The Blue Collar Bachelors Box Set: The Complete Blue Collar Bachelors Series

by Miller, Cassie-Ann L.

  I can't remember the last time I took a breath.

  Brenton's high-pitched voice rings out again. "Dad-dy..." he whines.

  With a jolt, I snap out of my reverie. "Almost there, buddy," I say as our eyes meet in the mirror.

  He lets the ball tumble to the floor. "You alweady said that a long time ago," he admonishes sternly and folds his little arms across his little chest. Well, damn. My tyke is calling me a liar.

  My mouth opens and closes wordlessly, not quite sure of the guidelines for negotiating with pint-sized terrorists who live under your roof and call you ‘daddy’. Mara was good at this. She knew how to handle this…I think.

  I've tromped through warzones. I've come face to face with some of the world's most ruthless killers. But no one, nothing has ever scared me as much as the snot-faced three-footer sitting in the backseat.

  I'm responsible for him. Whether he turns into a devil or a saint is a responsibility stacked squarely on my shoulders and it's terrifying. How am I supposed to shape him into a decent human being when I'm so lost and depressed that I don't know right from left, let alone right from wrong?

  "Is Uncle Charlie gonna play soccer with me in the backyard when we get there?" he asks.

  "It's pretty late. I think that maybe we should save the soccer for tomorrow. Don't ya think?" I’m not sure that suggestion will go over too well.

  "Nooo!" he shrieks histrionically, "No fair!" He tosses his head back and clenches his fists as if I just told him that his health insurance premiums are going up and his shifts are getting cut in half and the electricity is about to get shut off. Tears pour down his sticky cheeks and soap-opera-style sobs rip free from his chest.

  Jeez, kid—it’s not that deep!

  Anyway, that's how his latest mini-tantrum commences. Oh god, I feel a migraine coming on, tightening right behind my eyes. I try to rationalize with him, telling him that it's too dark, that he's too tired but from what I gather, four year olds don't respond well to logic.

  I love the boy but thank god I only have one of him. I wouldn’t be able to handle duplicates.

  Eventually, I break down, reaching across the console and opening up the glove box. I dig around—empty potato chip wrappers and gas station receipts falling to the floor—until I find a small stash of gummy bears. With one hand on the wheel, I bite down on the side of the package and tug sharply with my other hand, quickly opening the bag and stretching my peace offering into the back seat. My son hesitates for a second, contemplating my compromise. I squeeze my eyes in relief when he takes it into his tiny hands and his complaining trails off. Soon, his contented little hums are the only sound filling the cabin.

  Feeding my kid pounds of sugar and food coloring to shut him up. I'm dad of the year. Where do I claim my prize?

  Shit…this is going to be a disaster.

  I veer off of the I-90 north and glance up at the highway sign glowing up ahead in the darkness.

  Welcome to Copper Heights.

  Let’s see how this goes.

  Chapter Two

  Reese

  “Fuck the getting-to-know-you stuff—let’s just skip straight to the sex.”

  I glance up from the pile of hot clothes that I’m pulling out of the dryer and stare over at my best friend. “You sound just like my last three dates,” I say flatly. I wish I were joking.

  Nova flicks her wrist dismissively at me as she crosses her legs beneath her and trains her attention on my laptop screen in front of her. “Half of this quiz is boring. I’m not gonna sit here and ask you personality questions when we can just jump to the good stuff.” She giggles at my sour expression. "Okay, first question—how would you describe your ideal lover?" She turns her expectant emerald irises to me and drums the tip of her finger against the palm rest of the computer as she waits for my answer.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. She’s taken it upon herself to sign me up on some online dating website despite my protests. I have absolutely no intention of searching for my next date on the internet, but I'll humor her for a few minutes.

  Rubbing a finger thoughtfully against the side of my mouth, I pretend to think hard. "A former military man who is now a volunteer firefighter. Of course, his body is ripped in the sexiest way with abs that are packed like ladder rungs. He permanently wears a deep and pensive broody look. And for some inexplicable reason, he has a thing for girls with love handles and thigh-jiggle."

  She balls up a napkin and tosses it at me. "Be serious, Reese. This is important. You haven’t had an orgasm in forever and I'm starting to worry about you."

  "Don't," I tell her pointedly. "I'm fine." I turn my back to her and bend into the dryer to pull out the rest of my fresh laundry.

  True—I’m long overdue for some seismic activity in my nether regions but I’m not about to start dwelling on the lack of male companionship in my life. I’ve never been good at romantic relationships so I’m satisfied with spending time with my friends, co-owning a thriving business and hanging out with my (annoying but loving) family. At least for now.

  Copper Heights, Illinois isn’t rife with dating options, anyway. This small suburb is overrun by mean soccer moms with their monster strollers and their despondent, prematurely balding husbands. And don’t forget the slow-moving seniors whose attempts at parallel parking clog Main Street at all hours of the day. Eligible bachelors, as a species, are practically extinct around these parts. All that to say that—yes—I’m going through a dry spell, but I’m really not eager to put myself out there again.

  "You're not fine," Nova insists. "I feel like you’re still just relentlessly holding onto the hope that Martin's gonna zip back into Copper Heights and stop liking boys and scoop you up like it’s the fairy tale of our generation.” She throws me a frustrated look and shakes her head. “Goddamn. If Jack had half as much tenacity as you do, Titanic would have had a happy ending."

  She’s never going to let me live this Martin-thing down, is she?

  Look—I’m not one to back down from a challenge. When my childhood sweetheart admitted to being gay, I hadn’t seen it coming. Yes, he’d been a High School Musical fanatic, but who hadn’t been?

  Anyway, did I dump him like a hot potato following that epic confession? Hell no! Instead, I spent another two years trying to convince him otherwise because you don’t just give up on people. At least not when you love them. But ultimately, those efforts failed and he ran off to Vegas to perform show tunes. If I’m honest, the guy always did look good in red Lycra and sequins.

  Whatever…

  He and I are on excellent terms and his partner, Hahn, ensures that I get a delicious fruitcake every Christmas. I don’t know what Nova’s whining about. I'd call that a win.

  She’s still yapping away as the divine combination of lemon and vanilla infuses the kitchen. She stares at me with her wild golden ringlets fanning out around her caramel face like a curly lion's mane. "I don't mean to be harsh, but I've got news for you. Martin's not coming back. The sweet, exuberant disco enthusiast who serenaded you down the halls of Copper Heights High? He doesn't exist anymore."

  I check the timer on the counter. Just a few more minutes before I pull the cupcakes out of the oven. "Nova...I’m over him. I just haven’t met anyone worth investing in yet. So, please, let’s not relive the Martin phase." I move my laundry basket to the table and set it right in front of her, hoping that she'll take a hint and help me as I fold. No such luck. I’m not surprised. She’s just going to sit around and wait to be fed while I buzz around the kitchen like a worker bee doing overtime. I shake my head.

  Nova Chester is my badass-warrior-woman friend. We’ve been besties since high school. My family was reasonably well-off but my dad was determined to make a ‘statement’ by sending his kids to public school instead of carting us off to Hoovertown Private High School. It was a political strategy he adopted to bolster his run for the state senate but I’m glad he made that decision because that’s how I met Nova.

  She’s my
opposite in endless ways but she feels like my soul mate on many levels. She’s the friend who has a catty retort for every situation and can kick some ass even in four-inch leather thigh-highs. The one you call when you find your blind date blocking the service exit with his tongue down the waitress’s throat halfway through your romantic rendez-vous (True story, by the way). She’s blunt. She’s real. She’s straightforward. And because of that I trust her with my life despite her rough edges.

  "No, no. Just let me say this,” she insists. “You were always way out of his league. And I know that he broke your heart but—you know what they say—the best way to heal a broken heart is to find a Greek sex god with a monster cock and ride the shit out of him until you fracture your pelvis."

  I laugh. "I really don't think that's what they say."

  My phone bleats in the pocket of the jeans I’m wearing. I pull it out and check it. A text message from my older sister.

  Vivian: Where’s the sales report I asked you to prepare? You said it would be on my desk by Friday!

  I roll my eyes. I love Viv to bits but she really needs to chill out with her stupid reports and memos and business plans. I shove the phone back into my pocket without responding.

  "Well, you know what I mean," Nova urges. "You need to put yourself out there more, present yourself in a way that highlights your very best attributes. You need to slay. You can't let that man break you once and for all, Reesie!"

  "I don't know what you're talking about. Nothing is wrong with my self-esteem."

  "Honey, denial will get you nowhere! No woman with solid self-love would wear these!" Nova yanks a fork from the place setting beside her and stabs it into the basket of clean laundry. "Do you really, truly, honestly think that any man wants to tear off your pants in the heat of passion and find this pathetic shit covering your ass?"

  I stare at her with a frown as she slips the prongs of the fork through the leg of my red control briefs. "Those are my favorites,” I argue, “So comfy…"

  "My point exactly." She slides off of her chair and sashays her tall, curvy frame right out the back door with my underwear hanging off of her fork. “No more of this, Reese,” she says sternly. I watch in horror as she tosses my panties onto the recycling heap sitting on the back porch.

  "What the hell?!" I whine as she drops back into her chair like what she just did is no big deal.

  She pushes the laptop aside and grabs her phone, tapping at the screen. "Oh, relax. I've got your back."

  I open my mouth to protest just as Sophia floats in through the front door, all perfect and manicured and engaged, her 20-pound diamond ring shining like a flashlight in the dead of night.

  "Hello." She looks at us and sighs happily, her perma-smile nearly splitting her face in two.

  Y'see—that's what love looks like. That's how a woman walks around when she's got the man of her dreams waiting in her bed with a come-hither look that's designed only for her. I’ll have that one day, right?

  My nostrils twitch with restrained jealousy but I smile anyway. "Hey Soph."

  “Happy Cupcake Sunday!” she chirps.

  Cupcake Sunday is our weekly tradition. I take the day to experiment with new recipes and perfect my craft. Nova brings leftovers from her Sunday morning shift at Gallo’s and Sophia brings wine from her fiancé’s family winery. We laugh, we gossip, and most importantly, we eat.

  “I’m exhausted,” she moans as she sets a bottle of cabernet down in the middle of the table.

  Nova glances up to inspect the wine label. A satisfied grin spreads across her face. “Good stuff, Soph!”

  Sophia acknowledges her with a wrist flick that says ‘Think nothing of it. I have two hundred dollar bottles of wine daily.’ She smooths her hand over her hair. “I spent the whole morning trying to decide on a social media company to live-tweet the wedding. So stressful.” She maintains a straight face as she lands in a chair with a graceful flourish.

  Sophia was studying early childhood education while working part-time at her family’s restaurant but when she got engaged, she dropped everything to devote herself to the wedding arrangements and the home remodelling and her fiancé’s needs, in general. Now, every sentence that comes out of her mouth involves Joshua somehow.

  I can’t say I blame the girl for being excited. The Davies are practically royalty around these parts. The winery is just one of the many businesses they have a hand in. Not that that’s why she’s marrying Josh, of course. The girl’s been head over heels for that self-important, color-coordinated, Lacoste-wearing jerk for as long as I can remember.

  Nova and I share a look and I telepathically warn her to shut her mouth. Being Nova, she ignores me. “You young socialites work so hard planning your quarter-million-dollar weddings. You ladies really should form a union or at least circulate a petition.”

  Sophia catches on to the sarcasm immediately and throws Nova a hard look. With an eyeroll, she changes the subject. "What are you guys up to anyway?"

  Nova’s attention falls back to her phone. "I'm in the middle of buying some new underwear for Reese."

  With excited movements, Sophia pulls up the chair next to Nova. "Oh, good! She could use some for sure! Lemme help!” I cringe. Are my undies that bad?

  Sophia Gallo is my sophistication-seeping-out-of-her-pores friend. We grew up across the street from each other in Hoovertown, the upscale neighborhood of Copper Heights (if there is such a thing as “upscale” in a place like Copper Heights). When we met, my dad had just been elected to the state senate. Her dad was a hard-working businessman on the rise. She’s the friend who has a killer pair of four-inch stilettos for every situation but is still a classy bitch even on the rare occasion that she happens to find herself in tennis shoes and a T-shirt.

  She’s the one you call when you see that disastrous blind date walk into your father’s re-election campaign event with that slutty waitress on his arm and you happen to be wearing the same dress as said slutty waitress. (Again, true story. Are you starting to see now why I’m hesitant to date again?) She’s refined. And well bred. If I had to trust anyone with picking out my new panties, I guess it’d be her.

  She flips her lustrous raven hair over her narrow shoulder and peers down at the screen. "I like this one! Lacy. Cute. But it doesn’t scream I’ll let you tear these off in a janitor’s closet, y’know?”

  “Boring!” Nova pretends to snore. “I have a feeling that Reese needs some hot pink latex and fishnets in her life.”

  “I beg to differ,” I say, siding with Sophia. “Nothing says Fuck me and never call me again like pink latex and fishnets on a first date.”

  Nova groans. “Come on, Reese!”

  I plant my hands on my hips and stand firm on my decision. “Experts warn strongly against wearing underwear made of latex and other synthetic materials. Compromising one’s vaginal health all in the name of wearing cute panties that no one else will ever see is nothing but extreme narcissism. And this girl won’t be a part of it.” I harrumph self-righteously.

  “This girl won’t be a part of it!” Nova echoes me in a mocking tone. “This girl also won’t be a part of the sexually active population for the foreseeable future.”

  Sophia giggles suddenly. “Well, I know how we can settle this debate. Maybe you can ask the hot-as-hell guy I just saw moving into the house next door." She tosses me a wink.

  "What hot-as-hell guy?" Nova asks, her head snapping in Sophia's direction.

  "I just passed a U-Haul truck on the curb outside that house that’s been for rent for the past few months. A ridiculously hot guy was carrying stuff inside."

  “Why are you only mentioning this now?” Nova's gaze penetrates my skull. "Did you hear that, Reesie? Fresh meat. Right next door! Perfect for you!"

  "Don't get all excited," I say disinterestedly. "Charlie rented out the place next door for his friend who just moved to town. They served together in the military and now Charlie's giving him a job in the construction business. Apparently, the
guy's got tons of baggage. His wife is gone, he just came back from the warzone and he has a kid."

  Nova speaks in a lyrical voice with a smile as wide as the Nile. "Well maybe you should help him unpack that baggage. Literally and figuratively."

  I scoff. “I don’t think so.”

  “He’s broken,” Sophia muses. “Just the way you like ‘em.”

  “I do not like broken men,” I mutter weakly.

  She gives an elegant shoulder shrug. “You totally do. You have a savior complex. No shame in it. It’s noble.”

  My friends are convinced that I have an unhealthy obsession with finding guys who are emotional disasters and trying to fix them. As much as I’d like to refute it, I’ve got to say that it’s true. Martin was cold hard proof of that. I haven’t dated too much since he and I split but each of my romantic prospects has been more fucked up than the last. At this point, there’s no point in denying it.

  Once I form an attachment to someone (or something), I can't just walk away, even when the relationship starts to show signs of wear and tear. I believe that almost anything can be fixed, can be saved, can be restored. I believe that we walk away too easily, we give up too fast. Maybe I've got some sort of attachment issue. Maybe I have hero syndrome. Or maybe it’s just misplaced optimism. All I know is, I believe in holding on.

  Jeez—a shrink would have a field day with me.

  Nova lifts an eyebrow. “But you’re not fixing anybody with your pitiful underwear collection. That’s for sure.”

  "Would you two stop it? There's absolutely nothing wrong with my underwear. Or with my self-esteem. Since when did it become a crime to be single?" I give Nova a pointed look. "You're single."

  She leans back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. "Yes, I'm single but I don’t take it out on my vagina. She has her needs fulfilled on the regular. You, on the other hand, are repressed."

  Sophia glares. "Please don’t launch into another long-winded diatribe about your masturbation practices."