After an incident that ended with the death of Uncle Coop, they had installed some safeguards. But none of them had made this place as secure as my program. Now, you need to go through a few steps just to get in the front door when no one is manning the desk, but also, thumbprint and facial recognition is needed once you get deeper into the bowels of the building.
Which brought me to my favorite feature of the system. The second you step foot in the front door, the system recognizes you by a series of body and facial scans, leaving a small icon of your face on the bottom of the screen. It’s helpful for everyone at CS to know who is in the building at all times. New clients sometimes act like they have a giant stick up their ass when we require them to be put into the system, but it beats the alarm going off all day during consultations because it doesn’t recognize someone who’s been past the main lobby longer than the registered safe period, which it’s designed to do for our well-being.
“Son.” I hear in the way of a greeting from the front of the dungeon.
“Morning to you, too, old man,” I reply. I don’t look away from the monitor, nor do I stop the rapid speed in which my fingers are dancing over the keys in front of me.
“Yeah, Nate, mornin’. Want to tell me why you’re here, again, hours before any other of these sorry bastards even got out of bed?”
I let out a laugh. “You know you’re not just talking about yourself since I beat you here, but also the golden boy who shares a bed with your little princess?”
I don’t need to look to know my dad has a scowl on his face. He still can’t handle the fact that his little girl is grown up and married with two kids of her own. It’s way too much fun to remind him just how his grandsons got here.
Just the thought of Owen and Evan is enough to lighten a little of the dark mood that has followed me around since the dream that woke me up way too fucking early this morning.
“Don’t be a punk, Nate.”
I laugh, making sure to write down where I was in my coding before I drop the pen next to my log sheet and turn to where my father is now sulking.
“What’s up?”
“Not what’s up with me, Nate. What’s up with you?”
“Yeah, not following you. Old age making you go nuts already?” I lift my hand and point at the top of my head. “A lot more gray in there these days. You’re starting to lose the whole salt and pepper look and become more salt only.”
He shakes his head, not falling for my taunt, and pushes off where he had been leaning against one of the large floor-to-ceiling columns that hold our storage drive systems, or what I like to call ‘mother ships.’ He might ignore it, but I watch as he rubs a hand over his head while pulling one of the chairs around the hub monitors. I bite back the laugh as the few streaks of gray shine in the light of my computer screen when he pulls his seat toward my desk, settling his six-foot-six frame down with a grunt. I have to force my silence when the urge to take a jab at his struggled grunt when he sat hits my mind.
“Your mother is worried. When she’s worried, she isn’t happy. And, Nate, I hate it when she isn’t happy.”
And … there went the playful mood.
“Why do you automatically assume that I’m the reason she is worried?”
“Because she’s been like this since she found out you’ve been working yourself to the ground here, showing up before the sun, and then staying at that club until who knows when at night.”
At the mention of that club, I feel my temper rise. It doesn’t help that he still can’t seem to mask his disapproval when it comes up. It’s been a constant fight between my father and me since I bought that club.