“What’s put that shit-eating grin on your face?” Zay asks.
Isaiah, or Zay, as I’ve been told to call him, is our private sales coordinator. He works alongside our customers to determine what type of plane they need. Once they agree on the bones of the structure, he tosses them over to me, where I work with the client to customize and build their dream plane. Kind of like Pimp Your Plane, only it’s not reality television; it’s my job.
I’m the interior designer. I get to work with clients on the “fun part” . . . although, to be honest, it’s a difficult job. Our customers are premier, the elite—celebrities, Fortune 500 companies, and CEOs. Even royalty. I work with people all over the world. They want the best for the least amount of money, and it’s my job to make them happy while making Jackson-Hamilton Aviation some serious money in the process. No sale is complete until I submit all the final details back to Zay and payment has been received, then the planes are customized.
I shrug and slide my sleek laptop into the docking station, powering it on. Zay sits on my desk, bumping his shoulder into mine. “Talk to me, Phillips. That look on your face. What put it there?” Zay has the best smiles. His perfectly straight, bright white teeth stand out against his dark olive skin.
“Nothing.” I try to hide my smile, but I’m failing. “I’m just in a good mood. It’s Friday, We received payment on the Zamora and Dubai planes.”
He smacks his lips before he speaks. “Well, good. Then you’ll be joining us for an impromptu happy hour after work tonight.”
I turn in my chair and smirk at him. “I’m not sure I’m ready for another happy hour with this group.” I twirl my hand around the small workspace that holds all of our cubicles.
I actually work with the nicest people I’ve ever met. We’re an eclectic bunch, with Zay bringing the spice. He’s half-Mexican and half-Caucasian and the epitome of the term “Latin lover.” Then there’s Emery, your classic hippie; mid-thirties with essential oils lining her desk, a cup full of some herbal concoction, and a foul mouth to boot. She’s honest and sincere and the matriarch of our little group. Of course there’s the token gay man, and that’s Rowan. He’s sarcastic and witty, and if he weren’t twenty years older than me and gay, I’d find a way to make him love me. He’s kind and nurturing and has the sense of humor and quick wit of Jimmy Fallon. Rounding out our little group is a spitfire named Kinsley. At twenty-five, she’s only two years older than me and the closest in age. Everything she says or does is borderline inappropriate, and we love her for it. Our group is fun and sassy and Human Resources’ worst nightmare.
“This group. You say it like we’re a bunch of lepers.” He laughs and leans back against my desk, crossing one of his legs over the other.
“Morning, sunshine.” Rowan air kisses my cheek and sets a piping hot cup of coffee from the local coffeehouse on my desk. He’s our early bird, and if I’m not here promptly at eight o’clock, he’ll walk to the coffee shop down the street and bring me back my coffee. God forbid he waits five minutes for me to get here. He’s a creature of habit, and I love him all the more for it.
“Non-fat caramel mocha,” he says, nodding at the cup he just set in front of me. “What are you two up to?” He glances between Zay and me. “Looks like I interrupted something.”
“Zay says we’re doing happy hour tonight—”
Rowan claps excitedly. “Damn right we are. I need about six stiff drinks and—”
“That’s not the only stiff thing you need,” Zay jabs at him.
Rowan looks forlorn. “If you only knew, child . . . if you only knew.” He recently broke up with his partner of sixteen years, and he’s anxious to put himself out on the market. He shakes his head and takes a seat in the only extra chair I have in my cubicle.
“What are you whores doing?” Kinsley asks as she walks by, throwing her purse and laptop bag onto the floor of her cube. She sits directly across from me and always keeps me entertained. She kicks off her flip-flops and steps into a pair of four-inch heels that look as though a hooker on Cicero Avenue should be wearing them. She strides across the hall and leans against the opening of my cube. “Did you get me a coffee?” She asks Rowan, batting her eyes and pouting her lips.
“Do I ever get you a coffee?” He rolls his eyes.
“Asshole,” she mumbles under her breath and rolls her eyes. It’s all in jest. Rowan and Kinsley could insult each other all day, but it’s always for fun and shock value.
“Didn’t get laid last night, sweet cheeks?” Rowan laughs.