Chapter One
Cindy
I’m a nineteen-year-old landscaper.
What am I supposed to do with an oil rig?
I stare open-mouthed at the lawyer who is telling me I inherited this complicated island of machinery in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, but I’m only catching every third or fourth word he’s saying, because the helicopters arriving and departing outside are so ungodly loud. Carrying away the rig workers in threes.
Your father left you the rig in his will.
There’s no money left to keep it operational.
My pulse starts to clamor. When did it get so hot in this office? I shrug off my flannel shirt and tie it around my waist, glaring at the lawyer when his gaze falls to my breasts, staring at them greedily through my white tank top. “If the rig can no longer operate, what am I supposed to do with it?”
“Sell.” He says this like it should have been obvious, when I’ve never been on this oil rig in my life. Nor do I know the first thing about the drilling industry. “Your father’s expedition company was the smallest around. He did his best to remain competitive, but the big boys have nine, ten rigs. Your father only had the one.” He pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at his upper lip. If he wasn’t a pervert I might feel some sympathy over him wearing a suit in this heat. “One of the larger oil companies ought to take it off your hands for a pretty penny.”
My antenna goes up. A pretty penny?
A series of images flashes through my head. My cramped apartment above the bar in New Orleans, complete with clanging pipes and earsplitting music at all hours. My stack of overdue bills, including one year of student loans, all I have to show for my failed attempt at college. And lastly, my ancient, pitiful lawnmower that only works if the temperature outside is between seventy and seventy-five degrees. I can’t even afford to replace the blades on it. I can barely afford rent.
If I make money off the sale of this oil rig, I could buy new tools for the landscaping business I’m trying to get off the ground. I could afford to advertise and even buy a new truck to haul everything around to jobs.
“How much will one of these big companies pay for a rig?”
The lawyer shrugs, looks out the window of the office to consider the upper deck of the rig. “It’s on the small side, definitely in need of some repairs and improvements.” He jerks his chin at yet another helicopter departing into the blue sky. “You’ll have to deliver it free and clear, no active payroll. Shouldn’t be a problem. When the roughnecks heard your father had died, they started looking for employment elsewhere.”
“Right.”
“I am sorry about your father, by the way,” he murmurs, sidling closer. “You look like you could use a shoulder to cry on. And I’ve got two right here—”
“Take one step closer and you might have two shoulders, but you’ll be down a testicle,” I say, smiling with teeth.
The lawyer huffs a laugh. “It’s possible that you’re more like your father than I originally thought.”
A fissure forms in my throat, spreading all the way down to my chest and I have to look away. “Well, we’ll never know for sure. I haven’t seen him since I was twelve.” Refusing to give in to the encroaching self-pity, I straighten my shoulders and focus back on the problem at hand. “How much is it worth, please?”
“It’s still capable of producing.” He shrugs. “You could ask for at least a few hundred thousand, I’d say.”
My jaw goes slack.
The beignet I had for breakfast is jumping on my stomach like a trampoline.
“A few hundred thousand dollars?”
“You seem surprised.”
Of course I am. Things like this don’t happen to me. I’m broke as a joke and it has always been this way. Scraping by is what I do. I don’t get calls in the middle of the night from an expensive lawyer telling me I’ve inherited a valuable oil rig.
Until now, apparently.
“Wow.” I slump sideways against the metal desk, upsetting the nameplate bearing my father’s name. “Oh wow. This is incredible. Yes, I’d like to sell it. As soon as possible, please.”
“Great.” He’s looking at his phone now. “Let me know when you have a buyer and I can handle the title transfer. Right now, I have to run.”
Alarm turns my skin clammy. “You’re just going to leave me here?”
“Yes.” He runs his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. “Unless you want to reconsider that shoulder to cry on—”
“Testicles. Pain.”
“Right,” snorts the lawyer, striding to the doorway, already pressing his phone to his ear. Dismissing me. “Oh wait. I forgot to tell you something important.”
I push off the desk. “What is it?”
“If you want to sell this rig, you’ll have to find a way to make Butch leave.”
Puzzlement draws my brows together. “Butch? Who is that?”
“The rig mechanic.” He points down at the floor. “He’s three stories down in the engine room and he hasn’t left it in five years. Not once. Not even for a stroll on the upper deck. I told him your father passed away and you’d most likely have to sell the rig and he told me in no uncertain terms that he’s staying. Good luck explaining to your potential buyer that their new rig comes with a seven-foot beast with a bad temper who takes orders from no one but himself.”
I process this as quickly as I can when he’s halfway out the door and the helicopter blades are whirring so loudly, I have to shout to be heard. “So I have to make him leave, or I won’t be able to sell the rig?”
The lawyer nods. “Yup. Good luck,” he calls back over his shoulder. “Call me if you can manage it.”
His amused laughter is little comfort.
I’m even less comforted when I catch the scent of cigars in the air, a final remnant of my father’s presence. Obviously he loved this oil rig. Loved it so much that he was never home growing up and eventually moved here altogether. When my mother sent him divorce papers all those years ago, he sent them back signed, not even bothering to fight. Well I’m not bothering to be sad now. I’m going to sell this rig he loved without a second thought, pay off my mother’s mortgage so she can quit the graveyard shift at Denny’s and go make a life for myself. The life I’ve always dreamed about but never thought I’d achieve.
Apparently all that stands in my way is a giant named Butch.
My life is suddenly so weird.
I watch the lawyer climb into the last helicopter, the propellers carrying him and the remaining crew upward. Back to NOLA. And the silence that falls is almost deafening. None of the equipment is running, but there is a hum of energy under my feet telling me the rig has not been powered down completely. Probably because of the man still occupying the engine room. Wherever that may be.
“Might as well get this over with,” I mutter, leaving the office. It takes me a few minutes to locate the grated, metal staircase leading down into the bowels of the rig. The farther I venture down, the more it starts to smell like fuel and soot. It gets darker, too, the hum of energy growing louder. I’m no businesswoman, but I’d say it costs a lot of money to keep this rig active—and that’s not good. I need it shut down and ready to sell.