Free The Messenger (A Lesbian Romance) by K.C. Blake Page B

to walk over again and again, after all. I expected Margaret to sigh and hang up, but instead, she hesitated. She never did that.  
    “I already suggested that, Ms. McCleary. The messenger is… quite insistent that you sign in person.”
    A messenger. Of course. Those dirty, bike-riding Socialists sometimes clomped in here like they were doing us a favor, when they were mostly just shedding their road grime all over the place. I could just about see one of them glaring at poor Margaret as she was trying to do her job.  
    “Alright. Fine. I’ll be right there.”
    I wasn’t any more willing to go out there, but I felt like I had to rescue Margaret. I straightened up my suit and stormed out, fully ready to take out my frustration on whichever gear-head had had the misfortune to boss my assistant around.  
    I all but stomped out to the reception area, yanking doors open and taking long strides that probably made it look like I was stalking prey. All of that came to a stop, however, and was knocked completely out of my consciousness the minute I saw her. The messenger.    
     

Chapter Two
    Like most of the other messengers who darted in and out of downtown traffic, this one wore tight jeans and a large, beaten bag slung over one shoulder. Unlike most other messengers, however, this one was female. Her bag was almost as big as her, but she didn’t seem to be bothered by the weight. Her jeans clung to her as though she’d been riding around in them for years. She wore a beaten black t-shirt advertising some kind of punk band, and wore fingerless gloves that gave her an air of toughness. As she twirled a pen in one hand, the long, taut muscles of her forearms rose and fell like a current just below the surface of water. Her skin was a rich olive, and glowed with the kind of health and strength that probably comes from having to fight against all manner of traffic every day.  
    Everything about her, from her barely-controlled mop of jet-black hair, to the way she rested her weight on one hip, looked legit. So often, the kids we had coming into the office looked like they were going through a phase of their lives. Something in their eyes. Maybe it was the threat of constant vehicular death as they competed for space and time on the congested arteries of downtown. The messengers seemed to be divided into two camps: the ones who prided themselves on their wiliness, and those who prided themselves on their daring.  
    You could tell them apart by watching them on the street. The wily ones escaped danger by anticipating a threat and darting around it. The other ones escaped danger by daring it to get them, by taking over lanes and muscling through it. This one standing before me was obviously one of those ones who didn’t ask for permission to enter your lane; she was one of the ones who simply took it.  
    I don’t know why it shocked me so much that this pushy messenger was a woman - did I really assume that because Margaret was insistent, it meant that she was being pestered by a young man? Either way, this messenger, covered in road grime, had chosen the wrong day and the wrong woman’s assistant to fuck with, and I was all set to illustrate it when she turned and looked at me, squaring her shoulders as though readying for a fight. All at once I felt like I was coming face to face with an equal. It shocks me even now to say it, but as I squared my own shoulders in response and met her eye, which were almost a full foot lower than my own, I felt no dominance.  
    “You need to sign this one”, she said, holding out a packing slip like there would be no question she’d get what she needed.
    I need to ? Who did this street rat think she was?
    “You’re going to tell me what to do?”
    “You want this package, you’re gonna sign.”
    I studied her. She was not only a brute, she had a mouth on her. She didn’t know who she was talking to. She opened her bag and dropped the package in.
    “What the fuck are you