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Chapter One
Blue
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“What a motherfucker.” The sound of Hannah’s voice causes me to jump right as her backside plops down on the corner of my desk. “I swear to god he’s such an arrogant prick,” she seethes, running a hand through her auburn hair.
“Uh oh. Patrick again?” I guess, knowing that when it comes to Hannah and Patrick, they’re like oil and water. Last month, when the company we work for went through a re-org, he’s the only person she didn’t want to have end up on her team. Unfortunately for her, that’s exactly what happened.
“Who else.” She rolls her eyes. “I swear that man doesn’t know his mouth from his asshole, because every time he opens it he spews shit.”
“Hannah,” I scold in a hushed voice, lifting up to peer over the short wall of my cubicle.
Hannah and I started here over ten years ago as interns during our senior year of college and have pretty much been inseparable ever since. And as her closest friend, it’s usually my job to reel her back in when she forgets that she’s at work, which happens quite a lot with her. She’s as hot headed as they come. She claims it’s the red hair. While most can hide their inner demon, she wears hers for the world to see.
“What?” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I don’t care if he hears me. He’s lucky I’m not saying worse.”
“What did he do this time?” I relax back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other.
“What he always does. Talks to me like I’m some incompetent twit. Never mind the fact that I have a four-year degree or that I’ve been doing this two years longer than he has. I swear, if I didn’t need this job, I’d be packing up my shit and walking out right this second.”
“Why don’t you talk to John? I’m sure if you tell him the problems you’re having he’ll do what he can to help.”
“And give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten to me? Not a chance. Besides, you already know there’s nothing John will do. He’ll probably just tell me to ignore him.”
“Well, maybe you should try that tactic,” I offer.
“Yeah, because that’s possible.” She sighs in defeat. “How’s your day going, anyway? It has to be better than mine.”
“Okay, I guess. I mean, I’m here.” I shrug indifferently.
It’s not that I dislike my job, because I don’t. But there is a certain monotony to it that tends to make the days drag on. Eight hours often feels like fifty and I find myself staring at the clock a hell of a lot more than I should.
When I decided to major in Business, I imagined my future job would be something a lot more glamorous. Being a Business Analyst for a well-known medical technology firm has its benefits; great pay, good hours, and I’m able to manage my schedule and workload without much interference from management. But a lot of times those benefits are outweighed by the constant back and forth between our clients and our IT team, neither of which seem to ever be on the same page. It’s frustrating on a good day. On a bad day? Well, let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of melt downs over the years.
“I’m so glad it’s Friday. Please tell me you’re coming to the team building thing tonight. I don’t think I can stomach hanging out with these people outside of work without you.” She gestures around the large open room lined with cubicles identical to mine.
“Crap, is that tonight?” I ask, having forgotten all about it. Every third Friday of the month, everyone in our department goes out for dinner and drinks. It’s meant to be a team building function, but usually equates to everyone getting drunk and bitching about work.
“Yes, it’s tonight. And your ass better be there.” Hannah crinkles her nose and hits me with a pointed stare.
“I don’t know. I’m supposed to meet up with Bruce tonight.”
“Bruce?” She cocks a brow at me.
“I met him at the gym last week, remember?”
“Oh yes, big muscles, no brains, how could I forget?”
“I never said he didn’t have any brains.”
“You didn’t have to. I know your type.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I try not to be offended by her comment.
“Oh come on. It’s no secret that you gravitate toward guys who have a lot going on here.” She gestures to her body. “And not a lot going on up here.” She places a finger to her temple.
“I do not,” I argue, even though I know she’s right. “Okay, maybe I do,” I concede. “But what’s wrong with that? What I want from men is only the physical. He doesn’t have to be the brightest crayon in the box to give me what I need.”
