Read Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order for Free Online Page A

pair of silver earrings she’d seen at the mall.
    She checked the cash in her wallet. Three singles. Ugh. She opened her car door and leaned in, rounding up what little change she could find in her ashtray and the cup holders. Her efforts garnered her another dollar and seventy-three cents. It wouldn’t get her far, but it would at least get her to work. After that, well, she’d have to figure something out.
    She slammed the door and went inside to give the coins to the cashier.
    *   *   *
    An hour later, she pushed a metal cart down the hallway, forcing a polite smile to her lips as she slipped quietly into each of the executives’ offices and placed their mail in their in-boxes.
    Some greeted her, perhaps even inquired about her well-being. “Good mornin’. How are you today?”
    Others gave her a nod or a quick Thanks or, if they were talking on their phone, a raised hand.
    Some failed to acknowledge her at all, as if she were merely a nameless, faceless apparition.
    As if she were unworthy of recognition.
    As if I don’t even exist.
    Her job might seem menial to these latter types, but where would these executives be without the precious contracts, financial statements, and performance reports she delivered to them? They wouldn’t be able to function without the information she delivered. They’d be useless. Worthless.
    Yes, her job was critical to the functioning of the company. Not that her entry-level salary reflected that fact. She was a smart young woman, though. She knew that though her job was important, it took virtually no skill to accomplish. Anyone who could read the names on the envelopes and door plaques and push the mail cart could do it. Hell, she’d been qualified to do this job since second grade.
    Given that she walked at least two miles a day up and down the halls of the building, it would have made more sense for her to wear slacks and comfortable loafers, especially since business casual attire was standard. But she’d always heard that a person should dress not for the job she had, but for the job she wanted. So she strolled up and down the hall in a tasteful gray pencil skirt that stopped just above her knees, a sleek white blouse that looked professional yet feminine, a fitted black blazer, and a pair of black stiletto pumps.
    Given this classy business attire, did she aspire for a job as an executive assistant? Maybe a management position over the administrative staff?
    Oh, hell no.
    The position she sought entailed such duties as shoe shopping, choosing restaurants for dinner, and meeting with decorators to furnish a four-bedroom, three-bath home. What position did she seek? Trophy wife.
    Problem was, the definition of trophy wife seemed to have evolved since she’d been an adolescent. Back then, according to the TV shows she watched, all a successful man wanted was a pretty woman with a nice body to serve as arm candy. Now, though, many prosperous men not only wanted their wives to be physically attractive, but they wanted them to be career women, as well. Educated women with something smart to say. Women who helped bring home the bacon. On her salary, and with her credit cards not only maxed out but also three months past due, the only thing Robin Hood could bring home was a package of nearly expired baloney reduced for quick sale.
    Of course she could have attended college if she’d wanted to. With her parents’ meager income, she would have qualified for free government grants or need-based scholarships. And she was certainly smart enough. After all, she’d been her elementary school spelling bee champion and had even advanced to the citywide competition, spelling and spelling and spelling her heart out until the only two contestants who remained were her and an Asian-American boy wearing a ridiculous pin-striped three-piece suit.
    She remembered that day like it was yesterday. She’d stood on that stage in