Page 2 of Not Safe for Work

“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.