Free It Takes a Rebel by Stephanie Bond

justice.
    "She didn't take it well at all," he repeated, half to himself.
    Tuesday waved her hand. "She'll get used to having you around. Might be good for the both of you."
    Jack frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
    "Grown folk have to learn to get along with people they don't like."
    "I never said I didn't like her."
    "I was talking about her not liking you ."
    He bristled. "Why wouldn't she like me?"
    Tuesday harrumphed. "You think because you put on that fancy suit and got a haircut that the woman can't see through you?"
    "You were the one who put me in this getup—under duress, I might add."
    She wagged her finger in his direction. "You might have impressed the men, and maybe even the fickle women, but my guess
    is that after the way you treated Ms. Tremont when she came here, she'll be on her guard. Smart lady, judging by the way you
    conduct business."
    "I got the account, didn't I?"
    Tuesday snorted. "Sounds like they want your face more than your advertising talent."
    "Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence."
    "That's part of my job," she said with a shrug.
    "Speaking of your job, there isn't one. We can't afford you."
    "You can't afford not to have me," she replied, lifting both hands.
    Frowning, Jack glanced around the front office, not a bit surprised to see that Tuesday had rearranged its contents in a more
    pleasing manner. A fresh but pungent odor permeated the air. "What's that smell?"
    "Paint," she said, nodding toward the yellow walls. "I thought this room could use a pick-me-up."
    Jack stared at the dean, bright walls. What color had they been before? " You painted?"
    Tuesday shrugged. "An apron, a gallon of paint, and a roller—no big deal. Besides, I was bored."
    "Where did you get the supplies?" he asked suspiciously.
    "Call it a contribution," she said. "I wanted to make this room more comfortable."
    "Well, don't get too comfortable," he warned. "There is no job."
    She sniffed, disregarding him completely.
    Jack frowned. "When is Mr. Stripling supposed to arrive?"
    She nodded toward the back office. "He's been here for an hour—I gave him another back adjustment and sat him at Derek's
    desk. He wants to talk to you a-s-a-p about missing quarterly tax payments." Tuesday extended a hand-written note which
    presumably held the man's instructions.
    Jack glared and snatched the piece of paper. "Keep your hands off our auditor! Anything else?"
    Tuesday walked around the desk she had made her own, complete with a nameplate—where had that come from?—and
    picked up a handful of pink phone message slips. "Donald Phillips wants you to review new pages to the company's website."
    "I don't suppose he said anything about sending us a check," Jack grumbled.
    "It arrived today."
    "Great. We need to—"
    "Pay the phone bill, the electric bill, Lamberly Printing, the post office box rental, Beecher's Office Supplies and three
    returned check charges from the bank." She smiled and handed him a stack of papers. "Counter-sign the check for deposit, then
    sign all the checks I filled out."
    "I'm not giving you this check to deposit," he declared. "I hardly know you."
    Without missing a beat, Tuesday picked up her purse and swung it over her shoulder. "I wasn't offering," she said,
    enunciating each word. "The rest of your phone messages are there for you to read yourself, and envelopes for the bills are
    already addressed and stamped."
    Jack felt a little contrite as she walked toward the door, her hips swaying with attitude. "Where are you going?"
    "Home," she tossed over her shoulder. "I'm taking the rest of the afternoon off."
    "You don't have a job to take time off from ," he reminded her grumpily.
    "See you tomorrow, model man."
    Jack massaged the bridge of his nose, then carried the handful of papers with him to the back office. Mr. Stripling sat at
    Derek's desk surrounded by files and folders, with a boardlike device strapped to his back, his face arranged in an unpleasant
    expression.
    "Good day, Mr.