Baby For The Bear

Or was it really the money?

Samantha honestly did not know. But instead of calling Pamela Harrison back, she found herself putting the phone back on the nightstand, climbing out of bed, and heading for the shower while planning her outfit for her trip to the business district this afternoon.

*****

Feeling very much like a soldier suiting up for battle, Samantha donned her off-white silk pullover blouse and her black linen mid-length skirt, and her shoes with just exactly the right amount of heel, and accessorized herself with just one thin gold necklace that her parents gave her for her sixteenth birthday. She checked the golden fall of her hair one more time to make sure that it was perfect, stashed her phone in her purse where she’d also put a folded copy of her resume in an envelope in case she needed to refer to it in the application process, slung the purse over her shoulder, and strode purposefully out of the door, still not knowing what to expect from the two-bodied hunk that she was about to meet, nor what she would say to him. For any other interview a girl could prepare. For this one she would have to wing it.

Once she was behind the wheel of her car and on the road, other ramifications of what she was about to attempt to do—assuming she was the one that Brecker chose out of the multitude he would be seeing—started to turn over in Samantha’s mind; things that she had begun to ponder over breakfast. There really was more to it than just the money. It was really going to be so much more than just a contract position. Being pregnant—actually pregnant—would be so much more than just a job. Pregnancy affected everything in and about a woman’s life. If she were to be the selected candidate, having that werebear cub inside her for nine months, or however many months they gestated (she wasn’t sure—that was one thing she should ask) would take over and be the context for every hour of every day. The sinking feeling in her stomach that she got from this realization reminded her of one of the first consequences she would have to face.

When she talked to her mother about the experience of being pregnant, the first thing her mother told her was that “morning sickness” was a misnomer. It was not confined to those hours between dawn and twelve o’clock; there were days when her mother had hugged the toilet at three PM. Her mother had in fact run down quite a catalogue of ill effects of having the proverbial bun in the oven. “Want to feel like you’ve worked a whole week plus overtime in one day, sweetheart? Wait ’til you’re expecting.” How charming was that? Oh, and then there were the mood swings. If one ever wanted to know what it was like to be bipolar, her mother said, pregnancy would show her. Samantha had the distinct feeling that being pregnant with the cub of a werebear would make her feel as if she were not so much a bear as the Wolf Man.

And all of that—all those delightful things that were enough to make a woman wish she had never come within a mile of anyone’s sperm cells—was not even counting the experience of actually giving birth. She had once heard a character on television compare labor to trying to pass a watermelon out of the wrong side of one’s body. The idea of it chilled her to the bone and made her want to pull over to the curb, shuddering, and hug herself. Everyone always said giving birth was the most wonderful thing in the world. How could anything that was supposed to be so wonderful sound so utterly horrifying?

Samantha questioned whether the $75,000 plus the stipend was not selling herself cheap in light of what she might be facing—assuming she turned out to be the one that Brecker wanted. Perhaps she should turn the car around, call Pamela, and cancel the whole thing after all.

Nevertheless, she kept heading for the business district.

*****

Brecker American was located near the top of a tall building that the corporation itself owned. There was a bank branch and one of those pricey coffee houses in the lobby; the Brecker offices occupied three floors beneath the top two stories. Samantha suspected those top two stories were a penthouse. It fit the profile of the person she was about to meet. If anyone would live in a luxurious spread atop a skyscraper, it would be this Kenneth Brecker person. Samantha was frankly surprised that he did not keep his home at ground level, in a vault somewhere, like a cave. It struck her as the sort of thing that a man who was also a bear would do.

Standing in the lobby and hitting the elevator button to go up, Samantha made a slightly wincing expression at that last thought. Oh, Sammie, that’s not too prejudiced, is it? She wondered what the equivalent term for “racist” was when talking about a metamorph.

The elevator doors parted at the twenty-third floor and Samantha stepped off in front of a big marble wall with what looked like letters of onyx adhering to it, spelling out the company name BRECKER AMERICAN. She was here. Under the name of the company were signs pointing in different directions. To the left was Executive; to the right, Administrative. Samantha headed left.

At the end of the hall to the left was a big glass wall with a brass-framed door in it. Behind the wall and door was a waiting room with three women that Samantha took to be in their early twenties to mid-thirties. After a first glance at her competition, she went inside. In there with the other seated, waiting women was a small desk with a personable-looking young man behind it. Samantha went to the desk to check in. “Samantha Vance,” she said. “I’m here for Ms. Harrison—and Mr. Brecker.”

The young man tapped his pen on the sign-in book on the side of the desk opposite him. “Sign here and write the time,” he said. “Ms. Harrison is in the inner office; she’s Mr. Brecker’s receptionist. You’ll be called on when it’s your turn.”

Samantha did as the outer receptionist said and found herself a seat among the other young women hopefuls. Looking them over, she could see that she was neither the oldest nor the youngest. But they were all quite the lovely-looking lot; she’d give them that. The advertisement had called for photos as well as resumes, after all, and Brecker had obviously had Pamela call in the ones he considered the most attractive. Seating herself, she tried to imagine what E-mail the ones not chosen to be interviewed had received. We’re sorry; the billionaire werebear is looking only for women he’d enjoy screwing for fun if he weren’t trying to have a cub. We thank you for your resume and photos, but you’re not up to his standards.