Page 3 of Drilling Deep

Shoving the last of my toiletries into the open suitcase on the floor, I pause while looking over the cute pink headband with a large silk dahlia on one side. It’s one of my favorites, but looking at it again, I decide against bringing it with me. When will I have the occasion to dress up and look cute? And who would I be dressing up for?

My father’s words echo in my head, and I scrunch my nose, trying to block them out. It’s no use.

Pack professional clothes, Cora. None of that glittery shit, and no girly colors.

I told my dad that colors aren’t gender-specific, but he didn’t receive that too well. In fact, he made a point to write down a list of “safe” colors, like black, gray, and tan. Navy blue, if I want to get wild.

Tossing the headband aside, I close the lid of my luggage and flop down on my bed. I’m trying to be positive about the next month of my life aboard an oil rig. There’s nothing I can do to change it, so I might as well start accepting it.

I remember when my father called me down from my room last week, telling me about an exciting opportunity. I was instantly on the defensive. Ever since I graduated college a few months ago, he’s been hounding me to get to work. It’s not for lack of trying that I don’t have a job. I’ve applied to at least five places a day for the last ten weeks, but so far, I’ve only had a handful of callbacks, and they didn’t go anywhere.

That doesn’t matter to my dad. It upsets him that I’m holding out for a career I’m excited about. Mainly because my career choice is “unladylike” and “unattractive” to prospective husbands. That’s not why I chose to double major in accounting and computer sciences, but it’s a nice perk.

Sighing, I close my eyes and rub my temples as flashes of that conversation replay in my mind. It started the way it always does, with my dad telling me I have so much potential if I would only take an office job, be a secretary or receptionist—just until I get married, of course. Then I could pop out a few kids and continue the family line of shallow, cold millionaires who would sacrifice a limb if it meant turning a profit.

Ew.

That can’t be my life. I want to start my own business fixing computers one day or maybe snag a fancy programming job for an up-and-coming tech company. Unfortunately, entry-level positions are hard to come by. Even more so as a woman in a male-dominated industry.

The conversation with my father took a turn when he said he created a job for me on his oil rig. I blinked at him for a solid minute before asking him to repeat himself. Sure enough, he said it again. Me. A job. Oil rig.

Honestly, I think I might enjoy a job with some physical labor. Getting my hands dirty and accomplishing something sounds so satisfying. Unfortunately for me, the position my father created is basically a temporary assistant to the Foreman, who needs some help with his office work and organization. I’m a secretary. Just like my father always wanted.

After several rounds of protests, my father made it clear that accepting the job was my only option. Either stay on the rig for a month and act as an assistant, or he’ll send me to my mom’s. As difficult and mean as my father can be, I’d much rather live with him than my mother. At least he leaves me alone most of the time.

My mom, on the other hand, is constantly flitting around and telling me what to do, how to do it better, and questioning every little decision I make. She also tends to snort like a pig when she sees me eating sugar or carbs. She’s done that since I was fifteen, and I hate it now as much as I did back then.

I figured I could survive longer with my dad while waiting for a job to save up and move out than my mom. Now, I’m not sure which is the worse option.

“Cora!” my father hollers from the main floor. “Come on, let’s get going. I have a long day ahead of me after dropping you off.”

I groan internally, somehow mustering the strength to get off my bed. I take one last look around my room with my queen-sized, four-post bed, soft down comforter, and silk sheets. I have a feeling my sleeping arrangements on board won’t be quite as fancy, but that’s okay. I hope.

Gathering my luggage, I step into the hallway and down the stairs, careful not to drag the suitcase on the hardwood flooring. I’m about four steps from the landing when my luggage wheel gets caught on the underside of the previous stair. I tug on it, freeing the wheel, only to have the inertia of my movement send me tumbling down the last few stairs.

I hiss when I land on my hands and knees, but thankfully, nothing seems to be damaged. I’ll probably have bruised knees and a sore wrist, but nothing I’m not used to. Scrambling to my feet, I hope to get myself and my suitcase straightened out before my father hears.

“Cora? Did you break a stair?” he asks from the front room. He can’t see me from where he’s lounging on the couch, but I’m sure he heard my tumble.

“No, I’m fine,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. He didn’t ask if I was okay, just the stairs, but I let him know anyway.

“Let’s get a move on, then,” he grunts.

I follow him to the Escalade, loading my suitcase in the back before climbing into the front with my dad. The drive to the rig only takes about an hour, and we don’t speak the entire time. It’s not unusual for us, and I truly don’t mind. I don’t usually like what my father has to say when he talks to me.

Pulling up to one of the docks, he parks and leads us to a man already waiting for us in a boat. “Big Dan!” the man exclaims. “It’s always good to see you.”

He has a shock of red hair and is surprisingly… skinny for a rig worker. He looks like he’s only a few years older than me, and I wonder if his only job is ferrying people to and from the floating rig and attached boat.

My dad gives him a look that says he has no idea who this guy is.

“I’m Peter,” he says as if reading my father’s thoughts. “Tim’s nephew. I started working here a few months ago.”

My father nods, shaking his hand. “This is my daughter, Cora,” he says, motioning toward me.

Peter stares at me for a moment too long, making my skin crawl. I don’t like the look in his eye.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, smiling at me. It’s not a friendly smile, though. It’s predatory. He takes my luggage and then helps me step into the boat. I step away from him as soon as I find my footing.

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