Page 3 of Drilled

My shoulders sagged as we turned the corner, Room 2402 a mere leisurely stroll away. Nance looked at me with those large, inquisitive brown eyes of hers and she was right, as always. I couldn’t lie to her.

“Look, there’s no time to explain everything. The cheat sheet version? Worst part of the morning was some arrogant jerk on his Ducati,” I said, lowering my voice so that only she could hear. Against my better judgement, I added a reluctant addendum. “A hot, arrogant jerk.”

That single qualifier changed everything.

"Hot jerk? A Ducati? Oh, honey," Nancy grinned, clicking her pen. "We are so talking about this over drinks tomorrow night. But for now, Room 2402. Go kill 'em."

I grinned, steeling myself and letting the mask drop.

Just like that, the day began to take its shape. I forgot all about the renovation and the creaky bathroom and Sandy and Ducati Guy. For the next few hours, I lost myself to negotiations, avalanches of paperwork, revolving hearings and the mercy of a pee break here and there.

But the pressure that kept it all spinning, that’s what I thrived on. That’s where I shined, one area of my life I refused to belittle with humility. I was damn good at my job and I enjoyed it.

Which was why when, in the middle of a client meeting, I received a call from the renovation team, I was less than enthused at the break in rhythm. I excused myself, then hopped into the hallway and answered.

“Miss Whittaker?” came a gruff voice on the other end of the line. “It’s Barrett from Cornerstone.”

“Hi. Is everything okay?” I asked, a small part of me vaguely concerned that there might very well have been the kind of emergency I’d kept my phone off silent for.

“We’ve got a bit of a situation in the basement. One of the old clay pipes under the foundation has completely collapsed. The ground is so saturated that—”

Alright. So it was an engineering issue.

“Barrett, I fail to see what that has to do with me. I’m working right now with forty-eight files on my desk and a client who thinks I’m a magician. I don’t have time for this,” I said, my eyes flitting to Nancy through the glass meeting room walls. She widened her eyes slightly, which I knew was a sign to get the hell back in there.

“Look, I understand that but the HOA is on my back right now and if we don’t immediately shore this up then—” he started.

“Then shore it. Just handle it, that’s what I'm paying you guys for,” I said before hanging up and heading back into the fray.

More hours passed, and by the time I was walking back home, my feet were aching. I was exhausted, hoping for nothing more than a hot shower after a challenging day but all illusions of a peaceful evening were shattered when I saw the Cornerstone truck still parked in front of my house.

I felt like a zombie, dragging my feet until I shoved the door open only to be met with darkness. The only source of light came from a lantern set up on a table in the kitchen, the three-man crew huddled around it.

When they heard me enter, they turned to face me, their features cast in the underlight and making them look like a Renaissance painting. One that spoke of gloom and doom and nothing that any exhausted lawyer wants to hear about after a day like today.

Above us, Sandy was losing his shit again, his steps thundering on the floor-ceiling between loud, angry comments at no one in particular.

“We had to turn off the water and power,” Barrett explained simply, not bothering with dancing around the topic. “That pipe I told you about? If we don’t get that fixed up immediately, the back-flow is going to be so bad you’ll be swimming in the Chicago River by midnight.”

2

Lane

So I lied, apparently.

There was something else that I hated more than Chicago winters and that was losing. It came with the territory of being a lawyer, but two consecutive contested hearings wasn’t exactly a mood-soother. Part of the job was compartmentalizing. Letting compassion run loose was a surefire recipe for more future losses and the solution, as always, was to drown myself in more paperwork—of which I had no shortage today.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to recalibrate before diving into the stacks of documents covering every square inch of my desk. I may not have been this sensitive to a less than optimal day if it wasn’t for the situation back home. There was now no sanctuary to retreat to for a reset. I felt displaced and out of control, two things I could not stand. I was far from used to having strangers in my home, let alone in the dead of night.

Nancy’s voice rang out from the doorway of my open office. “I’m heading to Sal’s for a late lunch. Anything I can bring you back?”

“No thanks, Nance. I’m good,” I said, my eyes still closed.

“Okay. You sure? I don’t want to push but just looking at you makes me think it may be a BBQ Pulled Pork Dirty Fries type of day,” she said casually.

I opened my eyes to see she was now standing inside my office with a look of temperate concern on her face. She was also well aware of the best kind of cure for moments like these when she could tell I wasn’t being my usual self. Sal’s dirty fries—sustenance of the gods.

“I’m really fine, thanks. Not very hungry at the moment,” I replied.