Drilled: (Hard 'n Dirty Book 7)

by Ava Sinclair

  Drilled

  Hard ’N Dirty

  Ava Sinclair

  Copyright © 2018 by Ava Sinclair

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Other Hard N’ Dirty Books

  Excerpt “Beauty and the Lumberjacks”

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Cal

  The bar scene isn’t really my thing. But I need a drink — a strong one, even if I have to share it with a bunch of guys who’ve made it clear they don’t want much to do with me at work.

  It’s funny how being away from the job can change how people treat you. Men who’ve not spoken to me unless it’s to bark orders now begrudgingly move aside as I make my way to where bartenders are slinging beers as fast as they can pour them.

  I’m nearly at the bar when a guy deliberately tries to step in front of me. It’s pretty ballsy. I’m 6’4. He’s barely 5’10.

  “Excuse me.” I hold my ground, solid as a tree. He’s forced to look up at me. The challenge in his eyes tells me this isn’t his first trip to the bar tonight, but fortunately he hasn’t had enough alcohol to think he can take my place in line.

  He shoots me a nasty look before tugging the brim of his dirty baseball cap down over his brow, presumably so I don’t miss the rebel flag decal on the front.

  I turn my attention back to the bar.

  “What’ll it be, Captain America?” The only female bartender nods in my direction and for a moment I’m thrown before I realize she’s referring to the shirt I’m wearing. The T-shirt was a gift from my ex-girlfriend, who collected comic books. The superhero’s insignia is strained across my chest.

  “What’s on tap?” I ask.

  “Just the usual. Bud, Bud Light, Michelob, Corona…” The barmaid bites her bottom lip as she eyes me boldly. “These other guys are drinking Bud, but you look like a Corona man to me.”

  “You gonna serve the man or eye-fuck him, Darla?” I don’t turn toward the source of the angry voice. I don’t have to. I know it’s the guy who tried to jump in line.

  “Corona’s fine,” I tell her.

  She grabs a mug from under the bar and fills it at the tap behind her. I slap the money on the counter.

  “Not running a tab?”

  “Not tonight.” I turn away with my beer, moving past the jealous stare of the man in the rebel flag hat, who steps up to try his chances with the barmaid, and then through the crush of bodies still rank with sweat and the sulfurous odor of crude oil that never seems to wash off no matter how many times we shower.

  I’m looking for an empty table when I hear someone call my name. “Your name’s Cal, right?”

  I recognize the man as Ray Miller, one of the foremen at the field. He’s the only one there who’s as big as I am. He’s bald and sports a bushy beard and a tank top showing off shoulders that look like rocks. His neck is thick and corded, and I’m thinking he could head butt through a brick wall. Judging by a nose that appears to have been broken at least once, he probably has. He kicks a chair in my direction.

  “You can sit with us.”

  I walk over. “Thanks.”

  Music has started, some country song with a tinny melody that rises like the cigarette smoke hovering over the cramped tables. As I settle into my chair, Ray lifts the mug he’s holding in his bear paw of a hand and offers a nod and a smile. I nod back before taking my first swig of the beer. The bar may not be fancy, but at least the beer is cold.

  “You think they’ll get it straightened out?” A wiry blonde man with a prison tattoo on his hand is asking, and I realize I’ve walked in on a conversation in progress.

  “Dunno.” Ray sighs. “All I can do is ask. They told me to use the old ones, but I’m worried they won’t work. I’ll ask again tomorrow. Can’t say if they’ll send me what I need. Only thing I know for sure is that they want that new well in as fast as we can drill it.

  I don’t have to ask what they’re talking about. In my few short months at Tremaine’s Sandy Ridge oilfield, I’ve heard a number of complaints about faulty equipment and lack of safety training. I wait to see if they say more, but the conversation shifts.

  “Look at Gary up there. Dumb shit.” The face of a man to Ray’s left splits with a gap-tooth grin as he directs everyone’s attention to the bar. “Every damn time we come here, he hits on Darla. You’d think he’d learn.”

  “He ain’t gonna learn.” Ray throws back his beer in two gulps and wipes his mouth with the back of his huge hand before putting his empty mug beside two other recently drained ones.

  Out of curiosity, I look back at the bar. The man they’re referring to is the one who tried to cut in line. No surprise there.

  “Jose, go get me another beer.” Ray reaches into his pocket, pulling out a rumpled five dollar bill, which he hands to a dark-skinned man to his right. The man doesn’t say anything. He just gets up and walks to the bar as Ray turns back to me.

  “So, how you like being a roustabout?”

  “It’s work.” I put my mug down on the table.

  “Yeah, it’s work. And I hear you’re doing your share and more. God knows we need more guys like you. Where you from, boy?”

  I look straight at him, meeting his gaze directly. I listen more than I talk. Texas isn’t much different than where I’m from, but I don’t have to like it.

  “Don’t get your back up now,” Ray says. “I call everybody ‘boy.’” I’m sure he does if they’re browner than he is, but decide to let it go. This time.

  “Louisiana,” I answer.

  “Yeah? Whereabouts?” He has to raise his voice to ask the question. The guys at the next table are whooping it up, laughing and talking over the music.

  “Little town called Zwolle.”

  “Along the Sabine River? I know where that is.”

  I’m surprised. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone here who did.”

  The man to Ray’s left chimes in again. “We thought you were same as Jose here.” He inclines his head toward Jose, who’s returned with the beer. “Had you pegged for a Mexican.”

  “You’re half right.” I feel a surge of annoyance as Ray takes the beer from Jose without even thanking him. “Dad was Mexican. Mama was Creole.”

  “Creole, huh? So you’re half Mexican, half black.”

  I take note of the comments. My silence is my answer.

  “So what brings you to the fields?” Ray starts on his fresh beer.

  I know Ray is just trying to be friendly, and since he’s one of the foremen, it’s not a good idea to get on his bad side.

  “Money. What else?” It sure isn’t for the company, I think.

  “Keep working like you’re working and you’ll make plenty of it. Hard work matters in these parts. Earns you respec
t.”

  I glance at Jose, the beer fetcher. His hands are stained, his square nails dark around the edges. He hasn’t said a word, and aside from sending him to the bar, no one has spoken to him. He looks like a hard worker. I wonder where his respect is.

  I drain my glass, deciding I’ve had enough socializing for one night. The crowd at the bar has thinned out. Ray orders Jose to get him another beer as I bid them all a good evening and head for the door.

  It’s hot as fuck outside. I think of home. It’s hot back there, too. But the humidity is worse. This time of year, the grass can grow two inches a day, the morning glory vines three feet. I think of the mound of red dirt of Mama’s gravesite, the spray of wilting flowers piled on top, the simple marker. By the time I get back home, it’ll be covered in a tangle of growth. I wish I could have laid her to rest in a better cemetery, but all we had was the family plot.

  The gravel of the parking lot crunches under my work boots as I head to my truck. The moon rides high in the sky, casting a pale light on a lot filled mostly with pickup trucks.

  “Hey…” A female voice floats to me on the warm breeze. I turn and see the barmaid, Darla. She’s sitting on the open tailgate of a nearby truck. “Got a light?” She puts a cigarette in her mouth. It dangles between lips painted the same shade as her nails.

  “Nah.” I smile apologetically. “Don’t smoke.”

  She lifts her ass to one side and reaches into her pocket to withdraw a lighter. “Well lookee here. I had one after all,” she admits with a wink, lighting up. “I just wanted an excuse to get you over here.” She exhales a plume of smoke into the air. Her voice is pretty, husky. ”What’s your name, Captain America?”

  Her voice is pretty and husky. My heart twists a little at how it reminds me of the other reason I left Louisiana. Mama had been half of what tied me to my hometown. Sadie had been the other half, and losing her had been a different kind of pain altogether.

  “Cal Beaumont,” I answer, even though I don’t feel much like talking. The beer I wanted to badly has already soured in my stomach. I just want to get back to the hotel, but before I can make a polite exit, a figure stumbles up between two other cars.

  “Darla, hey…I been looking for you, girl!”

  I feel relieved that someone else is going to be taking up her attention so I can slip away, until I see who it is. It’s Gary. He walks over and drapes an arm around Darla’s neck, pulling her to him. Even in the low light, I can see she doesn’t appreciate his attention.

  “You’re drunk, Gary. Get back to your friends.” She pushes him away.

  “Come on, now… Why come you always rude to me, huh? Huh?” He’s moved to stand in front of her, his face inches from hers as he leans in, forcing her to lean back on the tailgate of the truck. “Why come you such a fucking tease?”

  I hang back a moment. Darla seems like a girl who can take care of herself, and she starts to, hopping from the tailgate and pushing the persistent Gary to the ground. He’s so drunk he’s failed to notice I’m standing less than ten feet away. He staggers to his feet, pulling the brim of his hat to the side before moving to grab her in a bear hug.

  “Fucking cunt,” he slurs. He starts to drag her between the cars, but doesn’t get more than two steps before my fist slams into the side of his head. This time he goes down hard, moaning. Darla scrambles away, visibly shaken.

  “What the….” Gary rolls over, and his eyes struggle to focus on me. “It’s you.” He shakily climbs to his feet, and whatever he’s planned to say next is swallowed along with at least one tooth as I slam my fist into his mouth.

  My vision clouds with the same red haze of rage as the blood stains spattered on my shirt. I could kill him. I could kill him just like I wanted to kill the men who beat my mama years ago before I had the size and strength to defend her. Fury pounds like a pulse in my head. I reach down, grab Gary by his shirt. I pull my fist back.

  “No!” Hands are on my arm. I turn. Darla is looking up at me, crying. “No…” She lowers my hand. “It’s okay, Captain America. You took care of him, okay?” She nods, as if encouraging me to agree. “Okay?”

  I drop him back to the ground. Men are running over. Darla mouths, “Thank you,” and meets them before they can reach us. I hear her explaining what happened. Angry faces cloud with disappointment. They were hoping it was a regular fight they could jump in on, but Darla seems to have convinced them that Gary got what he deserved.

  I’m not about to stick around to see what happens next. I find my truck and don’t look back as I drive to the Parkside Motor Inn. The spaces in front of my room have all been taken. I park near the end of the building and walk up the sidewalk, fumbling for my room key.

  “Fuck.” I catch my reflection in the mirror just inside the door.

  My only clean T-shirt isn’t clean anymore. It’s covered in Gary’s blood, which is also on my fist. One of my knuckles is nicked where it crushed his front teeth. I pull my shirt off, staring at my reflection.

  Big shoulders. Big arms. Big everything, but without a lick of fat. Black hair. Black beard.

  Sadie loved the beard. Mama hated it. “You look like the devil, all dark and serious,” she’d joke before putting a hand to my cheek to let me know I was still her angel. I wish she was still around to talk me down from the anger that followed me to Texas all the way from Louisiana.

  “Just stay the fuck away from people,” I tell my reflection. “Don’t try to save anybody else. It always gets you into trouble.”

  Chapter Two

  Iris

  Last summer at this time, I was in Tahiti watching the sun spread its warm rays over the ocean.

  What a difference a year makes. My view this afternoon is confined to one small room with fake walnut paneling. Instead of feeling a warm wind caress my face, I’m enduring the icy blast of the air conditioner rattling the wall behind me.

  My father is one of the wealthiest men in Texas, but he doesn’t like to show it off on the oilfields. While the home office in Dallas is nothing short of lavish, the modular offices erected at job sites are all the same—Spartan tin boxes with cheap furniture, narrow hallways, and a cramped bathroom where the toilet seat always seems to be left up.

  “Don’t you think I’d be just as effective working from the headquarters?” I try not to sound sullen, but it’s hard. I haven’t been here more than half an hour and already know I’m going to hate it.

  “No. I need you here.” My father keeps his eyes on his computer screen as he leans back in his chair, his hand resting on his barrel belly.

  I know Roger Tremaine still wishes his only child had been the son he’d always wanted to bring into the family business instead of the daughter who majored in communications to avoid it. But as fate would have it, my choice of majors has now landed me in the last place I want to be. Tremaine Oil & Gas has been hit with numerous safety violations. With the sudden resignation of the company spokesman Owen Stiles, my father got an idea that’s going to change my life for the foreseeable future.

  “You’re the face of the company now, Iris,” he says. “A fresh pretty face. That’s what we need.”

  I frown, biting my tongue to keep from telling my father that he’s wrong. He doesn’t need a pretty face. He needs someone experienced with the press. Owen Stiles handled media relations for my father for over twenty years. He was thoughtful and measured, and a needed balance to my bombastic father, who’s become increasingly hostile to any negative coverage of the company. In the wake of this latest media scrutiny, my father demanded that Owen push back aggressively against the press. Owen refused, and while my father says he resigned, we both know the spokesman was forced out.

  “You’re my secret weapon, sweetie. You’re the fresh, modern, pretty defender of the company.” He grins. “They go attacking you, they’re attacking everything good about Texas womanhood. They beat up on ol’ Owen. They’ll think twice about going after Miss Texas.”

  “Junior Miss,” I correct him.
“I only got runner-up in the state pageant.”

  He scowls. Roger Tremaine doesn’t like to be reminded that I lost. He leans forward, folding his beefy hands on his desktop.

  “I want you out there on the news, defending this company’s record. I want you dressed to the nines. Wear your prettiest clothes. High heels.” He waves away his own comment. “Hell, I don’t have to tell you how to dress. Being pretty is what you do. Your job is to dazzle the public. They won’t know what hit them. Be sweet, but firm. If those reporters push back, they’ll look like a bunch of damn bullies, which is exactly what they are.”

  He swivels his chair around and pulls a sheaf of freshly printed pages off the printer, which he hands to me.

  “This is the state report. It’s your homework. So go back and study it. Learn it back and forth. I’ve written up a rebuttal and some stuff about government overreach. Memorize it. Once you do, we’ll call a press conference and shut this bullshit down.” He stands. “You got your hotel room, right?”

  “Yeah. Holiday Inn in the next town.”

  “Their best room?”

  “Yes, Daddy. The suite.”

  “Sorry there’s not something nicer, but it’s the best one within driving distance. I was going to book you where I’m staying, but there’s some kind of big family reunion going on and all the rooms were booked.” He rises from his chair. “Need anything before you go?”

  I stand too. “Yeah, now that you mention it. The indicator light on my dashboard came on about three miles from the field. The tire pressure one. Right rear? It said it was low.”