In spite of the fact that we were drawing and modeling multimillion-dollar buildings for multibillion-dollar companies, and an oversight on any of our parts could result in costly problems at job sites or lost contracts for the firm, we may as well have been a few junior high kids hanging out in the art room after school. We took our jobs seriously, but the same couldn’t be said for anything else. Pretty much everything that was said in this room would be considered NSFW—Not Safe For Work—in any other office.
Only the closed door—which Cal had marked “NSFW Zone”—and our blasting music kept the rest of the office from hearing what went on in here, which was probably just as well. Otherwise, every last one of us except maybe Silent Dave would have been summarily marched down to HR, a journey brought to you by the words “sexual” and “harassment”. We were shameless, and nothing was out of bounds. In a normal work environment, Cal wouldn’t be able to randomly recite already offensive rap lyrics, which he’d carefully modified to be even more offensive. Lengthy discussions wouldn’t be had about whether a guy should wait until the second or third date to broach the subject of anal sex. Teagan would quietly excuse herself to the ladies’ room without the announcement that her nipple ring had snagged on the lace of her bra again.
It was the perfect work environment for me. Probably not something I’d ever find anywhere else, and I loved it, but for all the same reasons I loved it, I was nervous about coming into it that particular Monday morning. If any member of my crew had even the most minute reason to suspect what—or who—had gone down over the weekend, I’d never hear the end of it. And these fuckers could read me like a book sometimes.
But it couldn’t be avoided, so I steeled myself, walked past the “NSFW Zone” sign and into the lion’s den.
At first glance, all was normal. As normal as it ever was, anyway. Silent Dave was insulated from the rest of the world by his massive noise-cancelling headphones. The other drafters—Cal, Scott and Bianca—stared at computer screens and clicked mice with music thumping in the background. Hunched over one of the modeling tables, Teagan snapped her gum to annoy Cal. Across the room, Scott crunched loudly on chips to annoy Bianca. Yep, business as usual.
The current CD was one of Scott’s many KMFDM albums. I wasn’t usually a fan of industrial rock, but today, I fully intended to let myself get lost in it, if only to drown out the rest of the world. There was nothing quite like a screaming guitar, an angry singer and some ear-shattering percussion to give me a temporary ticket to elsewhere.
I should’ve known that would be too much to ask, though. I’d barely set my coffee cup on my desk before Cal called out, “Hey, Gramps! How was your weekend?”
Funny you should ask…
“Oh, you know.” I started shrugging off my jacket. “Just the usual boring shit at the old folks’ home.”
“Another weekend without falling and breaking your hip,” Teagan said. “Can’t complain about that, right?”
“Ha, ha.” I rolled my eyes and hung my jacket on the back of my chair. “You know, I’m not that old.” I eased into the chair at my desk, pretending not to notice the residual soreness in my back and hips.
Scott clicked his tongue. “McNeill, we’ve talked about this. You’re over the hill with a few years’ practice. Therefore, you’re old. Deal with it.”
“Don’t make me beat you with my cane, fucking whippersnapper.”
“You’d have to catch me first.”
“I could probably outrun you any day of the week.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, but I can run faster scared than you can mad.”
I laughed and shook my head. Mercifully, they didn’t try to pry my weekend out of me. Of course they had no reason to suspect I’d been with anyone specific, so I was just being paranoid for no reason.
No one knows. No one will know. Get a grip and get to work.
Once I’d caught up on my e-mail, I moved to the table where I worked on models. The one I had in progress right now was a relatively simple one. A basic 3D representation of one of three luxury hotels Rick was building on a piece of prime oceanfront property. Between distraction and fatigue, I couldn’t even focus on that. The pieces that needed to be put into place were already cut, painted and piled neatly at the edge of the platform, and despite the drawing sitting right there in front of me, hell if I could remember what I’d intended to do with them.
My brain was fucking toast. It usually took me a few minutes to get back in the groove after a few hours or days away from a model, but this time, I could barely remember which end of the X-ACTO knife to hold.
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. The weekend had its own dot on my timeline now. Everything existed as either before or after. The model in front of me was from before, and it was in no hurry to cross the divide into after. Concentration wasn’t going to come easy today, and no amount of coffee was going to fix that.
Christ, McNeill. Get it together.