8. The problem with fighting is I love it
CHAPTER 8
THE PROBLEM WITH FIGHTING IS I LOVE IT
CHARLIE
I t’s too late to say this, but capitalism was definitely a mistake.
And I say that as a man who’s spent more than I’m comfortable admitting on ties and wingtip shoes.
Every day, my patience is tested by companies whose profits could fund humanitarian causes, but instead line the pockets of eccentric millionaires.
“Sea-tec?” I ask Drue.
He nods. There’s a sunburn peeking out from above his collar and a twitch in his eye that he always gets when he’s almost certain he’s fucked something up and needs me to save him.
“No,” I say, “they’ll hold their IP hostage until after final investment. You’ll only get the renditions for now. Don’t even try for the natives unless you want to be trapped in a room with Pegrum while he drills their confidentiality clause into your skull.”
“Yeah, no thanks.” He lets out an uneasy chuckle. “Okay, so I should just map the PDFs for migration?”
I feel for him. Drue is the only other DC in Operations, and he’s the only one on level twelve now, which means he’s fielding the majority of face-to-face visits from disgruntled engineers. Not that half of them haven’t found their way up to see me despite that.
“Send me the doc schedule. I’ll tee up something with pre-ops and the DAT team and flick you an invite. They won’t be happy about the tag to doc stuff, but they’re good guys. And if we can’t get them over the line, a few beers will.”
“Thanks, Charlie. I owe you.”
He owes me a few, but I won’t hold him to it.
“Course, man. I’ve got your back.”
The new building feels like a spaceship.
Each desk curves like the monitors we use. They all rise to standing and are set up with Bluetooth accessories and built-in phone chargers.
There’s even ambient noise playing overhead. All day, every day.
HR calls it sound-scaping, which is just about the wankiest title I’ve ever heard. Reese and I have spent hours debating what kinds of sounds Starfleet would use.
Her money’s on black noise, but I like to think Kirk’s a Slash fan.
The building is nice, but all the fancy technology in the world can’t disguise how impersonal it is.
No artwork or color of any kind. No name tags or photos to tell us whose desk is whose. No forgetting that we’re replaceable.
All it would take is a few strong-armed security guards and a wet wipe, and bam. Clean slate.
Of course, there is one perk to my new location. The view.
Emma’s layers come off at the start of the day, when she has the most steam. By three p.m., they’re back on, and when she thinks no one is watching, she’ll warm her fingers by trapping them under her thighs.
It’s enough to give a man ideas.
There are other things I’m noticing too.
She never takes a lunch break unless Ivy forces her to. Most days, the only time she’ll stop working is when she makes her habitual trips to the kitchen. Often, I’ll find her, arms crossed, staring out at the city skyline, lost in thought, during the three minutes it takes for the coffee machine to finish.
I’ve taken to not looking out the window too much while working here. Too much temptation, too many exit roads.
I’ve worked in Operations for six years, which makes it the longest I’ve spent anywhere. It’s making me antsy, eager for a change.
I’m convinced I’m not the settling down type. No matter how much Reese and I talked about it as kids, I’ve never been able to shake the itch to pick up and go.
Where the hell does someone like Emma go? And why do my feet ache with the urge to follow her there?
Back at her desk, she throws her head back and groans. It elongates the mile-long stretch of her neck, which I’ve been distracted by all morning. Glamorous is the only way to describe her. Sharp, serious, infuriating… and utterly sexy.
“Do you have to chew so loudly?” she asks.
There’s nothing sexier than getting Emma flustered. Her breathing speeds up, and her cheeks flare pink, and I finally get a glimpse of something real. It makes my heart rate take off every damn time.
“Sure. I can stop breathing as well, if you want?”
She narrows her eyes. “That boyish charm might win Roberts over, but it won’t work on me.”
“You think I’m charming?” I give her a winning smile.
It always makes her glare harder.
During every meeting, she’s a pro. Prepared, polite. In complete control.
So knowing I can crack open that calm exterior to the brimstone underneath?
Well…
It’s like a big red button taunting me— Don’t press .
Of course I’m going to want to.
“Anything else I can do for you, boss?”
Her mouth tightens. “Don’t you have a meeting with Technology to get to?”
Interesting . Someone’s keeping an eye on my calendar. I’m not even surprised. Every time I update her doc—and Christ, she’s even got me calling it her doc now—my sections have been reworded.
The lack of subtlety pisses me off even more than the blatant micromanagement, because come on, if you’re going to screw me over, at least try to be sneaky about it.
Surely she’s better than this.
On top of that, I can immediately see every gaping sinkhole our vendors are gonna use to get out of jail free, since charging us extra for our fuckups is their favorite pastime.
It’s disappointing.
I can see some promise in the parts she’s written, but it doesn’t change the fact that we’re competing. Emma doesn’t seem to have forgotten, that’s for sure.
So I’ll follow her rules… to a point. It’s not my business if she underestimates me. I’m used to that.
“I’ve already talked to Emma about this. You really didn’t need to waste your time.”
Jocelyn is younger than I’m expecting, which throws me off balance for a whopping five seconds before the version of Reese in my head slaps me for being that guy .
But I’m nothing if not adaptable.
So I quickly throw out the speech I prepared, because if I’m right—and I usually am about these things—I’ve been set up to disprove what was supposed to be a landslide victory for Tech. Now, in order to do that without burning this bridge, I’ll have to get creative.
I smooth down my tie and give her the kind of charming smile that works on just about everyone but Emma. “Indulge me.”
She nods. Good, now to sell it.
“Have you ever been out to site?”
With a shake of her head, she says, “No, I haven’t had the chance yet.”
“That’s a shame. It’s worth the trip. Although the helicopter training is a doozy.”
She smiles, right on cue.
Look, if hell and heaven and all that crap actually existed, meetings like this are without a doubt someone’s cosmic idea of torture. What’s the saying? Death by a thousand cuts? Yeah, like that, but in expensive business wear.
“Did you realize that the system runs 40 percent slower on average at our sites than at headquarters?”
She presses her lips together. “I didn’t.”
“I only mention it because when we remove the—granted, arbitrary—file-size limit, we risk allowing files so large they can’t actually be opened. If that document was, say, a safety-critical piping diagram during a shutdown, well…”
I let the implications paint their own picture.
The real solution would be to improve the site tech, but that’ll never get across the line. It makes zero sense to me and will be the first debate I have with management once I’m the lead.
But I can sell the best solution later. Right now, I only need to get her to agree with me.
“Look, I’ll be honest,” I continue, “there’s only a slim chance of a safety incident, because regulations state that hard copies of all critical documents must be on site, but do you really want to take a risk on a slim chance?”
By the way her lips purse, it’s obvious I’ve landed it. No one wants their name coming up in an audit.
“No, I don’t. All right, what would you say is the best option?”
And sold, to the scrappy fighter from the north.
After eight hours of back-to-back meetings and dealing with half a dozen engineers who can’t understand what Do Not Disturb means, all I want is to shove something greasy down my throat before I pass out. Add a few beers, and I’m good. I’ll drink them lying down. I don’t care.
The only good part about my job is the paycheck. Every cent I haven’t saved has been spent on the essentials—clothes that make people take me seriously, and a memory foam mattress I’d commit crimes for.
It’s not much, but it’s mine.
Reese doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I’m not lonely; I’m fine.
I’ve got a decent life.
Gym, work, home. Visit the shelter a few times a week or a bar if it’s the weekend. If I’m lucky, I get laid.
It’s not as bleak as she makes it out to be. I’ve come a long way since the days of electricity roulette, hoping we wouldn’t short out the building if we rolled the dice and used the microwave at the same time as the toaster.
I bet Emma has never had to worry about that sort of thing.
Weeks of working together, and still, nothing about her makes any damn sense.
With a name like Conway and the sort of money she comes from, she should have a seat on the board, not be sweating her ass off in a low-level position.
I, however, have scraped every win together with my teeth and fingernails.
With me, she’s everything she’s always been—cold, harsh, entitled—but to everyone else, she’s a different person. Sweeter, joyful. It rubs. What the hell do I have to do to get her to smile at me like that?
(Unfuck that briefing, probably).
I just wish I could stop thinking about her damn eyes.