum. “Not one of those limp imposters they sell at fast food restaurants.”

A few minutes passed, during which time we bantered back and forth about the various states of the salads I’d forced him to eat over the years, and before we knew it, it was Dodge’s turn to follow the nurse back. He gave me a peck on the cheek, silently letting me know that things were okay between us, despite the fact that I was forcing him to go against his self-mandated health code. I hugged him back in thanks before settling back into the wall.

“Nothing says love like a shared drug experience,” came a wistful voice from beside me as Dodge disappeared behind the unmarked door.

I glanced to the side and nearly fell over with shock. Here in the same hall as me, standing not three feet away, was the same unicyclist that two days ago had knocked me into the mud puddle. What were the odds of meeting the same stranger twice in one week? I took in his dark, nearly black hair and hazel eyes framed by rectangular glasses. A little more stubble graced his jaw line and his clothes were cleaner, but it was definitely the same person.

An easy grin spread across his lips, revealing pristine, pearly white teeth one by one. “I’ll save you the embarrassment of admitting you’ve forgotten my name so soon and remind you it’s -.”

“Riley,” I interrupted quickly. “I didn’t forget. I just didn’t expect to see you here.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m nothing if not a diligent stalker, Beatrix Cooper.”

A gasp left my throat before I could stop it. I hadn’t told him my full name when he’d run me over. There’d been no need to. The only reason I could see for how he’d possibly know it was if he was indeed stalking me. “How did you know my-,” I started to ask, my eyes widened in horror, but he cut me off this time.

“Relax,” he chuckled. “It’s on your application form.” I looked down at the pages I held in my hand. My name was indeed displayed clearly on the front within full view of his prying eyes. “No offense, but you and your boyfriend don’t really fit in with the crowd this drug trial is drawing,” he added before I could comment. “Too well dressed.” He travelled his gaze back down the line examining the ratty t-shirts and baggy jeans, the dreadlocks, and the bare feet. “Most of these people would only wear clothes like that for funerals.”

“What about church?” I countered, ignoring the fact that he’d called Dodge my boyfriend, he didn’t need to know that Dodge was just a friend... and definitely not straight anyway.

He scoffed at me, flipping his hair off his forehead with a large, tan hand. “University kids that are willing to take experimental drugs for money don’t go to church, Trixie,” he informed me.

Involuntarily, I shuddered. No had called me that since sixth grade. I loathed being called Trixie. The name conjured images of fifteen year old bottle-blondes in tight, bright pink miniskirts and too much lip gloss giggling over a mean prank they just pulled on the red headed, freckled geek that sat alone in the lunch room. Hollywood had ruined that nickname for me.

“If you’re going to shorten my name, stick with the first half,” I requested coolly.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, grin still in place. “Did I touch a nerve?”

Rather than dignify that with a response, I returned to my prior position leaning against the wall to wait. Dodge had been in there longer than most other people in the line before us, which was promising, I assumed, since they hadn’t immediately rejected him and sent him back out. I was starting to think how funny it would be if he got accepted and I didn’t when Riley spoke once again.

“So what do you do for a living?” he asked, moving to lean next to me. “I’m gonna guess, secretary.”

“Bump bow,” I buzzered. “I’m an office assistant.”

“Close enough,” Riley pointed out. “Where at?”

Rolling my eyes, I turned so that only my shoulder was in contact with the wall as I faced him. There was a clause in company policy where office assistants could only announce where we work if it was absolutely necessary. Some people might think that’s insane, because word of mouth is like free advertising for the ears. But my boss wasn’t exactly the most personable person, and the less he had to deal with stupid people wanting security advice for their trailer on bricks, the better. We had a wide enough client base with the government contracts and the wealthy business men.

“I’m not allowed to tell you,” I said after a brief – very brief – consideration. Of course this served to gain his full attention, which was just what I needed. He raised his eyebrows at me and shrugged. “It’s classified.”

“You work for S.H.I.E.L.D or something?” he asked with an amused expression as he pushed off the wall, seeming to get excited by this mystery I’d presented him with.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told him. “SHIELD is a fictional organisation that deals with persons of special abilities and demigods. To believe I am working for them is absolutely juvenile.”

A smirk spread across his face. “You know an awful lot about SHIELD for someone who doesn’t work for them,” he informed me, crossing his arms over his t-shirted chest. “Are you sure you didn’t just over-share?”

“You think because I’m a woman I can’t keep secrets?” I accused, propping my fists on my hips as I, too, straightened from the wall.

“No,” he said, stepping closer so that he was mere inches from me. “I think that because you’re a woman working in what appears to be a secretive corporation, I should stick close to you.” At that moment, I heard the door open behind me, signalling that it was my turn to play follow the nurse. “Looks like lover boy was successful,” Riley said, looking over my shoulder. “I bet he’s thrilled about that.” Gripping my shoulders, he spun me around and shoved me in the direction of the nurse who was waiting by the door with a clipboard. “See you in there,” he said.

“You might find it a bit difficult to follow me home, Mr. Walker,” I called over my shoulder with a smirk. “Iron Man offered to give me a lift.”



Two

Everything was like a whirlwind once I had breached the inner sanctum. I was ushered into a curtained cubicle and instructed to strip down to my bra and panties so that the – thankfully, female – nurse could inspect every square inch of my body while I stood spread eagle in the middle of the space. She shone a pen light in my ears, eyes, nose and mouth, making vague uh-hmmm noises in her throat as she did so. I had never felt more exposed in my life as I tried to remember the last time I’d cleaned my ears and blown my nose. The only saving grace was that she requested neither a rectal exam nor my weight.

When she was done, she pressed a stamp to my hand and told me to dress and follow the arrows on the floor to the next section. There, I was given a vaccine and a bottle of chewable vitamins. Maybe it was a vitamin trial after all.

Next I was lead to a small office containing only a desk, a laptop and one chair on either side of the desk. Oh, and a skinny man in blue scrubs who reminded me of praying mantis. He used his incredibly long arm to gesture to the spare chair in invitation and then swiftly remove the application from my fingers.

“You understand that by agreeing to this trial you are subjecting yourself to the possibility of potentially embarrassing or temporarily debilitating side effects and in so doing waive your right to take legal action against the University of Romdan for any such occurrences?” he questioned in a bored monotone.

I blinked hard, twice, processing his words at a much slower pace than usual, simply because I had been expecting a series of click to come from his mouth rather than actual words. “I understand,” I carefully.

“Do you have any pre-existing medical conditions that require medications that could possibly interfere with the workings of the drugs you are agreeing to trial for us?” he asked, sounding no more thrilled.

Crossing one leg over the other, an idea occurred to me and I decided to have a little fun with him. I pegged him for a volunteering intern, barely equipped with the necessary knowledge to do what he’d been appointed to do. And he had clearly been asking the same question with the same standard answers all day, so what would he do when presented with a rare – made up – disorder? “I have Klutsism,” I said seriously, managing to keep a straight face as he blinked up at me. He was actually confused by my statement. Score one to me.

“I, uh,” he murmured, looking between me, his laptop and the door. “I don’t know what that is.”

Shaking my head, I explained, “It’s a disorder that affects many parts of my body.” He nodded his understanding, tenuous though it may be, typing quickly into the computer. As I watched, he raised his mantis hand and waved me on, silently requesting more information. “It mainly manifests in my inner ear, my eyes and feet,” I said, spinning out the lie. More nodding, I could practically see his mind reeling from all this information. Probably, he was going to try and use this for his next assignment and then personally track me down with angry, hateful words when he realised I’d made the whole thing up.

“What are the symptoms?” he asked with much more animation in his voice now. He shoulders were curved forward and there was a crease forming between his brows.

“I lose my balance easily,” I listed. “I tend to not see things until the last moment, causing me to run into them. I trip over my feet a lot.” I paused a moment, as if considering the information. “I suppose it just makes me overall accident prone.”

Finally looking up from the screen as I stopped talking, he asked, “Are you on any medication for this condition?”

Suppressing a smile, I leaned forward in my chair, resting my elbows on my knees. “Nope,” I informed him, popping the p at the end.

“Alright,” he said, standing and picking up a yellow marker which he then used to highlight a small empty box at the top of my application. He then selected grey marker and instructed me to hold out my stamped hand where he wrote the word yellow just above the ink. “Please proceed to the end of the hall and enter the lecture hall located on the left hand side of the corridor. Dr. Steinburg will be through shortly to begin orientation on the first batch of volunteers. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Once out in the hall, I checked that I was alone before doing a spastic little happy dance, celebrating the fact that I – and presumably, Dodge as well – had been accepted into the program and was going to be able to pay my bills in full this month. My eyes were shut, my head thrashing from side to side, sending my rampant curls in a crazy little dance of their own, when my shin collided with a chair that had been left in the hall. Biting my lip to keep from crying out in pain, I quickly strode down the corridor and pushed through the heavy wooden doors to reveal large lecture theatre beyond, complete with tiered seating, large white boards and a handful of people scattered throughout the first ten rows of seats.

I scanned the unfamiliar faces carefully one by one before finally locating Dodge, slumped in the middle of the tenth row. It was very unlike him to slouch so much, so I could only assume he was less than happy about the fact that he’d made it through. I, on the other hand, had to suppress another ill-fated happy dance as I bounded up the stairs to join him.

Dodge had been my best friend since the eighth grade when he’d picked me up out of a mess that had previously been known as my lunch, until I tripped and it decided to jump up and hit me in the face and chest. He’d taken one look at my stained t-shirt and handed me his jacket to wear.

It had been best friends at first rescuing, but of course, even back then we’d constantly been mistaken for being romantically involved. This was okay, given the constant bullying the openly gay kids received.

Plopping down in the seat next to him, I tried to wipe the excited grin off my face, but it just wasn’t happening. For the next couple of weeks I wasn’t going to have to worry about money. I was getting decent hours at work, and with this extra five hundred in each of our pockets, we might actually be able to afford name brand cheese for a change.

I leaned over, propping my elbows on the crazy little half-desk thing attached to Dodge’s chair, trying to hide the grin that was fighting to reach my lips.

“Stop looking so happy and adorable,” he grumbled at me, tugging one of my wayward curls roughly. “I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“You’ll never guess who was behind me in line,” I stated, trying to distract him from his attempted hate. I’d lived through enough of his petty anger to know that if I wanted to leave the apartment unscathed ever again, I needed to steer him away from the negative feelings he was conjuring up.

Once, I had accidentally turned his favourite white shirt pink in the wash because I hadn’t adhered to his racist colours-whites separation rules and he’d glared at me non-stop for two weeks. It was the most unnerving fourteen days of my entire life.

“George Clooney?” he guessed, perking up a little.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Dodge. George Clooney needs five hundred bucks, so he’s selling his body to science.” With a sigh, he slouched back down, directing a hateful stare at the front of the room. “It was the unicyclist,” I told him in a what are the odds? tone of voice. “He was right there in line for the drug trial!”

At this announcement his head snapped around to pin me with his stormy grey eyes. “You mean the unicyclist who knocked you over, warranting the trip to the doctor’s office where you found the flier for this very drug trial which you insisted I participate in with you?” he questioned quickly.

I nodded in reply, my hopes rising that he would enjoy such a coincidence as much as I did.

“I hate him,” he stated flatly, returning his eyes to the front.

And there went my hopes, plummeting to the ground and beyond like a meteor crashing into the earth from outer space and digging itself a large crater to hole up in.

Admitting temporary defeat, I turned back around to sit properly in my seat and await the beginning of orientation in silence.

*

The break room at work was pretty much empty an hour later as we entered with salads so full of health they cause a shudder of disgust to run down my spine. There was too much green leafiness in my plastic bowl for my liking. And not a single gram of the fatty faux meats I loved so dearly. While Dodge carried the bag to the small table in the corner near the kitchenette, I made a beeline for refrigerator and my stash of sliced pepperonis. I also grabbed my secret bottle of full fat, high calorie salad dressing from the back of the shelf where it lay hidden behind all its low fat counterparts.

Hiding food in the fridge was frowned upon, especially by Dodge, who had to deal with me doing it at home as well at work – the amount of times he’d thrown out my sugary treats when I wasn’t looking was truly distressing – but I just could not exist on a diet of rabbit food and bird seed. I needed the least healthy option on the menu and if there was nothing unhealthy in building, I was pretty sure I’d die.

Dodge showed his health diligence by ignoring me as I doctored up my salad until it was almost as bad for me as my usual meals. At least I could pretend it was unhealthy. When I was finished, he erected a barrier between our bowls so that a) he couldn’t see my blasphemy (out of sight, out of mind and all that jazz) and b) my abomination could not infect his pristine vegetable patch in a bowl. It was as if its very presence on the same as he was eating would add inches to his waist; which I had to admit I often fantasised about.

At the very end of the orientation talk the medical staff had split the twenty or so people gathered in the lecture hall into groups based on the colour the praying mantis intern had scribbled on our hands in order to hand out our drugs. It turned out that there were several different drugs they were testing out in this trial and the rather invasive ordeal we’d had to endure before making it to the lecture hall was them deciding which drug we were best suited for.

Dodge and I had been split up, and as such I had been dying to ask what kind of drug he’d been given since we met up again outside the Medical Sciences building. I thought it might be best, however, to wait until he had been placated by the soothing sensations of salad.

“So what did you get?” I asked casually.

Concentrating on his food as he forked another mouthful in, he silently reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pill bottle that on first glance looked almost identical to the one I had received. Around my latest wad of substandard food stuffs, I read aloud from the label on the side.

“Increases Stamina,” I announced. “That should be good for you. You’re always saying how you wish you could get more out of a day. Now you can. If you have more stamina you get more done, right?”

Rolling his eyes, he tapped on the bottle still in my hand, indicating that I should keep going.

“Take one pill four times a day immediately after food.” Nothing seemed out of place there, so I moved to the next section. My interest peaked when I saw the bold lettering of the words Warning! Side effects may include. I had to check my glee as I began to list the horrible and occasionally not so horrible things that could happen to Dodge from taking this experimental medication. “Rashes, Bloating, Athlete’s Foot, Hair Thinning, Unexplained Cravings, Impaired Depth Perception, Excessive Body Odour, Insomnia, Split Ends, Extra Limbs, Mild Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Cramps, Hair Growth.”

I couldn’t help it, by the time I was finished reading the list, I could barely sit up straight because of the laughter convulsing my frame. The thought of Dodge suffering through any of these side effects was just too rich for words. Dodge, who was always so meticulous about his personal appearance, could be a rashie, bloated and smelly OCDer for the duration of the program. I was so excited.

“It’s not funny,” he grumbled, snatching the bottle off me and stuffing back in his pocket. “You have no idea how much this could kill my reputation with the guys at the gym.”

“Okay, okay,” I gasped, at last gaining control over myself and reaching into my handbag to hand him my own bottle of pills. “Here, make fun of mine.”

Before he could so much as open his mouth, Emily, the communications manager, poked her head around the doorjamb.

With her blonde hair pulled back into a perpetual bun, her crisp white blouses tucked into her high waisted pencil skirts and her sensible heels, Emily reminded me of a less frumpy high school headmistress. Always perfectly groomed and professional looking. Add to this the permanent attachment that was her hands free earpiece and the PDA that was practically glued to her hand, and she was quite possibly one of the most imposing and authoritative people I had the pleasure of being friends with.

And she was always in the loop.

Anything that was said through the official company communication lines was submitted to her inspection in some way. Whether it was transmitted directly into her ear, such as the case was with the walkie-talkies that were used between team members when carrying out operations, or forwarded to her email as were all company emails and transcripts of every single phone conversation. How she found enough time to read it all was beyond me, but if there was something going on, she knew about it. Emily was like God.

Or Santa Claus.

“Just a heads up,” she announced. “The Squad is on their way back from a sting. They were talking about grabbing food.”

The Squad was made up of burly men employed for the express purpose of bullying others into complying with the law. A morally ambiguous group, they had been known to threaten extreme harm to close family members, and if the rumours were true, carry out those threats, in order to get their way.

Not to mention they were cocky as all get out.

It was a well known fact that if you required the use of your dignity, it was best to clear the corridors when their arrival was imminent. If they discovered you in their path, they would take great pleasure in challenging you to a recap of your day so that they could shame you with the retelling of their latest adventure before reefing your underwear up over your head and hanging you from the lighting fixtures.

Okay, so they didn’t really do the wedgie thing, but it was well within their character if this was middle school.

Lucky for us mere computer monkeys, though, we had Emily to sound the warning. We didn’t do too well at fire evacuations, but yell, “Squad Incoming!” and we were squared away at our desks, out of sight within thirty seconds.

I was in motion before I’d even fully processed her words, slinging my handbag over my shoulder and snatching up my lunch on my way to the door. Dodge was right on my heels as we made our way from the break room a short way down the hall to the office. As we settled into our desks, Emily hurried past, spreading the word throughout the office workers. I’d just renewed my eating efforts, forking a large mouthful of barely recognisable greenery into my mouth, when Emily was standing directly in front my desk.

That was another thing about Emily. She liked to just appear. Once, she’d appeared beside me while I was pouring coffee and the person sitting across the room had received pretty severe burns on their chest when I’d flung the entire jug of steaming hot liquid in his direction in purely reflexive action.

“You might want to go defend the copier,” she informed me, leaning in close with an intensity that succeeded in scaring the crap out of me. “Derek says he needs to photocopy a document for their file.”

A curse left my lips before I could stop it and as Emily disappeared once more, I hurtled across the office to the copy room, snatching a file from my inbox as I went.

Derek was the most personable member of the Squad, and therefore their nominated spokesperson when it came to interoffice communications, but he was hell on my copier. Last time he’d been near it, it had taken me three weeks to get it back to the way I liked it. Somehow he had managed to inadvertently change the default language to German. Between the manual and Google Translate, the task of getting it back to English had taken me three hours alone. After that I had to deal with the recurring problem of the twenty minute shut down setting which he’d somehow locked. I had to get Antoine in from decoding to crack the password so I could change it.

Skidding to a halt in front of the photocopier, I slid the first document out of the file, scanning the instructions on the post-it note quickly as I slid it into the paper tray on the top and began hitting buttons on the screen. I had just hit GO and was relaxing back against the sorting table when Derek crossed the threshold.

“Hey,” I greeted with feigned enthusiasm, looking over my shoulder to keep an eye on him. “How’s it going?”

He strolled in like he owned the place, his thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his black cargo pants. “Fine,” he replied. His gazed travelled around the room, pausing pointedly on the copier, clunking away as it spat out page after page. “Just came in to use your magical replicating machine,” he explained, adopting a broad Southern American accent. “It appears it’s in use though.”

“Sorry about that,” I mentioned, shrugging with a ‘what can you do?’ kind of gesture. “If you wanna leave with me I can get it back to you within the hour.” Extending my hand for the document that was nowhere in sight, I offered him my friendliest, least threatening smile. He didn’t need to know that in my head I was giving him the ultimatum of staying the hell away from my copier or having his balls force back up into his body. Besides, he’d find out soon enough if he didn’t agree to let me do his photocopying for him.

His movements were slow and deliberate as he reached down to his cargo pocket, maintaining eye contact the entire time. The folded paper – didn’t he know that by creasing the original he was damaging the quality of all subsequent copies? – slipped fluidly from the pocket and was raised in my direction, stopping just a few inches from my waiting hand.

“This is because of what I did last time, isn’t it?” he asked, raising a single eyebrow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied. Of course I knew what he was talking about. That ordeal haunted me every time I had to take a sick day. What if they had urgent copying that needed to be done right then and there and they messed with my settings? What if they caused a paper jam? The possibilities were endless and terrifying.

A smirk grew on his features. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember,” he said, closing the space between us. One second he was a respectful three feet away, the next he was all up on my business. “I messed with the settings and you nearly had a heart attack.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” I demanded, dropping all pretence of peace. “You screwed everything up!”

“Because it was funny,” he said simply, his face so close I could feel his breath on my cheek. I was becoming flustered. No man should have eyelashes that long! While I was still stuck in my mind, fighting against the hold I was sure he had on it, he blew out a quick breath –the kind one usually uses to blow out candles – a t my mop of curls, sending them dancing in all directions, placed the folded paper on the table beside me and strode from the room with an efficient pace. “Seven copies, double sided,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll be in the break room.”

He was out the door before I managed to gain enough control over my body to race after him, tripping on the corner table leg and almost falling face first into the stationary cupboard on my way. By the time I swung out of the room he was already at the door to the hall. “’Because it was funny’ is not a good reason for messing with a woman’s photocopier!” I cried across the room, heedless of the startled glances I was awarded for my trouble. I couldn’t even tell if he’d heard me, since he was already out of sight by the time the words had burst out of me.

As I sagged against the doorframe, Emily appeared beside me once more. I didn’t have the energy to be surprised.

“Crisis averted?” she enquired briskly as I unfolded the document Derek had left with me.

“For now,” I muttered, staring down at the blank piece of paper. “I have a feeling he’ll be trying again before long though.”

Remember when I said he was the most personable of the lot? Well, I may have forgotten to point out that he was still a big ass.