Drilled: (Hard 'n Dirty Book 7)

by Ava Sinclair

  Part of being the perfect little Texas socialite has meant dating acceptable men with old money pedigrees. Even though my father is on his third wife, he’s keen on advising me on men with First Husband potential. I say “first” because I don’t know what a healthy marriage looks like. My father has always married for appearances. He expects me to marry for money and social standing, just like my mother and his other two wives did.

  Regular men? Men without trust funds and country club memberships? They’re not even on the menu. In my world, size only matters if we’re talking about bank accounts. Big muscular men with big, dirty hands are non-starters.

  Still, I can’t help but to imagine what it would be like to be a regular woman with a regular guy. Sex has always bored me to tears. I’ve faked every orgasm except the ones I’ve given myself, and none of my pedigreed lovers even knew it.

  I can still see him in my mind’s eye, his sweaty shirt tight across his broad chest. What would it be like to have those roughed calloused hands sliding under my bra? I reach over and turn down the air conditioner, blaming the cold air for my suddenly hardened nipples.

  The phone provides a needed distraction, and I answer without looking at the screen, expecting to hear my friend Bunny, who told me she’d call this afternoon. But it’s a male voice, and not one I recognize.

  “Is this Miss Tremaine?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Tremaine. This is Lincoln Neff from WMLJ. We understand you’re the new communications director for Tremaine Oil & Gas? How are you doing today?”

  Shit. The media. I’m not ready to talk to them yet.

  I slow my vehicle as I rush to gather my scattered thoughts.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “How did you get my private number?”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “It was on the press release.”

  “Press release? No it wasn’t.” I pull over to the side of the road and put the truck into park. My father had me send out a press release the day he tapped me for the position a week ago. I’d made sure it was short and sweet, wishing my predecessor well. I’d said little about myself beyond noting my communications degree and glossing over my nonexistent work history by playing up two unpaid magazine internships I had in college.

  “Miss Tremaine, I’m talking about the second press release. The one we got today.”

  I feel a chill come over me.

  “Second?”

  “Yes. The one emailed to us over an hour ago?”

  “Oh that one.” I pretend to know what he’s talking about, although I don’t have a clue. But if I act as clueless as I obviously am, this reporter will see me exactly as my father intends for them to—just a pretty face.

  “We’d like to profile you if we could. The release notes your beauty pageant and modeling experience, which seemed unusual for someone taking over as spokesperson for a company under investigation for safety lapses. Miss Tremaine, it looks like this release was cc’d to every newspaper and broadcaster in the region. We wanted to be the first to schedule an interview.”

  I close my eyes. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This is my father’s doing. When I wrote the first press release, I emailed it to my father along with everyone else. He’d been irritated that I hadn’t included my modeling or pageant past. Now it seems, he’s had someone in the office not only do my job of sending out a second press release, but also add things about me I’d not wanted used as an introduction to the media.

  “Miss Tremaine? Are you there?”

  “Y-yes.” I have to think fast. “The purpose of the release was to remind the public that as a Tremaine, I’m a local, with close ties to the Texas people and culture,” I say. “Also, as a local, I share our company’s concern about the environment and safety of those who land jobs with Tremaine Oil & Gas. I will be addressing questions the media has about the company, but I don’t plan to be part of the story.”

  There. I feel as if I handled it well, at least until I hear his next words.

  “Well, I have to admit I’m kind of surprised.” Now that I’ve blown him off, the reporter’s solicitous tone turns sarcastic. “Someone who doesn’t want to be part of a story usually doesn’t include photos of herself in a swimsuit along with the press release.”

  I dig my nails into my palm to remain calm.

  “You’ll be notified when we’re ready to officially address the media, Mr. Neff. Until then, we have no further comment.”

  There’s a rumble as an eighteen-wheeler flies past me with enough force to shake my vehicle. The sound is jarring, and a reminder that I don’t need to be sitting on the side of a narrow ribbon of asphalt where nobody observes the speed limit.

  I fight back tears as I guide the truck back onto the highway, telling myself I’m not going to cry as I dial my father’s office. I get Rita, who patches me through to my father.

  “Honey, you back at the hotel?”

  “No,” I say. “Not yet. I had to pull over to take a phone call.” I take a deep breath, glad I’m not in the same room with him. It’s easier to confront him over the phone where I can claim poor reception if things get too tense. “Daddy, did you send out a press release?”

  “No. I had Rita do it.”

  I force myself to keep my voice level. “You had your receptionist send out a press release without even letting me know?”

  “What’s the fuss, darlin’? Let me remind you that Rita used to be an English teacher. She did a good job. Put everything in it that I wanted…”

  “That you wanted? Daddy, you know I didn’t want that in the press release. If I had, I’d have put it in there the first time.”

  For a moment, I think we’ve been disconnected because he’s quiet. And I almost hope we have. No such luck.

  “Iris, you may be my daughter, but this is my company, which means I call the shots. You don’t toot your own horn enough, so I tooted it for you. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “No,” I counter. “Except some reporter called and wants me to be the story. That’s not why I’m here, Daddy. I’m here to help Tremaine Oil & Gas.”

  “Right. And you will.”

  “Not if I’m already at odds with the press!” I argue. “They want to interview me, Daddy, but I told them no. The reporter was borderline rude when I refused!”

  “Good. That’s the spirit.” On the other end of the phone, my father laughs triumphantly. “That’s just what I want to hear from you. These reporters aren’t our friends, Iris. They’re our adversaries. That’s how you’re supposed to see them. They’re slick as eels and are always trying to twist things and get their way. You’re going to show them that we won’t be pushed around. When the time comes, my little girl’s going to get all dolled up and own those sons-of-bitches.”

  “Daddy…”

  “Look. I gotta go. Let’s try to get together for dinner.”

  “I won’t have time tonight, Daddy. I’m tired, and I really need to go over those papers you gave me to look at.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow then. See you then.”

  He clicks off and I toss my phone in the seat, wiping away tears of anger that I can no longer fight. It’s been a terrible day, and I realize as I turn into the hotel that the only bright spot was having Cal Beaumont change my tire.

  Chapter Five

  Cal

  Today was pay day, and the money isn’t bad even for the low man on the totem pole. The check was coupled with a kind word from Bill Jenkins, the mechanics supervisor who picked me to check the tire on Iris Tremaine’s car.

  “You’re a hard worker,” he’d said. “I don’t give praise often, so take that for what it’s worth. There’s not many men who will do whatever you ask without some pushback.”

  He’s given me the compliment in front of Martin, who’d remained sore all day that I’d gotten a close-up look at Iris Tremaine.

  “How much time you gonna spend sniffing your truck seat where she sat while you were changing that tire?” Martin had asked w
hen Bill was out of earshot. We were hoisting an engine out of a truck when he’d put the lewd question to me. I’d answered his crudeness with a hard glare. He’d just laughed and turned to another man working nearby. “Hey, Jerry. Did you see Cal here get that hot little piece of ass to sit in his truck instead of coming to the office so we could get a look at her? Greedy son of a bitch.”

  This time, I’d risen to the bait.

  “I didn’t tell her not to come in here. And she may have if there weren’t twenty roughnecks staring at her with their tongues hanging out.”

  “That’s not all that’s going to be hanging out when I get back home.” Martin had laughed. “I’m looking forward to beating off in the shower to the memory of that hot little body.” He’d pointed his wrench at me. “And just so you know. If she gets another flat, I’m gonna be the one to fix it. Hell, I might throw some nails in the office driveway just to guarantee it.”

  I’m sure he wanted me to take it as a joke, but there was an undercurrent of meanness that made me want to take the wrench out of his hand and smack him with it. I’m not a violent man, even if I have won every fight I’ve been in. But Martin’s words sparked the same flare of protectiveness I’d felt when I’d ordered Iris Tremaine into my truck. The idea of this man even thinking about her pisses me off.

  A cold shower. That’s what I need to cool myself off, both mentally and physically. A cold shower, then a trip to the laundromat to throw my clothes in the wash and then maybe a bite at the diner down the street. They serve breakfast all day long, and ham and eggs at seven o’clock in the evening is just fine with me.

  In the next room, a couple I saw entering with a couple of kids is having some kind of argument. I switch on the television to drown them out as I take off my clothes. The meteorologist is winding up the forecast with a reminder that the current heat wave shows no sign of letting up for the next week.

  “Great,” I say, and am about to head to the shower when something catches my eye. The camera had switched back to the anchor asking viewers to stick around after the commercial break for a breaking story on Tremaine Oil & Gas, and the company’s surprising decision to hire an inexperienced communications director, the owner’s daughter.

  A split-screen picture accompanies the teaser. One is a headshot of Iris Tremaine. The other is a shot of her posing on the deck of a boat in a bikini showing off the body outlined today by the pink skirt.

  The shower can wait. I sit down on the edge of the bed, my eyes glued to the screen of the television as I impatiently wait for the commercials to end. As a local steakhouse advertises its specials over a twangy country instrumental, I think about Iris Tremaine, about how quiet she was.

  After a pitch for a floor cleaner, the news comes back on.

  “It’s one of the region’s largest employers,” the anchor says as my employer’s logo appears on a screen behind her, “but Tremaine Oil & Gas is now facing stiff fines following a report citing poor safety training and a lack of proper equipment at its Sandy Ridge oil field. And now, just as the media is looking for answers, the company has announced the replacement of longtime spokesman Owen Stiles with owner Roger Tremaine’s daughter, Iris Tremaine, a woman with relatively no work experience. Our own Lincoln Neff has the story.”

  She pivots toward the screen, where a red-haired man in a white shirt and khakis is standing outside the Dallas headquarters of Tremaine Oil Gas.

  “Thank you, Lisa,” he says. “One would think that a company facing a $100,000 fine for ignoring safety requirements would be relying on a seasoned spokesman to field press inquiries, but on the heels of spokesman Owen Stiles’ sudden resignation from Tremaine Oil & Gas, the company’s hiring of the owner’s daughter is raising even more questions.”

  The screen fills with shots of Iris. Iris in a bikini. Iris in a magazine spread, stretched out on a chaise lounge in a white silk blouse and a pair of black pants. Iris hugging her naked breasts, her hair flowing, for a perfume ad. She was younger then, and if anything, is more beautiful now.

  “She’s beautiful, privileged, educated,” the voiceover says. “But she’s never worked a job outside of modeling until her father named her as the communications director for Tremaine Oil & Gas. We first learned about Iris Tremaine being hired last week, when the company issued a short press release. But today we got another press release that included shots of her in a bikini, pictures that could have been pulled from a modeling portfolio, and even one from her days as Junior Miss Texas. Environmental activists already upset about some of the company’s practices say the nepotism is just more troubling evidence that this company doesn’t take accountability seriously.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” a woman identified as the spokesperson for Citizens for a Clean Texas is telling the reporter. “Answering to the public isn’t like answering beauty pageant questions. We want concrete answers before somebody over there gets hurt.”

  The camera goes back to the reporter. “Now, Lisa, so far no one has gotten hurt, but groups like Citizens for a Clean Texas worry that Tremaine’s failure to secure a safe work environment may be the tip of the iceberg. They’re wondering what another report expected next week will show, one that one source told us will include further fine recommendations for faulty equipment in the field.”

  The female anchor nods. “Is it true that Tremaine Oil & Gas has promised to hold a news conference?”

  “That’s right, Lisa, but so far every date we’ve been given has been pushed back. With pressure mounting, this new spokesperson will have no choice but to face reporters and answer tougher questions than she ever fielded as a beauty pageant contestant. Back to you.”

  The anchor turns back and sighs. “Indeed, Lincoln, and I’m sure a lot of people in Texas will be watching to see if the new spokesman for Tremaine Oil & Gas will be more than just a pretty face.”

  I switch off the television, suddenly feeling worried for a woman I don’t even know. What I just watched explains the argument I overheard when I took Iris to the office. She obviously doesn’t see eye-to-eye with her father, and from what I gathered, he isn’t making the job easy for her.

  I think back to the photos on the screen. It doesn’t make any sense that she’d send those kind of pictures to a news station if she wanted to be taken seriously. But what do I know? I was around her for all of an hour. She’s a rich, entitled woman. Maybe she just expects the press to fall at her feet, just like every man in the equipment shed was ready to do.

  I lay back on the bed and close my eyes, unable to unsee the images of Iris Tremaine. Iris, her hands folded in her lap. Iris, sitting in my truck. Iris, with her skirt pressed tight against that perfect ass. Iris, laughing in a photo, her bikini body toned and fit and fuckable.

  But not by me. If I wasn’t good enough for Sadie, I definitely wouldn’t be good enough for the daughter of an oil baron.

  I look at the phone by the bed, wondering what Sadie would say if I called, just to say hello. I’m not going to do that, though. I don’t want to hear the sound of her new man answering the phone, the one she said was going places in life, the one she’s counting on to take her with him.

  The woman who fills my thoughts now doesn’t need a man to take her anywhere. She’s already what most women dream of being—rich and beautiful. She’s also entitled, and with Tremaine Oil & Gas putting men like me at risk to save a few bucks, it’s clear whose side she’s going to be on: his. What would a woman like that understand about men like us, who sweat and toil so her daddy can afford to give her a job?

  “Nothing, that’s what.” I answer my own question aloud, forcing myself to push the beautiful blonde out of my mind. It’s not like I’ll be seeing her again, anyway.

  Chapter Six

  Iris

  I hate how sleeping pills always make me feel hungover. I’d resisted taking one until 2 a.m. when I realized that was the only way I could stop my mind racing with the things I wish I could say to my father. I wake up with a headache and a sense of
dread as I wonder what he’ll put me through today.

  He’d seen the piece on the news, but if I was expecting sympathy, I was wrong. Even though I was in tears when he called me afterwards, he seemed pleased for another chance to stoke my anger at the media.

  “See, honey. They think you’re just some bimbo.”

  Only because you made me look like one.

  “I told you they were all assholes.”

  You’re the asshole, Daddy.

  “I hope you understand now what we’re up against. When you’re at that press conference, I want you to remember what they think of you.”

  They don’t think any less of me than you do.

  Of course, I’d not said any of those things aloud. Instead, I’d been silent, listening as he railed on about government regulations and the lying media. He created jobs, he said, and the government needed to get out of the way of men like him. He’d not had one damn accident, and there was no need for all the expensive precautions that were costing him money.

  I’m on my way back to the oilfield, even though I don’t want to go. I don’t want to face another day of preparing to field questions from reporters who already see me as unqualified. Despite what my father says, they’re right. I wouldn’t be in this job if it weren’t for him. I’m angry with him, but angrier with myself. Since college I’ve jetted around with my friends, taking extended vacations on his dime, knowing a career was optional. I’d gotten a degree because it was expected of me, not because I ever really planned to use it. I was killing time until I got my trust fund at age thirty. Now I regret not having my own income, my own strength, an identity beyond Roger Tremaine’s daughter.

  After the news report, I forced myself to stay up late studying the long list of safety violations. Rita had emailed me more documents, these having to do with equipment. I had to look up some terms, my anxiety mounting as I realized how little I understand. Bushings, dog house, power swivels — I’d filled pages with the names of structures and substructures mentioned in the reports. I felt like I was cramming for a test I’m bound to fail.