Between a Bear and a Hard Place(6)

Twelve hours a night, more recently.

And for what? A paycheck? The numb sense that she had financial security?

If Eckert got fired, she’d be out the door too. She knew that, though she preferred not to dwell too heavily on that part of the wonderful world of experimental research. And then there was the fact that she had not a clue what the guy was working on. She didn’t even know what was in the labs she made rounds to and from, endlessly, as sure as night was dark and day was light.

The tingling began again, this time it was that same odd sensation from before, back at GlasCorp, when her birthmark had started up with the itching and tingling. She couldn’t place it, couldn’t explain it, and more than anything, she just really didn’t want to be thinking about anything right then.

So, she did the best thing she possibly could to distract herself: try to work up the courage to actually call that waiter for a date.

The whole thing made her feel so ridiculous, the entire show she put on, the torture she’d admittedly really enjoyed laying on her pal and the waiter, she felt a little stupid afterward. Then again, Alyssa had been right. The guy did stick around, and even laughed at himself a little. That kind of thing was rare enough to warrant at least a call. And if it ended up going somewhere?

Hell, Andy might be an idiot, but he was right about the part where she really did need someone to at least give her some distraction.

“’Lo?” someone with a huskier voice than Claire remembered, picked up. He cleared his throat away from the phone.

“Hey, uh... Nick?”

He cleared his throat again. “Oh, yeah, Nick. That’s me. Who—” then he caught himself. “Claire!”

That was more excitement than I expected. Then again, I can’t blame the dude after the show I put on last night. I’d probably been the highlight of his night with the nipple clamp thing.

“Nipple clamps!”

Great.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m glad that’s what you remembered.” Claire laughed softly since, honestly, she couldn’t blame him. “Listen, are you—”

“We’re going out,” he said. “No way in the world I’m missing out on a date with someone that made me laugh that hard. And no, it isn’t just because of the nipple clamp thing. You made my damn night.”

“Well,” Claire was still laughing, but at least he took it the right way. Before she could say anything else, he cut her off again.

“So when? Tonight? Tomorrow? Monday?”

“Let’s call it Monday, but the week after next. I’m not gonna be able to get out of work until then. And Nick?”

“Next Monday it is. What’s up?”

“Thanks for remembering me.”

He laughed. “How the hell could I not? See ya then. Text me your address?”

That felt better than she thought it was going to feel. She forgot how incredible it was when someone remembered her – but better than that? She forgot how good it felt for someone to want her.

This is going to be a hellishly long week, Claire thought, as she sent her address to Nick. But at least this time, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. A ginger light that turns red when he gets a hard-on.

Smiling, she hooked Cleo up for a walk, and could hardly believe it when seven-thirty rolled around that night, and she had not once worried, fretted, or even though about killing Eckert.

Nothing at all could come from her date with Nick, and just that short relief he’d given her from the tension of life was worth a million bucks.

Worth a million at least.





-3-


“Rumbling and explosions are usually not what I expect when I walk into work.”


-Claire


It had been a long, exceeding boring, week at GlasCorp.

Claire showed up dutifully every day, right at the scheduled time, and proceeded to do absolutely nothing until the next morning. Her birthmark kept tingling – oddly, more intensely each time she made her rounds down the elevator to lab B-3, which was strange but for once, Claire actually had a list of things to accomplish before the night was over.

Of course, she wasn’t actually doing any of them. Old habits die hard, and all that. So, she was perched at her desk on level 42, with her feet curled up underneath her in the chair, reading through some weird self-published conspiracy book she picked up for a buck twenty at the most recent “get this shit out of here, please” clearance sale at the Stanton public library. This one was a long, rambling account of some time travel experiment that supposedly happened in Montauk, New York, and also involved some kind of demons? She didn’t know, but damn if it wasn’t fascinating.

“Claire Redmon,” the voice droned over the PA before going slightly fuzzy. “Claire Redmon, please report to lab B-3. Claire Redmon to laboratory B-3. Dr. Eckert needs your help in lab B-3.”