The Yankees were away at Fenway for a three-game series against the Red Sox, and Cole Turner was stuck at work.
“Game’s on. I got it streaming on my iPad.” Dave, his favorite coworker, came in, ready to lay carpet, with a knee kicker in one hand and the iPad in the other.
“Right on. Next best thing to being there.”
Dave snorted and rolled his eyes. “Like hell it is.”
“Yeah, I know.” He drew the words out. “You ready? I got everything measured.” Cole tugged a box cutter out of his tool belt.
“All right. Let’s do this.”
They got to work. He and Dave had done this together so many times they didn’t have to think about it. They worked without talking to each other, both of them more focused on the game than on what they were doing. Roll, measure, cut, lay it out, stretch it, tack it down. Roll, measure, cut, lay, stretch, tack. Roll, measure, cut…
They had the big conference room, both of the smaller ones, and the reception area done before the game was over.
“God damn it!” Dave pulled the cap off his head and threw it at the ground. “Fucking Sox.”
Cole was a Yankees fan, no question. Blue and gray all the way. He enjoyed the game, but he rarely got worked up over one. He had no love for the Red Sox, but he didn’t have the energy to hate them either. Not like Dave did. Dave found some way to blame every error the Yanks made on the Sox. If Dave could, he’d probably blame the blizzard this past February, or his late subway train, on the Red Sox.
“That’s it. Five-three. Fucking cheaters.”
He gave Dave’s shoulder a pat. “It’s the first of three, we’ll come back. You want a drink, man?”
“Nah, it’s late.” Dave picked up his hat and tucked it back on his shaggy head.
“Maybe a haircut?”
“Shut up, asshole.”
Cole had shaved himself bald a few years ago and hadn’t ever gone back. He loved it.
Dave turned off the iPad, and they started cleaning up. They’d be back at this tomorrow. Weekends were often busier than weekdays in their line of work.
“We’ll get the walls up on those offices tomorrow, yeah?” Maybe lay the floor in the company kitchen too. Lighting. Should be a big day.
“Works for me. Anybody else on?”
“Oh yeah, full crew. Busy, busy.” He wasn’t fucking around. People were moving in on Monday.
“Nice.” Dave had a look around. “All good, I think.”
“Yep. Let’s get out of here.”
They hit the lights as they left, and the office door locked behind them. These high-rise office buildings were weird late at night. There was always someone working somewhere but mostly the place felt deserted. Express elevator ride to the lobby with no one getting on or off. All the amenities in the lobby—the Starbucks, the drug store, the Panera—were all dark and closed, chairs stacked on the tables and metal gates down and locked up tight.
The security guard at the desk had his feet up and was reading a dog-eared book.
“Night,” Cole said as they passed the guard.
The guard nodded. “Safe home, guys.”
Safe home. Well, he wasn’t going home. Not yet anyway. He walked Dave to the subway and then he headed for a cross street to hail a cab. Times Square was busy on a Friday night, so he headed west to Ninth Ave., hoping to catch one headed downtown. Luck was on his side, and he caught one long before he got there.
He paid the cab driver and ducked into the familiar club, breathing in the loud music and colorful lighting and letting it into his soul. He loved a loud club. The thump of the base and the shadowy lights made it almost impossible to think of anything but the moment. He wasn’t sure when he’d started looking forward to Friday nights, and he knew he probably shouldn’t have been. But he craned his neck anyway, trying to get a look at the bar as he made his way over, bobbing and weaving around bodies.
He’d fallen into a routine booty call with this incredibly hot guy, but it was only that—a drink to take the edge off his week and then an invitation back to his place to fuck. He got to the bar, looked all the way up one end and down the other, but didn’t see Ben anywhere.
Shit. He was late because of work, he knew, but he was still hoping…
Jesus, Cole. What are you doing? He’d told himself a bunch of times this was a bad idea, because a regular thing could only be so meaningless, right? Sooner or later you started to like the way the guy smiled or laughed, that perfect ass or the look on his face when he came. Not that he was hooked on any of it. He wasn’t hooked, he just…liked them.
Shit.
Well, okay. If he was disappointed, it was only because he was hoping to get laid. Right?
The bartender didn’t even try to yell over the music, just gave him a wave.
“Jameson. Rocks!” he shouted. He liked it with ginger ale too, and if Ben were here, he’d order that so he could sip it and—
Okay. Whoa. This was the last weekend he was doing this. He needed to get a grip. He was sliding down a slippery fucking slope.
He tapped his foot and watched the bodies moving on the dance floor, wondering if Ben went back to someone else’s place tonight. When his drink arrived, he pulled out the ice cubes and tossed them way out into the crowd, then swallowed the whiskey down in one gulp.
Time to go home.