Drilled: (Hard 'n Dirty Book 7)

by Ava Sinclair

  “Probably picked up a nail. I’ll have a guy check it for you.” He yells toward the door. “Rita!” Through the thin walls I hear his receptionist scurry from her desk. A moment later, a small woman with a tall beehive bun pokes her head in the doorway. Rita Prichart has been with my father for years, their professional relationship outlasting all his marriages.

  “Yes, Boss Man?”

  “Iris needs someone to patch her tire. See if Bill can’t pull somebody out of the mechanic shed to fix it.”

  “Will do.” She shoots me a motherly smile. “You just drive on over there and I’ll make sure somebody meets you. We don’t want you to get a flat on the road. Nothing between here and town but rattlesnakes and armadillos. ”

  I thank her as I start to leave the office.

  “Hey, you just gonna leave without a kiss for your old man?”

  My father comes around the desk, his arms outstretched. “Give us a hug, beautiful.”

  I return his embrace, which is always tighter than I like. I think it’s because of my father that I never really liked being hugged. He squeezes too hard, the gesture feeling more like a show of authority than affection.

  “Call me when you get back to the hotel. Let me know you’re safe.”

  “Will do.”

  I’m relieved to leave the office, even if the weather is hot enough to make me want to wilt. The breeze feels like a blow dryer aimed at my face. My tire looks even more deflated; no way would it have made it to the hotel.

  The dashboard thermostat registers the outside temperature as 106 degrees. It’s even hotter inside the car. I turn on the ignition, grateful for the powerful AC blasting in my direction. The gravel crunches under my wheels as I back from the front of the trailer and head toward the line of sheds to the side of the field.

  Oil wells rise from heat shimmers on the other side of the road. As a child they reminded me of the drinking bird toy I loved to play with at my grandmother’s house. Set on a stand, the glass bird would bob up and down in perpetual motion. My uncle, who was a science teacher, explained to me how it worked, how the water absorbed through the bird’s fuzzy beak cooled the head, and how the temperature change condensed the methylene chloride vapor in the bulb at the back end, causing the bird to tip. As long as the bird could wet its head, it would keep moving.

  “Don’t touch it,” he’d warn. “The chemicals in there are dangerous.”

  As I drive past the wells, I see roughnecks working on sinking new pipe. The chemicals in the ground are dangerous, too. The men working these sites are at risk without proper safety protocol, and yet my father — who’s taken to railing against what he considers cumbersome regulations — is now facing a sixty-thousand-dollar fine and media scrutiny for failing to provide mandated safety training and equipment.

  He can easily afford to fulfill even the most onerous safety requirements. Despite the common man act my father puts on when he visits job sites, we live a luxurious lifestyle. Three homes in Texas, one in New York, one in Wyoming. My father may drive to sites in a big antique Cadillac, but his preferred mode of travel is by private plane or a fully loaded SUV. We spend summers on the lake, where there’s more than one boat at any given private dock, and at least three jet skis. I never learned how to balance a checkbook. I never had to. The well of money in our family is as deep as the oil reserves under the Texas sand.

  And yet my father tries to skirt regulations from pure stubbornness. The government, he says, has no business telling working men how to handle business. I don’t agree with him, but standing up to my daddy is a skill I never mastered. To the rest of the world, I seem self-assured and confident. But underneath is a terrified little girl afraid of my father’s wrath, and that’s what I’ll face if I don’t defend Tremaine Oil & Gas to the press in a manner that passes muster. Just the thought of it adds to my mounting anxiety I struggle to suppress it as I take the small side road leading to the mechanic shed. In my rearview mirror, a cloud of smoke billows in the wake of my Lexus, obscuring the road behind me.

  I slow as I approach the shed where roustabouts — low men in the oilfield hierarchy— are sweating away under the hoods of dump trucks or servicing heavy equipment. As I slow my vehicle, I hear a thumping noise and look at my dashboard display. The warning light is flashing bright red. The tire has gone completely flat, and I pray I haven’t damaged the rim.

  The dust cloud that’s followed me continues its forward trajectory after I stop, enveloping my car in a red haze. When it clears, I see several men have stopped working and are peering in my direction, craning their necks to stare as if they’ve never seen a woman before.

  One man moves past the others and walks to the side of my vehicle. I roll down my window as he approaches. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with piercing dark eyes, skin the color of warm coffee, and a close-cropped beard. In my late teens, I did some modeling. I recognize perfect bone structure when I see it and can’t help but think how smiling would accentuate his high cheekbones.

  But he doesn’t smile. The bearded face is serious. My attention moves to the hands he’s wiping on a cloth. Large hands. Rugged. Like the rest of him.

  “Ma’am, I was told to look at your tire?” His voice is deep. It suits him. But I can’t find mine. Suddenly my throat is as dry as the Texas ground. It’s all I can do to collect myself.

  “Yes,” I say, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Chapter Three

  Cal

  I can feel the eyes of the men behind me like daggers in my back. They’d glared at me as I’d walked out of the shop, as if I’d asked for this.

  “Get Beaumont to take care of it.” That had been Martin’s reply when our supervisor, Bill, had tapped him to look at a tire on a personal vehicle. When Bill had told me to do it instead, Martin had shot me a smug grin.

  A moment later, Bill had stepped back out of his office to announce that I needed to make sure the job was done right, because that personal vehicle belonged to the boss’s daughter.

  “You mean Iris Tremaine?” Martin had dropped his wrench. “I’ll take it after all.”

  “Too late,” Bill had barked, reminding Martin of his place. “You done turned it down.”

  It’s only when the window of the Lexus rolls down that I see what all the fuss was about. The woman behind the wheel looks as cool and crisp as the air wafting from the car’s air-conditioned interior. Blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Flawless skin. Sharp nose. Full lips. She’s wearing big designer shades that hide her eyes. I’ve seen her father from a distance; Iris Tremaine’s mama must have been a hell of a trophy wife for his kid to turn out like this.

  I tell her I’m here to fix her tire. Her lips part, but she doesn’t immediately speak. I wish I could see her eyes. Is she pissed? Impatient? Afraid to have someone so dirty touch her sweet ride?

  Finally she responds, “Yes. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  Her voice carries less of a Southern drawl than I expect, like it’s something she’s nearly succeeded in consciously shaking.

  If you wouldn’t mind. Like I have a choice. I’d have helped her anyway, though. She’s a pretty little thing.

  Just a glance at the tire tells me it’s going to take more than a patch job.

  “Let me get a jack,” I say. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to get out of the car.”

  I step back so she can open the door. Long legs exit first. She’s wearing pink pumps that match her pink skirt. Her beige silk shirt is sleeveless, showing off lean arms.

  “There’s an office in the shop if you want to go somewhere cool.”

  She looks toward the shed. More men have gathered by the bay doors to gawk. It irritates me. I want to tell them to fucking cut it out. It’s obviously making her uncomfortable.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I can wait here.”

  “I’ll try to make it quick.” I nod to the back of the car. “Got a jack?”

  “A jack?” She looks at me like she doesn’t know
what I’m talking about. And why would she? She’s probably never had to even think about car trouble.

  “To lift your car so I can get the tire off. I’ve got one in my truck.” I walk over and pull it out of the bed, along with a tire iron. Even with the glasses on, the sun is in her eyes. She’s shielding them as she watches me. I sigh, open the door to my pickup and crank it up. The AC isn’t as strong as hers, but it’s better than having her swelter out here.

  “If you don’t want to go in the office, then sit in my truck. You’ll burn up out here with those bare arms.”

  She stares at me for a moment. I’m not asking her. I’m telling her.

  “Go on,” I say.

  She takes her glasses off. Her eyes are blue, but I can’t read them. For a moment she looks like she’s about to say something, but instead walks to my truck. It’s a tall one. She has to stand on the running board to climb in. I’m already kneeling by her car, but from the corner of my eye I have a good view of the moment she lifts her leg to step up. The tension in her skirt outlines a perfect ass. My cock responds by pressing against the confines of my blue work pants. I feel a surge of irritation at myself for being just one of about twenty guys who now have wood thanks to Iris Tremaine and her tight pink skirt.

  I turn my attention to the tire. It’s fucked, just as I suspected. If she has a spare, it’s likely just good for twenty miles or so, and I wouldn’t want her to chance it. I look up at the vicious sun and wipe the back of my hand across my sweaty brow.

  Delivering bad news isn’t my favorite task. I can tell by her expression she’s hoping I’m about to go fix the tire. But as I approach the truck, I shake my head and she knows.

  “It’s ruined, isn’t it?” she says miserably as she opens the door.

  “I’m afraid so, Miss Tremaine.”

  I hoist up the tire to show her the small tear that widened to a gash as she drove and explain to her why the spare in her trunk might not be the best idea given the remote road back to town.

  “Daddy will know what to do.” She speaks the words almost to herself, and instantly colors as she catches herself. “I should get back to the office. Mr. Tremaine…”

  I grin and wave her off. “No need to explain. I’m sure he will.”

  “Can you give me a lift?” She sounds almost embarrassed to even ask.

  “Sure.” I toss the tire in the back of my truck along with the jack and the tire iron.

  I climb in the running vehicle and glance over. Iris Tremaine is sitting tensely. My truck is a work truck. It’s clean, but not without scuffs and stains on the seat.

  “Seatbelt,” I tell her.

  She looks over her shoulder. It’s faded from the sun and like everything else in here, smells like sweat and oil. “I’m fine,” she says.

  I pull mine on. “It’s safety policy for all employee-operated vehicles on the field with trucks coming and going on these side roads.”

  “That’s ironic,” she says under her breath. “I guess I should know these things, though.” She pulls the belt down with two fingers, like she’s holding a snake, and gingerly clicks it. I know she’s already worrying that it’ll leave a mark on her expensive clothes. I suppress a smile. This woman would probably die if she actually had to work for a living.

  Her manicured hands are in her lap. There’s no engagement ring, not that I have any business looking, but I expect she’s got some Polo-shirt-wearing, latte-sipping guy back home who takes her out to wine tastings and his-and-her facials.

  I wait for her to make small talk, to maybe tell me what brings her out here. She doesn’t. She’s quiet as the truck bumps along the road back to the trailer office. I slow down as we approach, preparing to pull up in front so she can get out and I can get gone.

  She has other ideas, though. “Can you come tell my father what’s wrong with the tire?”

  I put the truck in park. “It’s got a rip in it. You need a new one.”

  She fidgets. “My father is difficult. If he doesn’t hear it from a…professional…he’ll ask me a hundred questions I won’t be able to answer.”

  I sigh and nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

  Lead the way, Daddy’s Girl Barbie, I think as I tell myself that if I had a daughter, she’d have known how to change a tire before she was allowed to get a damn license. If it were anyone else, I’d tell her myself, but she’s not just anyone. She’s the big guy’s daughter, and if he fired me for pissing her off I’d be up shit creek with no money to even buy a paddle.

  We enter to the sound of a booming voice. “…and I ain’t giving a baboon’s backside what Channel 3 thinks about my attitude. And you can goddamned tell ‘em so. And you can tell the fucking safety commissioner the same thing if…”

  “Oh, lord Daddy, no!” Iris Tremaine looks back at me, her expression stricken. “Excuse me,” she says, then leaves me standing in the doorway as she heads down the trailer’s hallway. I hear her pleading tone, a man’s voice yelling.

  “Daddy, you are going to make this harder for me. You said you wanted me to help? Is that really want you want? If it is, you can’t do that! Just tell the paper I’ll call them later, okay? Tell them I’ll meet with them one on one if they need…”

  “You aren’t meeting with anyone until I say so, Iris!” Roger Tremaine’s voice rises over his daughter’s. “We aren’t cow-towing to the fake news…”

  “Daddy, you can’t do that, okay? You’re going to make this whole thing worse…”

  What the hell is going on? There’s a receptionist at a desk, looking down at her computer as if the argument I’m hearing isn’t happening. She glances up at me and smiles. “Can I help you?” Her tone is sweet as saccharine and just as fake.

  “Yeah.” I walk over. “Miss Tremaine’s tire can’t be fixed. She wanted me to tell her father.”

  The receptionist rolls her eyes. It’s a small eye-roll, but I’m thinking she agrees with me that it makes no sense for me to deliver information Iris Tremaine should be able to deliver herself. She quickly covers, though. Her poker face returns as she pushes away from her desk.

  “I’ll tell him.”

  I can still hear Iris talking to her father, although I can’t tell what they’re saying now since they’ve lowered their voices. Her tone is still solicitous, his fuming. I hear the receptionist interrupt. Heavy footfalls follow and I get my first up close look at the oil baron whose signature is stamped on my paychecks.

  He’s almost as tall as I am, but where my mass is muscle, Roger Tremaine’s body is more like loosely compressed lard. His belly is testing the limits of his shirt buttons and nearly overhangs a belt buckle embossed with an American flag flying behind the silhouette of an oil rig. And, of course, he’s wearing cowboy boots although he’s probably never been near a horse.

  “Roger Tremaine.” He nods rather than extend his hand. “Iris tells me you gave her a lift up here?” He sounds vaguely suspicious, as if maybe it was my idea. “What’s your name?”

  “Cal Beaumont.”

  His brow furrows. “Bow-mont?” He drawls it out phonetically. “You a Frenchman? I figured you for one of them Mexican boys.”

  For the second time in two days, I bite my tongue. But this isn’t Ray, and I’m not having a conversation at the bar. I ignore his question about my name. It’s none of his fucking business.

  “Miss Tremaine’s tire is in the back of my truck. She’s going to need a new one.”

  “Can’t be patched at the shop?”

  “You’re welcome to look at it.”

  He makes a clucking noise.

  “Daddy, maybe somebody could give me a lift to town?” Her eyes dart to me. Her father catches it.

  “No. Not necessary.” He glances at me as he puts his hand protectively on Iris’s shoulder. “Thanks for taking the tire off. I’ll see that she gets back.”

  They turn away, and I decide this is my cue to leave, but not before I hear Roger Tremaine tell his daughter that she’ll take his truck back. He says he�
��s not going to have her riding with some Mexican, even one with a French-sounding name.

  “Asshole,” I say as I exit the trailer. I wish I could afford to punch Roger Tremaine in the face and walk away. But I can’t. I head back, deciding that neither him nor his helpless daughter is worth thinking about a moment longer.

  Chapter Four

  Iris

  My father is hard of hearing, but he’ll never admit it. Because of that, he talks louder than he has to. He figures if he can’t hear himself, no one can hear him, so he’s taken to shouting everything.

  I know Cal Beaumont had to have heard his racist comment. On my way back to the hotel, I’m riddled with guilt. Guilt for not thanking Cal for his help before he left. Guilt for not bothering to even ask his name. Guilt for not standing up to my father when he was rude for no good reason other than he feels entitled to treat people any way he wants.

  My father has always been racist and sexist, although he’d deny it to anyone brave enough to point it out.

  “I treat everybody the same just as long as he’s a hard worker,” he’s said. But the truth is that the entire board of Tremaine Oil is male, as is most of the senior staff. I’m only here because I’m his daughter, and if I hadn’t inherited my mother’s good looks, I wouldn’t have this job I never asked for.

  I do find myself wondering about Cal Beaumont, however. When I first saw him, I’d pegged him as Latin with his dark good looks. And that body. Men back home spend hours at the gym for a look that he wears naturally. I had watched him remove the tire, admiring the back muscles visible through his shirt, his corded forearms. And those hands. I have a thing about men’s hands. I always look at them first. Most of the ones I look at are neat and soft. Cal Beaumont’s had visible callouses. Big hands. Hard hands. The hands of a working man.

  “Go on,” he’d said when he’d directed me to the truck. It wasn’t a request. It was a command. His voice was deep and authoritative. What would he have thought if I’d told him then and there that I was the company’s new spokesman? What would he have thought if I’d told him what he’d said made me soak my panties?