Sliding his hands into his pockets, he sighs. “I’ll have a chat with him again. Week-by-week leadership should include all inspections and rundowns. I’ll make it happen.” He pats my shoulder before returning his hand to his pocket and walks for the stairs.
I hope he does.
What a fucking shit show.
All of which could have been prevented if they’d promoted in-house, period. A few minutes later, our crew of new and old members alike file into the kitchen. Sanderson claps me on the back. “Never seen so much restraint, brother.” He chuckles, making his way to the coffee machine. “Heids, you want a hit?”
Owens drops into the sofa under the window at the far end of the kitchen area. “Absolutely, Sandy. Make it a double, I’m on rigging.”
Sanderson groans dramatically, sliding a mug under the machine before refilling the bean reservoir at the top.
A moment later, the fragrant scent of fresh ground beans and rich coffee tangles through the room.
Our two new recruits walk into the kitchen. I’m assuming the mating call of fresh caffeine drew them in. “Going to need to make a few more,” I say to Sanderson.
He turns back, a full mug in his hands. “Come in, you two. Join the chaos.”
The woman chuckles softly, sweeping a stray lock of curly dark hair out of her face. Her tied-up bun is messy, a stark contrast to her brand-new, neat uniform.
Davies, however, has his shirt half tucked in and one shoe in his hand as his gaze darts around the room.
“Davies, turn around and reappear when you’re dressed.” I point down the hallway to the bunks.
“Sorry, didn’t want to be late for something again, sir.”
I raise a brow, folding my arms.
His face twists with confusion. “Not sir?”
“Hammond is fine. Go on.”
I jerk my head, prompting him to go fix his uniform. This guy’s first day is more disastrous than mine. Go figure.
The slightest hint of camaraderie toward him snags at my insides.
We can’t afford to be sentimental, or anything but methodical and disciplined. Sloppiness gets your written up at best, killed at worst.
A fact I hope Schmidt remembers when he’s jumping the gun to take over, for what? Brownie points?
Something steaming slides under my nose. “Drink, Hammo, you’re undercaffeinated.”
“Fuck off, Sandy.”
He chuckles, walking the room, handing out fresh brews to each of our crewmates.
“Thanks so much,” Tennison says, sipping hers tentatively as she sits at the long, old wooden dining table.
Schmidt waltzes in, and shoot, the mugs have all been handed out. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
“Well, that’s fucking lovely. You’re one short, Sanderson.” Schmidt flops onto the sofa next to Heids, spilling her coffee in her lap.
“The hell, man?” She holds her coffee out, a hand dripping with the dark brown liquid she refuses to cream. “You know what, Schmiddy? I would have taken three rookies over your sorry ass any day of the week.” She scowls at him and pads to the dining table, sitting opposite Tennison and Davies, like she’s picked sides in some schoolyard game.
Oh, this is not good.
Not goodat all.
We are supposed to be a close-knit unit. We are supposed to have each other’s backs. It’s the one thing that keeps us alive. Except now there’s a divide between us making the Grand Canyon look like child’s play.
