Chapter Two

TUCKER

“Jameson!”

My last name rings through the bare bones of the house I’ve been constructing on for the past month. My first managing project and I can already feel my boss breathing down my neck about the timeline and when we’re supposed to finish.

Rolling up the plans to the house, I turn to see Julius, the beer-belly dickhead, my boss, waddling toward me. It should be comical watching the veins popping angrily in his neck. Should.

Fuck, this isn’t going to be good.

“Why the hell are we spending an extra two thousand dollars on an outside electrician when we have one in-house?”

Julius Parsnip. Yup, that’s his name. I’ve been working for him since I was a teenager. Think of your worst nightmare when it comes to a contractor and times it by ten. That’s Julius. He has zero credibility when it comes to his business and the only reason he keeps getting hired for job after job is because of the people—like myself—holding his company together.

Julius is one of those managers who sits back, drinks beers, and dabbles in plans every once in a while, making a big fucking deal about things when the mood strikes him.

Looks like it’s one of those moments.

“Manny is on paternity leave,” I answer, keeping my voice calm. Julius has no idea about his day-to-day operations, so his lack of knowledge regarding Manny doesn’t surprise me.

“Fucking fathers,” he mutters to himself and shakes his head. Boss of the year right here. “You could have waited for him to come back.”

I put my hands in my pockets, trying to calm the flex in my chest, the tension building in my shoulders. “Not possible. If I waited for Manny, the entire timeline would have been thrown off and we would be behind. I had counters coming in and the electricity had to be done before I could install them. I didn’t have a choice.”

Fuming now, his face looking like an ugly shade of purple, he spits at me, “These are things you need to bring to my attention. I could have thrown Danny in there to do the electricals.”

“Danny is still an apprentice, and that goes against code.”

“Fuck code. We’d have Manny sign off on it.”

I run my hand over my face, knowing I won’t get anywhere with this man, so I concede, my jaw tight as I say, “Yeah, next time I’ll check with you.”

“Fucking right you will. Just because you’re managing projects now doesn’t mean you manage the entire company. All decisions must be run through me.” He wobbles on his feet as he points at himself, the smell of booze now making its way to me. Yup, all decisions must go through the alcoholic. Smart, so fucking smart. “You’re lucky I don’t take this out of your paycheck.”

I try not to laugh at that comment because last time Julius tried to charge a project manager for something “gone wrong”, HR backed up the employee, ensuring Julius understood how that was not possible.

But hey, empty threats are one of the cornerstones of the perfect manager, right?

Not wanting to indulge in any more conversation with this man, especially since he’s drunk and stumbling over his own two feet, I ask, “Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”

Standing tall, well as tall as he can—I still tower over him with my six-foot-three height—he says, “No, that’s it. Check with me before you do something like that again. Got it?”

I tap my head, and say with sarcasm—which I know he won’t pick up on—, “Lock and loaded, boss man.”

“Good.” Turning around, he trips over a two-by-four which he kicks out of his way once he gains balance and strides toward the management trailer. The house we’re building is an entire housing development, new for the area, but in high demand.

When the trailer door slams shut, I sigh in frustration and remove my hard hat to run my hand through my hair, lightly pulling on the strands. Fuck, if this wasn’t such a damn good opportunity and well-paying job, I would quit. It would be cool to not have to deal with that dickhead anymore but jobs don’t come easy in this area, especially jobs like mine. Upstate New York is a tough place to find work and I’m not about to fine-tune my résumé.

I work hard. I’ve never been a slacker, and even though I may have to work with idiots like Julius, I tell myself repeatedly that it’s not forever. One day, I will be a Julius . . . just not with the alcoholic tendencies and beer belly.

I look down at my Fossil watch with the black face and dark leather wristband. Great. It’s well past quitting time. I walk out to my truck and toss my hard hat in the bed, pop open the tailgate, and snag the cooler I keep there for days like this. I don’t drink at the worksite, but I’m not opposed to having a Mountain Dew after work with a Little Debbie snack.

And neither are my guys . . .

Racer and Smalls both stride over to me, their tool-belts now in their hands, their hard hats under their arms, sweat coating their hair even though it’s still winter.

“Please tell me you have Swiss Rolls today,” Racer calls out just as he sits next to me on the tailgate. Smalls steps on the tire and hoists his body over the side and sits on the ledge.

I hold out a box of Oatmeal Creme Pies and shrug my shoulders. “Creamy pies, sorry.”

“Even fucking better.” Racer grabs the box from me and rips it open only to toss a few pies in our direction. We can take down a box easily in one sitting, without even trying, and the best thing about it, we can get away with the calories because we burn five times as much during the day.

With a mouthful of Oatmeal Pie, Racer says, “Saw Julius over here. Did he forget where he put his bottle cap remover?”

It’s not a secret that Julius is known for one thing—getting drunk in his trailer—so Racer’s question is understandable. Also, Racer, Smalls, and I have been working together for years now, so we don’t beat around the bush about things.

“Bitching about paying an electrician.” I pop an entire Oatmeal Pie in my mouth and chew.

Smalls chuckles behind me, his broad frame shadowing me from the lights. This man is anything but small, more like Thor’s bigger brother. “Dickhead already forgot about Manny being on paternity leave? Sounds about right.”

“It’s frightening that he owns the top construction company in the area when he’s so fucking clueless.”

Racer opens a Mountain Dew, the crack of the can echoing through the night. Everyone else has gone home for the night but since we are the three bachelors of the company, we tend to stay later and hang out, or finish up any projects that might need a little extra in making the timeline we promised. We don’t mind because we have nothing pressing at home calling our names and we would rather hang out than sit alone at home like a bunch of dickheads.

“Not for long,” Racer says, a wiggle to his brows.

Fucking Racer. He’s convinced the three of us are going to break off and start our own construction business. We would be damn good at it, but stability is good for me right now; it’s the only fucking thing I have. After everything I lost just over a year ago, I’m not ready to venture out on our own yet. I’m comfortable with sticking to slaving for the man. Someone else can own the responsibility of running a business for now. I’m only twenty-four. My time will come.

“Still caught up on starting our own thing?” I ask. “Dude, you realize how unrealistic that is, right?”

“The fuck it is. We have the talent, the business skills, the contacts, and the men who would follow us in a heartbeat. You’re just scared.”

“Damn right, I’m scared.” I lean back on the truck bed, my hands propping me up. “Julius might be a drunk, but he’s a nasty drunk. You don’t think he wouldn’t be out to get us if we left and started our own thing? He would bad-mouth us around town, never even giving us the chance to stand on our own two fucking feet.”

And that’s the truth. I’ve known the man for a decade, I’ve seen the shade he throws people’s way when he doesn’t like them. I’ve seen him destroy other contractors, fucking with their job sites, paying off workers to mess up a project, paying city officials to earn bids. He has no moral compass and if I become his competition, there is no doubt in my mind he would set out to destroy me.

But fuck . . . to have my own company with my two buddies? That would be living the dream.

“I’m not giving up.” Racer opens another Oatmeal Pie. “One day. We’ll be sitting in our own pimped out trailer, looking over plans together, making our own goddamn decisions over electricians, and showering our employees with Little Debbie snacks. Hell, that curly headed broad, Debbie, will be our sponsor. Our company could be called Debbie’s Dicks.”

“Orrrrrrr something else,” Smalls chimes in. “Something catchy like . . .” he pauses and then snaps his finger, “Tight Squeeze Construction.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask, slightly disgusted with the suggestion.

“Three Erectors,” Racer says with a laugh.

“Butt-Swell Builders.”

“Log Jam.”

“Proud Penises.”

“Manufacturing Man-ginas.”

Looking at Racer now, I deadpan, “Yes, let’s fucking call ourselves the Manufacturing Man-ginas and get a logo with three men wearing hard hats and sporting massive moose knuckles, because if that doesn’t say credible construction, I don’t know what does.” I shake my head at my idiot friends.

They’re both silent for a second before Racer calls over to Smalls, “Hey, at least he’s considering the idea of us going off on our own.”

For fuck’s sake.

I hop off the tailgate of my truck and stretch my hands above my head. Turning to my friends, I say, “I’m going home, so get the fuck off my truck. I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

They both scatter, chugging the rest of their Mountain Dews and then putting their cans in the recycling bag I keep in the back of my truck.

“Think about it,” Racer calls out, backing up as he talks to me. “Man-ginas could be a good way to brand our company. Man-gina stress balls for prospective new customers, doesn’t get much better than that.”

I hop in my truck without a response, shaking my head at my overenthusiastic friend. No way in fuck would I give away man-gina stress balls. No one wants that.

The drive from the job site to my house is short, because I don’t live very far away. At times I wish I did. It’s not because I enjoy driving with my window down, feeling the winter air hit me in the face, but because I hate being at my house. Correction. I hate being at my house alone.

I hate every second of its emptiness, of what it represents, of why I bought it in the first place. It’s a reminder of my past I wish I could forget. I wish I could let go.

I turn right onto my street and pull into the driveway. When I cut the engine, I stare at the small Cape Cod with its brick chimney and mint-green vinyl siding. The windows are dark showing no sign of living inside because I don’t bother leaving a light on for myself—there’s no point. My routine is simple: I get home and head straight to my bedroom after I brush my teeth and take a leak. I don’t bother with dinner—not when I eat a box of Little Debbie snacks—I don’t hang out in the living room because there’s no furniture. The place is empty apart from my bedroom. It’s the only place in my house that doesn’t make me feel crippled with nausea.

Sighing, I pull the keys from the ignition of my truck, stuff my wallet and phone in my pockets, and go to the side door of my house that connects to the kitchen. Knowing the place like the back of my hand, there is no need to flip on any lights as I navigate through the hollow walls toward the only bathroom between the two downstairs bedrooms.

After ten hours on the job site, my body is screaming for a hot shower. I strip out of my dark green Henley and plaster-covered jeans and turn on the shower to a scalding temperature, glad to burn my skin like I do every night to try to rid of the crawling sensation I feel every time I walk into this godforsaken house.

Leaning on the bathroom counter, I look in the mirror as the shower heats up. Battered and tired eyes stare back at me. I look older than my twenty-four years. I feel fucking older than my twenty-four years. With the life experiences I have under my belt, the disappointments, the losses I’ve lived through, I feel like I’m in my mid-thirties. What’s the phrase? Life sucks and then you die?

Steam billows from the top of the shower. I step past the plain curtain and welcome the heat against my body. The water pelts me in the back, so hot it almost feels cold, just how I like it. I hiss between my teeth, letting the water run down my back to where it pools at my feet before draining away. If only it took my sorrow with it.

Fourteen months ago, I bought this house for a very specific reason: to start a family with my pregnant girlfriend. I wanted to provide for her, to prove I could be the man she needed, convince her that I was the man she could rely on. The involved and caring father I knew I could be. I was happy, fucking ecstatic; my girl was pregnant with my baby. Yeah, we had our problems. Our relationship was off and on for a while, but I believed deep in my fucking soul that we were meant to be together, that we were made for one another.

But the world had other plans.

The day after I signed the papers for this house, I got the call. My girl had woken up to blood; blood fucking everywhere.

Sadie miscarried. Lost our baby. I’d never felt such devastation in my life. Some might say I was too young to even realize the impact that had on my future, but fuck them. I’ve had to grow up pretty quickly in my life, and I’ve been adulting longer than some actual adults. I know what loss is, and that night, holding Sadie’s hand in the hospital while they told us we’d lost the baby, that was loss. That was devastation. Crippling.

But nothing prepared me for the cataclysmic damage that would happen next. Nothing prepared me for seeing the girl of my dreams pull away mentally and physically. Nothing prepared me for the day I learned she was seeing someone else. And nothing prepared me for when Sadie moved on and began living her life with another fucking man.

I didn’t just lose my baby. No, I lost my girl too. And fuck if I was ready for that.

She said we were growing apart before we lost the baby, that our relationship was hanging on by a thread, but I refuse to acknowledge that. In my mind, there was always hope for Sadie and me, she just gave up. On us. On me.

Now, I live in a house I despise, a house that reminds me of everything I came so close to having. Something I may never hold in my grasp.

It’s like constantly coming home to a slideshow of devastation on replay. I fucking hate everything about this house. It represents loss. Darkness.

On a heavy sigh, I finish washing my body, turn off the shower, and towel off. Silence greets me as I sit on my bed, my head in my hands, trying to ease the tension building in the pit of my stomach.

So much fucking silence. Silence, a wife and baby should have smothered. Silence, a family—my family—would have filled, but is now possessed by a lonely, bitter fuck.

Me.

Tucker Jameson.

I couldn’t despise myself more.