Drilled: (Hard 'n Dirty Book 7)

by Ava Sinclair

  “Don’t go talking that stuff around my boy,” she’d say. “He’s going to make his way in the wide world one day. If you go filling his head with that stuff, he won’t fit in.”

  My mother had aspirations for me. She told me I was beautiful, like my father whose picture sat on her dresser. She was beautiful, too, although sadness clung to her like a veil. Ever mindful of the prejudices I’d face outside our small community, she dreamed of gifting me with advantages and an education that, in the end, she couldn’t afford.

  I could hear my Aunt Rose quietly arguing with her after I went to bed, their voices floating through the open window. My aunt wanted me to embrace my heritage, at least the Creole side. When my mother wasn’t looking, she’d have me sit with her while she read chicken bones and made poppets and chanted strange words in the glow of black candles she lit when she visited.

  “Don’t tell your mama, now,” she’d say, slipping me a piece of the hard candy she’d bring to buy my silence. “You just keep quiet, boy.”

  I was in awe of my aunt, and afraid of her. My mother said magic wasn’t real. Last night makes me wonder if she wasn’t wrong. Whatever happened between me and Iris was powerful. I find myself wanting to seek her out, to hold her, to protect her from…from what? From a life where she’s so privileged she can’t decide who she sleeps with?

  The rain has tamped down the dust, but the heat of the morning sun is raising a cloud of steam on the asphalt by the time I’m ready to head to the oilfield. It’s another day in an endless string of similar days. Only this one is different, because the hardest work I’ll do is to control myself if I catch a glimpse of the sweetest damn woman I’ve ever taken to my bed.

  Iris is different than Sadie. My ex was ambitious, and while she worked hard she hung her hopes for success on what she called marrying up. She thought I’d be her ticket.

  Ever since I was little, I did odd jobs while helping Mama her run the little store that paid the bills. Sadie figured I’d sell it after Mama died, and to be honest, I’d planned to. A dollar store that opened down the road was already leaching a lot of business away the year before Mama took ill. As luck would have it, we were forced to did sell the store a couple of months before she died, but it brought barely enough to cover the hospital and funeral bills.

  On the day of my mama’s funeral, Sadie gave me the it’s-not-you-it’s me speech, saying it wouldn’t be right for her to go on given that she didn’t feel the same way about me anymore. I found out later that she was seen out drinking that night with my best friend, Grady. I thought about kicking Grady’s ass, but instead decided they deserved each other. So I got drunk instead and the next day I headed to Texas, a folded newspaper on the driver’s side of my pickup with the ad for oilfield workers circled in red Sharpie. I’d make my life away from Lousiana, I decided, and if God willed it, I’d find a woman to share it with.

  That’s still my plan, which is all the more reason to get Iris Tremaine out of my head. She sure as hell isn’t going to be that woman. And I sure as hell won’t get a leg up if I go losing my job for preying on the owner’s daughter. I know how men like Roger Tremaine think. That’s exactly how I’d be portrayed— as the predator who took advantage of a rich girl in hopes of getting my dirty hands on her money.

  I park my truck in the usual space, pick up my lunchbox and hardhat, and head to the shop. There’s a new dump truck already parked in the bay that was empty yesterday. Martin and several other men are standing by the open hood, staring at the smoking engine. I guess I know what I’ll be working on today, but when I walk up, the conversation isn’t about the truck.

  “…damn shame. That’s what it is.” I’ve caught the tail end of a conversation.

  “Blown gasket?” I ask.

  “We aren’t talking about the truck.” Travis, another roustabout who works with us, looks in my direction. “We’re talking about Ray Miller.”

  I feel a chill. “Is he…?”

  “No, he’s not dead.” Bill is the one who answers my question as he waves smoke away from the engine. “But he might as well be. He’s in a coma, and they’re saying he may not come out of it.”

  We stand around the truck in sober silence.

  “I heard that Ray complained about the equipment the day before that leak,” Martin says quietly. “He’d put in a request for new monitors. I don’t think the ones over on that site were working right.”

  “What you hear better be kept to yourself, Martin.” Bill fixes him with a hard stare. He lowers his voice, even though no one else is nearby. “Tremaine wants this to all be excused away. He’s got eyes and ears all over, and if they catch wind of anyone talking about what they heard or think they heard, they’ll be crying over their pink slip. He’ll blame regulatory costs for the layoffs.” He pauses, looking at one face to the other to make sure we get the message. The other men nod, so I do, too. “We need this place more than it needs us. So mind your business and get to work.”

  He pats the hood of the truck and we do as he says. Just as I figured, the problem is a blown head gasket. Mama would have liked me to have gone to college, but when it was clear that wasn’t an option, I took a shop course at the local community college and fixed cars on the side. My knack for mechanics helped me to land this job.

  I keep my head down, my hands dirty, and my ears open for anything that might help Iris. Ray’s comment at the bar makes sense now. If anyone found out that Ray asked for new monitoring equipment and didn’t get it, Tremaine Oil & Gas would be in deeper trouble than it already is.

  The well that was being drilled has been capped and abandoned. At lunchtime, I get in my truck and head in that direction. I tell myself it’s just to get a look, but that’s not entirely true. I’d seen official-looking vehicles heading through the field in that direction, and can’t help but wonder whether Iris is out there running interference for her father.

  I don’t see her vehicle, and from where I ease to a stop, I can’t tell if she is even out there. Even if she is, I don’t have any business riding half a mile just to get a glimpse of her. I’m acting like a damn teenage boy.

  I pull off the road, turn my truck around, and head back the way I came. As I pass the abandoned well, I notice another truck coming in my direction at a higher rate of speed than allowed on roads running through the field. When the truck passes me, I instantly recognize the driver. It’s Roger Tremaine. He looks at me as he passes, then trains his gaze back to where the inspectors are waiting for him at the well.

  Chapter Twelve

  Iris

  I haven’t sat by the phone since I was in high school. But that’s what I’m doing now, and I know the stakes couldn’t be higher all the way around.

  My father is up to something. I expected him to have me go with him to the well when the environmental inspectors arrived. But instead he told me to stay put. He wasn’t going to take the fall for this, he said. He was going to fix it, and when he did, he expected me to pound home the message that the injuries suffered by the workers were not the fault of Tremaine Oil & Gas.

  My job today had been to sit at the desk in the small back room of the mobile office and say, “No comment,” to any reporters who call. All communication directed to the Dallas office have been referred here. The press is clamoring for answers. The newspaper and broadcast news have been filled with stories and profiles of the injured men, three of whom have been released from the hospital. None of them are talking, either, other than to thank god that they are still alive. I overheard my father tell Rita to send each man a gift card for $500 from a local steakhouse. I know he called each one. I know they’ve all been promised that the company would take care of them, that as loyal employees, they could expect Roger Tremaine to make it right.

  I know what that means. So do they.

  Each man who comes home will get that call. And the one who may not make it out alive…? The front page of today’s newspaper showed a picture of Ray’s wife, a plump woman in a denim skirt
and pink tank top, slumped in a chair in the ICU waiting room, cradling the youngest of the couple’s four children. The article said she’s barely slept, and can do nothing more than tell her children to pray for their father when they ask if he’ll be coming home to them.

  “It’s not looking good,” she was quoted as saying. “They say it’s likely that he’ll never wake up.” She’d begun to sob during the interview. “He left early for work that morning. I didn’t even get a chance to tell him I loved him because I was still sleeping.”

  I look down at the phone, willing it to ring and flash the number from the burn phone I purchased for Cal and dropped off to the clerk the motel where he’s staying. I’d taken it after he’d left for work, packing it in a plain box. I told the clerk to give it to Cal Beaumont, that he’d know who it was from.

  The phone is more than a safe way to communicate. It’s a way to keep myself out of trouble. It will be hard enough, hearing Cal’s deep velvety voice, but it’s safer than meeting him in person. I can’t trust myself to be near him. I shift in my chair, feeling the wetness collecting between the lips of my pussy, squirming as I remember how it felt to have him lick it away, how his cock felt stretching me to my limit as he pumped in and out of me. The throbbing between my legs is nearly unbearable. I move my hands down my legs under the desk, hiking my skirt up. I need relief. Oh, god.

  “Iris!” My father bursts through the door and I jump. He stands in the doorway, staring at me.

  “What’s got into you, girl? You look like a kid who just got caught with her hand in the cookie jar.”

  I take my hands off my lap and move them to the top of the desk, sputtering a nonsensical explanation like a fool. “I was…I was looking for the stapler.”

  “Stapler?” His brow furrows for a moment. “Look,” he says, changing the subject. “I need you to put this out to the media. Write it up better than I did.”

  I take the paper from his hand and begin reading. Halfway through, I look up at my father. I feel sick to my stomach. My father wants me to write a statement blaming Ray Miller for the accident, claiming that he was told multiple times to come install new monitors purchased by the company but failed to do it, relying instead on old equipment that inevitably malfunctioned.

  “Is this true, Daddy?”

  “Of course it’s true, Iris.” He runs his hand down his chin then points at the paper. “Now write up that release like a good girl. It’s the only way we can dodge the bullet with those environmental people breathing down our neck.”

  I’m not convinced. The reason I was brought here was to help my father handle his poor safety record. This is something else entirely. I do something I’ve never done with him – stand my ground.

  “I won’t write this up until I talk to Ray,” I tell him.

  My father walks over to my desk and leans over, putting his palms on the surface. I get the same scared feeling I got as a child when he was angry with me.

  “Now you listen here, Iris. You’re not talking to a goddamn person except me, and only to say, ‘Yes sir.’” He taps the paper. “The other guys are gonna back him up, and they’ll be rewarded for it. And this won’t hurt Ray any more than he’s hurt right now. You saw the news. He’s not going to come out of this. You want to see this whole company go down, Iris?”

  “Do you want to see a loyal foreman’s reputation destroyed, Daddy?” I ask. “For what? Profit?”

  He sneers. “Look at you, getting all high and mighty. Let me tell you something, sweetie. I was a cutthroat businessman before you were born. Funny how I never heard any concerns about how I run things when you were getting a new car every year, or traveling to Europe with your friends, or going to school without ever seeing a damn tuition bill. If you want to oppose on moral grounds, you’re free to sign over that fat trust fund waiting you’ll get the day you turn thirty.” He crosses his arms. “Should I tell Ray’s family you’re going to donate it to him? On principle?”

  I look down, a flush of shame coming over my face. I’ve always known who my father is. He cheated on all his wives, then bought them off or threatened them into silence once he divorced them. I’ve overheard him on the phone ordering managers to pressure tenants out of rental properties he wanted to sell. I know he skirts the law. I know he puts himself first. I’ve never approved, but I never called him out on it, either. I always told myself it was none of my business. I enjoyed the lifestyle his dishonesty provided.

  I’m no longer just a beneficiary. Whatever my father is planning to do to keep out of trouble, he’s now making me part of. I’m complicit. But haven’t I been all along?

  “I thought so,” he said when the reply lodges in my throat. “Come tomorrow, this is the statement you’re going to give the media.”

  My hands are shaking as I pick up the paper he’s given me. My father says nothing more as he walks out.

  I reread the words through a haze of tears, knowing that I’m about to take part in pinning the blame on an innocent man. I want to go tell my father to fuck himself. If I were the son he’d wanted, I could. But I’m the daughter, the disappointment, and I’m only here to put a pretty face on his ugly lie.

  I pick up the paper and put it in the leather satchel stamped with my initials. It’s the kind of thing a serious professional would have. I bought it when I graduated college, thinking it would be nice to use whenever I decided I was bored with jet-setting and decided to work for a year or two until the trust fund kicked in. Now it feels like a joke.

  I leave the cramped little room, passing Rita’s desk on the way to the door.

  “Leaving already?” she asks.

  “I’m going to go work back at the hotel,” I say without looking back.

  It’s 4:30. Cal’s shift would have ended already. He’s had enough time to get back to the motel, to the room where we fucked in the unbearable heat. I’m longing for him, but it’s not just sexual. I need to feel his closeness, his strength. Something about being with him makes me feel safe, cared for.

  I pick up my phone, scrolling through the numbers until I find the one I logged in this morning, labeled simply with a “C.” I push the button, bracing for disappointment if he doesn’t answer.

  It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, I hear his deep voice.

  “Hello.”

  “Cal?” I draw a deep breath. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought it would be easier, if you had a phone…”

  “Yeah. I figured it was from you.”

  Silence hangs between us. On the other end of the line, I can hear the faint sound of music, and I get the sudden, awful image of Cal sitting in a bar with another woman.

  “Is this a bad time?” I ask as I bring my vehicle to a halt at an intersection.

  The music stops. “No. I’m just listening to the radio.”

  “I need to see you…” I falter. “I need your opinion.”

  He’s quiet. I know what he’s thinking, that I could get it over the phone.

  “Do you want to come here to the motel?”

  Do I? Oh, god yes. But I know I can’t.

  “It might be risky.”

  “Yeah. It might.”

  There’s another pause. “Do you know where Fowler’s Farm is?”

  “You mean that abandoned homestead about a mile out of town? Yeah. I passed it on the way in. My father was thinking about buying that land to develop it.” I bite my tongue as soon as the sentence is out, but he doesn’t seem to care that I just mindlessly brought up my family’s wealth.

  “We could meet out there around seven if you’d like. It’s pretty quiet out there.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

  I click off, feeling like a fool. I could have told him what I wanted to say over the phone. But I want to see him.

  “That’s all you’re going to do,” I tell myself.

  Yeah, right, my inner voice replies.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cal

  I should have told Iri
s that I couldn’t meet her, but I can’t get her out of my mind. I can’t stop thinking about the last woman on Earth I can have, the woman who’s also the only one I want.

  The sun is sinking behind the trees where cicadas hum their droning song. I’m sitting on the tailgate of my truck, which is pulled over on the side of a country lane. On the other side, behind rusty strands of barbed wire strung between ancient fence posts, sits a big white house with black shutters.

  Back in the day, the Fowler homestead must have been something to behold. Even now, with knee high fescue having taken over the lawn, it’s still beautiful. An ancient oak stands in front of the house, the tire swing still hanging from one of the massive branches. It’s a place that once sheltered a family. How much laughter took place behind that screen door? What secrets were uttered? What promises made?

  A home. Kids. I’m an old-fashioned guy. A simple life would be enough for me. I imagine what it would be like to buy a place like this, to refurbish it, to carry Iris over the threshold, take her to bed, and make babies who would grow like Texas weeds. In no time, they’d be big enough for their daddy to push them on the tire swing.

  It’s a nice normal dream, but Iris isn’t a normal woman. And once again, I’m letting my mind take me to places I’ll never be able to go. I turn to look down the road, spotting the dim headlights of a luxury car turning onto the quiet lane. It’s Iris. I step out of the little side road I’m parked on and wave her over behind an oak thick enough to hide our vehicles from view of traffic passing on the main road.

  She cuts the engine and steps out. As soon as she does, my heart twists a little in my chest. She’s wearing blue jeans and a sleeveless white shirt tied at the waist. Her hair is bundled in a loose ponytail. Iris Tremaine looks like a beautiful girl next door. For a moment, I can almost believe the dream I had could be possible.

  “Hi, Cal.”