“Hush,” I ordered and despite my inner cheerleading, the memory of Lorna twice in one night was too much for any sane man. Instead of positive, I felt miserable. “Sort stuff out with Charlie. I got this, and then I’m going to bed.”
“Garret—” Charlie said.
“Thanks for saving the day,” I told her then I waved to the trio. “See you guys around.”
I scooped up the last couple of towels and headed upstairs.
I now had a shit-ton of laundry to do.
Good times.
Yup. That sounded exactly like my life.
Three
Charlie
Pipes.
I dreamed about pipes.
Well, a certain green-eyed male’s pipes—cough, pipe—and how it would feel sliding inside—
Had I mentioned I had a type?
Tall, built, asshole—
Though he’d apologized and sort of redeemed himself, so maybe semi-asshole was a more apt description.
Pipes.
As in, I needed to focus on the ones in front of me so I could wrap up this job before heading back over to Tig’s next week. This job was a fairly simple one, roughing in a few bathrooms, a kitchen, and a laundry room. The walls were open, it was new construction, and there was plenty of space for me to work. Plus, because the job was at this stage—mid-build—it was clean.
And yes, I considered normal construction dust and man sweat clean.
It was leaps and bounds better than crawling through basements, or dealing with a faulty sewer line, or crawling through a puddle and getting soaking wet.
Though, I couldn’t deny that seeing the way Garret’s eyes had heated on viewing the after-effects of said puddle crawling . . . and sigh. I needed to put him out of my mind. Yes, it had been a while since I’d scratched my proverbial itch with something that wasn’t battery-operated, but I’d sworn off men, choosing instead to focus on my business.
Relationships were too much work and drama and emotion.
Emotional vampires, that was what men were.
“Emotional fucking vampires,” I muttered, garnering myself a weird look from the general contractor I was working with.
Great.
I pointed to my earbuds, pretending to be on my phone, when really the podcast I’d been listening to about Lord of the Rings erotic fanfiction had ended fifteen minutes before. Yes, I thought that correctly. Yes, it was weird. Yes, it was also incredibly interesting because it was about people and how their minds worked and how someone could be totally different from me could teach me something.
Well, that was maybe a stretch when it came to LOTR erotic fanfiction, specifically, but I appreciated their devotion nonetheless.
And maybe that was what I’d learned.
I banged my knuckles against the wood framing and glanced down at the pipe, biting back a curse. But considering I’d almost connected the wrong joint during my woolgathering, I had to force myself to focus.
Plumbing was my livelihood and I needed to not screw that up. Because even though I found the mind incredibly interesting, even though I’d planned on going into psychology that dream didn’t exist for me any longer. Not since I’d realized the that moment I turned eighteen, the foster care system ceased to exist for me.
There wasn’t a safety net or continued payments.
Some loans were available, but not enough to cover everything I needed to survive. And what good were books and free course units when I couldn’t afford a place to stay?
Dave, my foster father, had offered to let me stay at his apartment while I went to school, but there wasn’t room, and in the end, I was just another mouth to feed. Plus, he’d gotten me the apprenticeship. I’d known I needed to move on, to free up space and let another kid who needed to be safe live there.
Safe homes weren’t always a guarantee, and the kids still in the system didn’t need me clogging up a spot.
I could take care of myself.
Always had. Always would.
Which meant I needed to finish up this job so I could be free to work on the plumbing at Tig’s. Head down, keep my hands working, forget about the past and dreams that never would be. Focus on now, on how I could keep building toward something concrete.
Buying that great apartment.
Having security.
Not worrying about buying a new shirt or going to the movies or eating out once in a while.
A big dream downsized to a realistic one.
Maybe that was sad, but it was also . . . reality.
Still, it was so much more pleasant to think about Garret’s pipe.
Stifling a sigh, I tugged my cell from my pocket and scrolled through podcasts until I found one that seemed interesting. Then I pushed all thoughts of the tattooed troublemaker from my mind, focused on the pipes in front of me, and got down to work.
I measured and cut. I drilled holes and pulled flexible lines. I soldered, trimmed, glued, cursed, shoved, and sometimes measured twice, but by the time the sun was setting, I’d finished what I needed to get done.
Time to hit it.
It was Friday night in the City.
Maybe for normal girls that would mean getting gussied up and going out dancing.
For me, it meant another bath, splurging by lighting my Mai Tai candle and using another bath bomb, and then going to bed early.
I had two jobs to bid on tomorrow then a small one on Sunday.
My weekend was lit . . . if one could call busting out my soldering iron lit.
And for the record, I did.
Snorting, I packed up the rest of my tools, stacked the extra materials to the side. I’d wait until the end of the job, but if I couldn’t use them, I’d either return them or take them to my next job and put them to use there. I’d credit the contractor, of course. I wanted to build relationships, not burn them, but I’d found it was always better to have some extra supplies to take back rather than having to run out to the hardware store in the middle of the day.
I hated that.
Not that I was together enough to manage to avoid them completely. I wasn’t infallible, but at least I prevented some of the extra visits.
“Hey, Charlie,” one of the electricians called. “We’re going for a beer. Want to come?”
“Next time,” I called back. “Had an emergency call last night and need to hit it early.”
He gave me a knowing look then agreed, “Next time.”
A few minutes later, I was packed up and heading to my car.
It was a piece of shit Honda that had seen better days close to two decades before. The side mirror was duct-taped on, there were more dents and primer than actual paint left, and I still had a cassette player.
And a collection of tapes.
Rock on.
But my brand spanking new truck dream fell below my brand-new apartment dream in order of dream hierarchy.
I’d gone for function when buying this vehicle. I wanted something that would run forever, not break down, and I had nothing against using a little duct tape when the need arose.
Plus, I had my Alanis Morrisette cassette and there was nothing like driving through the streets, windows down—since my AC definitely didn’t work—listening to Alanis speak to my childhood angsty heart.
Ironic?
My life certainly had been that.
Starting with the fact that my two-hundred-thousand-mile car was the most long-term relationship I’d had in my life, aside from Dave.