Not Safe for Work

Chapter One

O n a scale of one to ten, how would you rate me?”

My attention snaps to Brian with a blink. He stands with an elbow propped on the wall of my fuzzy grey cubicle, wearing an expectant look.

“What?” I ask, not entirely listening, most of my divided attention reserved for the conversation that is currently distracting me.

“Between one and ten—what do you think?” He sweeps his hands down the length of his body like he’s the prize girl in a sequined dress on a game show.

Why is he asking me this? Brian is a sweet guy, but I’ve never seen him that way.

Even if I did, I maintain an ironclad policy against dating any of the humpbacked trolls who stagger WMC Purcell’s halls. Once upon a time, I vowed never to dip into the regressive shallows of a workplace gene pool ever again.

An atomic cloud of male laughter bursts from the office situated kitty-corner to mine. I roll my shoulders, trying to ignore it and focus on Brian. He’s white, in his early thirties, and wearing a blue polo and dark, baggy jeans.

My thoughts catch up to the present. Brian was telling me about his date last night, and I missed the part about how it went because I was too focused on what was happening across the hall.

“I’d say you’re a ten,” he says in earnest, and I cover my mouth as something resembling a laugh-snort muffles my embarrassment. I can always count on Brian for the gentle pets my ego laps up like a newborn kitten. “I’d say I’m a seven. I have a good job, make a mean lasagna, and I know how to treat a woman.”

As he’s talking, my attention wanders back to Rafe Gallagher’s office and the brief snippets of conversation floating across the hall.

“Trishara?”

Again, I look over. With his hands stuffed in his pockets, Brian is staring down at me with his brows furrowed in expectation. I shift as the rough fabric of my desk chair scratches the backs of my thighs.

He just referred to himself as a seven. I probably should respond to that.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Brian. You’re a great catch.”

He flashes me a smile. “I think we’ll probably go out again. She said I should call her.”

“That’s great,” I say, meaning it. “Then you should.”

Brian’s primary goal in life is to settle down with a sweet wife and have lots of kids who play team sports and grow up to find stable jobs and provide a gaggle of grandchildren. And if that’s what the future Mrs. Paterson also wants, then all the power to them. It sounds nice.

“You think it’s okay? I shouldn’t wait three days?”

As more laughter floats from Rafe’s office, I offer Brian an absent wave. His gaze remains fixed on me as though I hold every answer to the mysterious ways of women in the palm of my hand.

“If a woman likes you, she wants you to call. Don’t fall for that ‘rules’ garbage.”

He considers my words, his expression skeptical.

“Would I lie to you? Trust me. If she likes you, she wants you to call.”

His shoulders release, tension dipping out of his frame.

“Thanks, Tris. You’re the best.”

He scratches the tip of his nose, his gaze turning distant. I’m sure he’s already mentally rehearsing what he’s planning to say to his potential future bride.

“Have you been out with anyone lately?” he asks a moment later, and my somewhat average mood tumbles down a hillside.

Lately, the only out I’ve been is to the Chinese takeout place at the end of my block. Out is then promptly followed by a wardrobe change—flannel adjacent—and a USB-powered date with my Lelo Sona 2.

“Not really,” I say, my smile bland, hoping Brian takes the hint I’m spelling out with flashing red strobe lights. I make a show of checking my smartwatch. “Oh, looks like it’s almost time for the big announcement.”

Brian pushes away from the narrow opening of my cubicle. “Who do you think the lucky two will be?” He rubs his hands together as if this is a mystery worthy of Professor Plum.

“I couldn’t possibly guess.” Somehow, he completely misses my sarcasm as he considers my response, a furrow denting his brow.

My gaze drifts to Rafe’s office again, where he sits at his desk conversing with two other men. His is a real office, not this starched, achromatic cube. With walls and windows and a large faux-wood desk and a leather chair in which he is casually tipped, laughing at something Jeremy has just said. They’ve been discussing whatever male sportsing event is currently in season, not that I’m at all interested in what they’ve been saying for the past twenty minutes.

Months ago, WMC Purcell’s head office announced the launch of a new leadership program to identify the company’s most promising future stars.

Every branch across the country would select two up-and-coming engineers to spend three weeks on a training retreat at a mystery destination, where they’d rub elbows with senior executives and be gilded as future WMC royalty.

A year-long executive training program for five lucky winners is also up for grabs.

It’s a golden corporate ladder descending from heaven.

Or a noose, depending on how you look at it, I suppose.

But nepotism and favoritism are the foundation on which this company was built.

Thus, the first name on that list will be Rafe’s. His uncle manages this branch, but more notably, his father is one of six senior VPs at WMC.

They are the kings, and Rafe is their swaggering crown prince.

“You coming?” Brian asks with a jerk of his thumb.

“You go. I’ll come in a minute.”

The muffled thunder of footsteps echoes through the building’s pebble-carpeted halls as everyone descends on the atrium in a swell of excited chatter, thrilled for an excuse to get away from their desks for an hour.

Also, there are rumors of cake after the announcement.

After Brian leaves, I turn to my computer, minimizing my LinkedIn page with a discontented sigh. I’m considering applying for a new job with a sustainability consulting firm, but my inertia mimics the consistency of hardened lava.

I’ve been at WMC Purcell for almost five years, and I’ve completely stalled out. My future stretches before me, but the road I’m traveling is blank.

A loud thud ricochets from across the hall, and I spin around, curling my lip.

Rory has his face plastered against the narrow half-window, his ruddy cheek rendered into featureless putty. Where did he come from?

“What the hell, man? That hurt,” Rory growls as he pushes himself from the glass and whips around to glare at Jeremy and Scott, the two men sitting in Rafe’s office. They’re laughing so hard, I’m surprised they haven’t choked up a lung.

Rory lunges, but Rafe leaps up, snagging him by the arm.

“Relax. It was an accident,” Rafe says as Rory shrinks back.

Rafe isn’t laughing, though. In fact, he looks pissed.

It’s evident from his hunched shoulders that Rory’s also furious, but honestly, it’s hard to tell the difference from his typical Homo habilis posture. He wipes a hand under his nose, glares at Jeremy and Scott, and stalks out of the office with his hands curled into fists.

As Rafe’s cousin on his mom’s side, the second WMC leadership retreat spot is already earmarked for him. What does it feel like to know you’ve earned nothing yourself? Maybe they think it’s rightfully theirs.

Jeremy and Scott file out after Rory, still laughing about whatever boneheaded man thing caused the window crash. These men are the Khakis—white hetero men of mediocre competence and undeserved confidence who wouldn’t know their way to a clitoris if someone strung them over a swamp rife with testicle-eating crocodiles.

And they rule this place from bottom to top.

As I slide on the flats I kicked under my desk earlier, a sensation prickles the back of my neck. I peer over my shoulder to find Rafe watching me through his office window.

If I had to rate him on a scale of one to ten, I’d have two very distinct answers.

Considering the question from the objective viewpoint of a completely disinterested bystander with absolutely no emotional attachment, I’d give him an eight.

He dresses marginally better than the other Khakis, and there’s that curling thing his hair does when he’s due for a haircut—okay, maybe a nine.

But he’s my Lex Luthor. My gateway to the Dark Side. My nemesis.

And that feeling is mutual.

Maybe a 9.5.

His deep brown eyes burn like caramel, brittle but fiery, definitely leaving layers of scar tissue if you get too close. Maybe a 9.75.

It’s casual Friday, and his navy Henley fits him in all the right ways, skimming over broad shoulders, curved biceps, and the tantalizing hint of defined abs.

Fine , a 10.

He turns to grab his phone off his desk, the tendons in his forearms flexing in a way that borders on erotic. Dark jeans cling to the most magnificent ass I’ve ever seen. He’s a sculpture with a discus competing in the Olympics circa 800 BC.

Fine.

Rafe Gallagher is a fucking eleven out of ten.

The catch—and isn’t there always one?—is Rafe’s personality.

When he opens his mouth, his stock plummets, landing him squarely in the neighborhood of a floundering two. He’s overconfident and smug, and we’ve spent the last several years locked in a battle of professional wills.

He tucks his phone in his back pocket and strides past my cube, throwing me a smirk that conjures up images of fairy tales, villains, and maidens locked in high stone towers.

I frown because despite our offices being so close together, Rafe and I haven’t interacted much beyond professional necessity (including several work-related disagreements) for a while. But lately, I’ve caught him looking at me more than once with an expression I don’t understand.

And that smirk.

(Admittedly, there are days when that smirk makes him a twelve.)

“It’s cake time, Trishara!”

Again, I’m caught off guard when Molly Ackerman appears around the corner with a huge smile on her face. She’s one of my best friends and the only thing that makes this place tolerable. She has pale white skin dusted with freckles. Standing barely five feet tall, she’s wearing a denim jumpsuit, bright pink Chucks, and her usual retro cat-eye glasses. Her red hair hangs to her shoulders in a wild mess of curls. She’s adorable, and I love her.

With a roll of my eyes, I stand and smooth down the front of my outfit. I’m wearing a vintage-inspired peplum dress in hunter green and a pair of cherry-red ballet flats. I don’t believe in things like casual Friday. “Let’s get this charade over with. They better have sprung for bakery cake and not that cheap grocery store crap.”

“You love the cheap grocery store crap,” Molly says, linking her arm through mine.

“I know, but it’s the principle.”

We join the flow of humans as we coalesce like swarms of locusts infesting the central atrium filled with grey tables and grey plastic chairs. It seems we’re two of the last to arrive. A hand waves as we enter, and Brian gestures us over, pointing to the two empty seats he’s saved at the front.

Amid the din of chatter, I glance across the row at Rafe sitting at the far end.

Every department in the building is here: procurement, accounting, and human resources.

Clearly, they all heard about the cake, too.

Thanks to these other departments, the gender ratio is a little more balanced. Me, Molly, and a handful of others make up the small but mighty contingent of WMC’s non-male engineers. There was a time when the idea of smashing through glass in a male-dominated field was thrilling. But over the years, it’s just left me as wrung out as a threadbare dishcloth.

Someone has set up a small stage at the front of the room consisting of large wooden blocks covered in pebbled grey carpet. Grey. Everything is grey. I used to love this color. It represented my future. The color of corporate America. The color of high-rise offices and boardroom tables. Of inked contracts and binding handshakes.

But as the years have passed and I’ve been skipped over for every promotion I’ve been more than qualified to fill, grey represents something else. The color of a wheel that spins endlessly, only stopping for a chosen few. Now, it’s the color of my faded future.

David Gallagher—Rafe’s father—steps onto the stage and clears his throat. He’s deigned to visit the peasants today.

Our branch lies sprawled like a concrete octopus in the suburbs, where the parking is ample and the surroundings are sterile. In contrast, WMC’s glossy executive team perches at the top of one of the highest skyscrapers in downtown Chicago.

David looks just like his son—only older and more refined. Handsome, painfully so, and I glower at the annoying gift of the Gallagher family genes. He wears a perfectly tailored suit, probably cut from the souls of past WMC employees.

Rafe’s uncle Charles joins David on the stage. Charles is also constructed from the Gallaghers’ gorgeous DNA blueprint but lacks the swagger to drive the point home.

He’s more down-to-earth and prefers to join everyone for 99-cent wings and beer at the Swan and Rooster—the nearby pub favored on Friday afternoons—where we all pretend happy hour with our coworkers is a viable substitute for meaningful relationships.

Charles wears a loose white button-up shirt, baggy medium-wash jeans, and white gym shoes. David eyes his brother with cool detachment, as if he’s judging his informal attire.

Apparently, David Gallagher doesn’t believe in casual Friday, either.

Charles taps the microphone in his hand, a screech erupting into a collective flinch as a thousand eardrums rupture. His nervous laughter echoes through the room, and part of me pities his gene’s rejection of that Gallagher charisma.

The room has grown warm, the sun beating through the glass ceiling. I fan myself where sweat condenses in the hollow of my throat, shifting as the backs of my thighs stick to the plastic surface. When I glance across the room, my gaze catches Rafe’s, who’s again peering in my direction. I narrow my eyes, trying to summon my most damning manifestation of resting bitch face.

His response is another evil smirk that’s suddenly leaving me conflicted in ways I don’t care to examine too closely.

He’s Lucifer, wearing the disguise of a Ralph Lauren model.

“Hello, everyone,” Charles says timidly into the microphone. The crowd ignores him, too absorbed in their conversations.

David Gallagher arches a dark, judgy eyebrow full of such disdain that I’m surprised Charles doesn’t melt into the floor. It’s then I notice Rafe watching his father with his jaw clenched and his eyes sparking with what seems like anger. What I suddenly wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall at the Gallagher Thanksgiving dinner.

“Everyone, please!” Charles says louder this time, and an audible hush descends over the crowd. He waits a few more seconds before taking a deep breath and powering on. “I’m very excited to welcome you all here today to announce the candidates representing the Chicago branch at WMC Purcell’s first-ever Rising Stars Leadership Retreat. This is a very special opportunity for two of our most promising engineers.”

He pauses as if waiting for applause and turns tomato red when it fails to materialize.

We’re all just here for the cake.

“Anyway,” he squeaks, then drones on for a few minutes about WMC and its corporate mandate. I tune out as I stare around the room for something interesting to occupy my attention.

It’s growing warmer, the air stifling as the sun rises higher. A trickle of sweat runs down my back, and I shift as my skin peels off the plastic.

Molly looks equally uncomfortable, her pale skin flushed as she pushes limp curls out of her face.

“I know you’ve all been wondering where the retreat will be held,” Charles says. “I’m pleased to say it will take place at the Naupaka Resort on the beautiful island of Maui.”

A collective sound, part groan and part gasp, rushes through the crowd, and I can’t help but join them. Three weeks in Hawaii sounds like a dream. I know I’m not going, but I allow myself the briefest fantasy of pink umbrella drinks and crystal-clear water, anyway.

“The first rising star”—Charles takes a dramatic pause—“is Rafe Gallagher.”

A polite round of clapping ensues, and I look over at Rafe, expecting a smug smile. Instead, I see a heated look pass between father and son, the senior tipping his chin so slightly I nearly miss it. Rafe blinks slowly, then pushes himself up and strides onto the stage, where he stiffly shakes hands with his uncle and father.

Charles clears his throat, and I watch Rory, sitting a few rows back, his knee bouncing in anticipation. He’s the very worst kind of Khaki. Not just drab but outright corrosive. The office lech, he’s a repulsive pig who has more than one count of sexual harassment against him, and that’s just the tip of his crimes. His very presence makes my skin crawl off my body.

I keep dated notes about him saved in a password-protected folder on my personal cloud drive—just in case. Of what, I’m not sure. But I have to believe that someday, they might prove useful.

I return my attention to the front, where Charles is still talking. He glances nervously at David before they both inexplicably look at me.

Then, in a move I never saw coming, Charles Gallagher draws a wildcard and flings it hard enough to slice an artery.

“Please congratulate our second Rising Star of Tomorrow, Trishara Malik.”