Page 4 of Not Safe for Work

Rafe’s uncle Charles joins David on the stage. Charles is also constructed from the Gallaghers’ gorgeous DNA blueprint but lacks the swagger to drive the point home.

He’s more down-to-earth and prefers to join everyone for 99-cent wings and beer at the Swan and Rooster—the nearby pub favored on Friday afternoons—where we all pretend happy hour with our coworkers is a viable substitute for meaningful relationships.

Charles wears a loose white button-up shirt, baggy medium-wash jeans, and white gym shoes. David eyes his brother with cool detachment, as if he’s judging his informal attire.

Apparently, David Gallagher doesn’t believe in casual Friday, either.

Charles taps the microphone in his hand, a screech erupting into a collective flinch as a thousand eardrums rupture. His nervous laughter echoes through the room, and part of me pities his gene’s rejection of that Gallagher charisma.

The room has grown warm, the sun beating through the glass ceiling. I fan myself where sweat condenses in the hollow of my throat, shifting as the backs of my thighs stick to the plastic surface. When I glance across the room, my gaze catches Rafe’s, who’s again peering in my direction. I narrow my eyes, trying to summon my most damning manifestation of resting bitch face.

His response is another evil smirk that’s suddenly leaving me conflicted in ways I don’t care to examine too closely.

He’s Lucifer, wearing the disguise of a Ralph Lauren model.

“Hello, everyone,” Charles says timidly into the microphone. The crowd ignores him, too absorbed in their conversations.

David Gallagher arches a dark, judgy eyebrow full of such disdain that I’m surprised Charles doesn’t melt into the floor. It’s then I notice Rafe watching his father with his jaw clenched and his eyes sparking with what seems like anger. What I suddenly wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall at the Gallagher Thanksgiving dinner.

“Everyone, please!” Charles says louder this time, and an audible hush descends over the crowd. He waits a few more seconds before taking a deep breath and powering on. “I’m very excited to welcome you all here today to announce the candidates representing the Chicago branch at WMC Purcell’s first-ever Rising Stars Leadership Retreat. This is a very special opportunity for two of our most promising engineers.”

He pauses as if waiting for applause and turns tomato red when it fails to materialize.

We’re all just here for the cake.

“Anyway,” he squeaks, then drones on for a few minutes about WMC and its corporate mandate. I tune out as I stare around the room for something interesting to occupy my attention.

It’s growing warmer, the air stifling as the sun rises higher. A trickle of sweat runs down my back, and I shift as my skin peels off the plastic.

Molly looks equally uncomfortable, her pale skin flushed as she pushes limp curls out of her face.

“I know you’ve all been wondering where the retreat will be held,” Charles says. “I’m pleased to say it will take place at the Naupaka Resort on the beautiful island of Maui.”

A collective sound, part groan and part gasp, rushes through the crowd, and I can’t help but join them. Three weeks in Hawaii sounds like a dream. I know I’m not going, but I allow myself the briefest fantasy of pink umbrella drinks and crystal-clear water, anyway.

“The first rising star”—Charles takes a dramatic pause—“is Rafe Gallagher.”

A polite round of clapping ensues, and I look over at Rafe, expecting a smug smile. Instead, I see a heated look pass between father and son, the senior tipping his chin so slightly I nearly miss it. Rafe blinks slowly, then pushes himself up and strides onto the stage, where he stiffly shakes hands with his uncle and father.

Charles clears his throat, and I watch Rory, sitting a few rows back, his knee bouncing in anticipation. He’s the very worst kind of Khaki. Not just drab but outright corrosive. The office lech, he’s a repulsive pig who has more than one count of sexual harassment against him, and that’s just the tip of his crimes. His very presence makes my skin crawl off my body.

I keep dated notes about him saved in a password-protected folder on my personal cloud drive—just in case. Of what, I’m not sure. But I have to believe that someday, they might prove useful.

I return my attention to the front, where Charles is still talking. He glances nervously at David before they both inexplicably look at me.

Then, in a move I never saw coming, Charles Gallagher draws a wildcard and flings it hard enough to slice an artery.

“Please congratulate our second Rising Star of Tomorrow, Trishara Malik.”

Chapter Two

An uncomfortable tension twists in my lungs. My brows squeeze together, and I’m convinced that I’ve misheard my name. I’ve blacked out, and I’m going to wake up staring at the glass ceiling.

I’m imagining Rafe standing over me, an eyebrow arched in disdain. Molly trying to revive me as she gently slaps my cheeks. Brian yelling about how he’s a seven and asking if he should text his date from last night.

“Tris,” Molly hisses. “Tris!” Her fingers dig into my arm as she shakes me loose. “Go! Charles just called your name.”

My mouth parts with a surprised breath. “That can’t be. That makes no sense.”