Question is, do I start with the trade in general first, or this particular company?
I consider the problem for a few minutes—It probably looks like I’m sitting on my ass staring into space, but in reality, my mind is spinning in overdrive.
Finally, I have a workable approach.
There’s a corner office, the big one with the best view; the door is closed, lights off. The plaque to the right of the doorframe proclaims it to be Delia’s office, naturally. And, just outside the office, an L-shaped desk with two different desktop computers, a phone, a large filing cabinet, an industrial caliber copy machine/printer. Manning this station is what I, in my own head, refer to as a CLT—and cute little thing. Meaning, an attractive young female with whom I enjoy flirting but would never actually go beyond flirting, because my tastes in the bedroom tend to be…um, vigorous. And in my experience, CLTs are just…too delicate. Physically, and mentally. They just can’t keep up.
This particular CLT secretary/assistant is the brunette version. She probably wears PINK brand thongs, drinks fruity mixed drinks with names like Sunrise Bahama Blast, and her idea of spicing it up in the bedroom is probably some gentle spanking. She’s wearing a denim miniskirt with a frayed hem and a baby doll shirt. Her hair is loose and artfully wavy, and she probably gets a blowout at least once a week.
How do I know these things? I pay attention. Know thy prey, or something like that. Not that this cute little thing is my prey, mind you. For one thing, I can tell just by the way she watches my approach that I could snap my fingers and grin and have her wrapped around my…finger. And where’s the challenge in that? Plus, I learned the hard way to not hunt where I work.
I lean a hip against her desk, one hand in my slacks pocket. Give her the smile, the look. “Hey. I’m Thai. I’m new around here, and I’m hoping you can help me out.”
Her eyes blink a mile a minute, and she swallows hard. “Hi, um. I’m Jamie. I’m new here, too. Just started last week, actually.” Her puppy dog brown eyes flit from my lips to my jawline to my shoulders. She licks her lips. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Jamie. I need some information. A lot of information, actually.”
Her eyes fix on my shoulders and stay there, only briefly flitting to meet my gaze. “What kind of information?”
“I need to know about our current projects. Estimated overhead, projected profit, who our suppliers are, subcontractors, things like that. Oh, and staffing information—how many employees we have, the pay rate, churn, all that good stuff.”
She licks her lips again. “So…everything?” This is accompanied by a little giggle, as if this is a great joke.
“Yeah, basically. Everything you can get me about McKenna.”
She frowns. “That’s a lot. I’ll do the best I can.”
“Hey, whatever you can get me will be great.” I smile at her again and run my fingers through my hair—that always gets ’em. “Thanks, Jamie.”
“No problem…Thai.” And, as I leave, there’s the sigh.
Sorry babe, but sharks can’t survive on minnows, if you know what I mean.
Jamie comes through—bythe end of the day, I have a three-inch binder stuffed with reports and printouts and such. It’s a ton of dry, dense material, but I’ve discovered I have a pretty voracious capacity for absorbing this kind of stuff.
I take it home with me—home is a brand-new condo in downtown River Gulch, a short walk from the McKenna headquarters. Not as lux as I tend to go for, but in a nowhere town like River Gulch, this is fine living indeed. Two bedrooms, an office-library, massive master suite with a nice bathroom and closet, plus the building has a decent 24-hour gym and lap pool.
I put something mindless on TV—one of the Fast and Furious movies—pour myself a glass of Glenmorangie and start going through my materials. Hours later, I’m bingeing a not-great sci-fi series, I’m only a quarter of the way through the reports, and my eyes are burning. But it’s my first day, so I can’t expect to be able to cram everything about the whole company into my skull in one night.
When I finally call it for the day, it’s almost two in the morning, and my head is swimming with facts and numbers.
Yet, when I lie down and close my eyes, it’s Delia keeping me from falling asleep.
Those eyes.
That body.
That attitude. It was always the attitude that got me. As a punk kid, her fiery spirit intimidated me, and I responded by trying to cut her down. As an adult? Her wild, uncontainable ferocity and stubbornness is complemented by a confidence she didn’t have back then.
And that gives me a hell of a hard-on.
* * *
“…andon either side of a doorway or a window, you double or triple the uprights,” Cal is saying.
Cal is the head project foreman, the top dog out in the actual field, in charge of the day-to-day details of construction across all projects. “There are standard specific dimensions for everything, obviously. Studs are usually sixteen inches apart, stair riser standard is seven inches high by eleven deep.” He points up, at the ceiling framing. “Same thing up there. You have standard angles, distances, all that. It’s all been calculated and engineered, and it’s all covered under building codes. Before you can sell a house you’ve built, you have to have it certified by a code inspector, right, who checks to make sure everything follows all the rules. Keeps folks safe.”
“And you know all this off the top of your head?” I ask.
