Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“A bitch,” another voice finishes.
Someone else adds, “I heard she was walking around downtown like she didn’t have a care in the world. Shopping and eating lunch, not giving a single shit about my rent being due next week or Larry’s kid needing insulin. That shit’s expensive, ya know?”
“Is anyone surprised that she’s prissing around like things are hunky-dory while we’re worried about bills?”
“You know I ain’t surprised at shit. That woman’s always rubbed me the wrong way. And that’s saying something because there ain’t supposed to be a bad way to rub.” The sex joke falls flat, a rarity with a group of rough, filthy-mouthed, laboring guys.
“Jed was an asshole, but at least he let us do our jobs, paid on time, and stayed out of our way,” Mike says flatly.
Roscoe can’t keep quiet about that, though, not that he’s ever had much of a filter. “He’s the one who fucked us over in the first place, though. All he had to do was stay married for two months till we were done, and then him and Chrissy could fight to the death in one of those octagons and sell tickets for all I care. But could he do that for the guys who’ve killed themselves over the years for him? Fuck no.”
“I’d buy a ticket for that show,” I confess and then burst out in laughter when I actually picture it. “Can you imagine? Chrissy bitching about breaking a nail and Jed huffing and puffing just from walking to the ring, but throwing his hands up like he’s already a winner anyway.” I lift my hands in a V and silently roar the way Jed would.
“They’d end up rolling around on the mat, and Chrissy’d end up on top, sitting on his face. And Jed’d be hollering because he ‘don’t do that’ like a pussy. She’d snarl out, ‘I know’ on account of them being together so long,” Mike adds, coming around to the shit talking about Jed and Chrissy.
Before long, we’re all laughing at the ridiculous idea of them fighting like that. It’s a much-needed break from the stress we’re all feeling.
“Wish he coulda kept his dick in his pants in the first place,” Seth offers. “That woulda solved all this too.” Seth’s a good guy, been married to his wife for less than a year, and probably can’t imagine cheating on her or how ugly a marriage can get after decades of bitterness and resentment. I hope he always keeps that innocence. The rest of us aren’t so naive.
Roscoe barks out a rusty-sounding chuckle and slams the cue ball with a punishing stroke that belies his age. Balls go squirrelly over the whole table, and when not a single one finds its way to a pocket, he perches on the edge of a stool with a rumble of mutters under his breath. “Go ahead, Jesse. I’m done with this shit anyway. Tomorrow, I’m gonna go into Newport and see if they’ve got any day laborer jobs.”
Seth offers, “I’ll go with you, man.”
“Me too,” another voice says.
“Can someone pick me up? Wife’s keeping the car to run the kids to school.”
My whole crew is falling apart in front of me. These guys are gonna go to Newport, find jobs, and when Jed and Chrissy finally get their shit figured out, I’m going to be down valuable guys and left holding the bag. This whole house of cards is crumbling, and time’s running out.
“I understand, guys,” I say slowly, hoping to save what I can. “But when this contract’s figured out, I’m gonna want each and every one of you back on the job site. We’ve got work to do, work for Cold Springs. And I ain’t got time to train rookies on your jobs and have them redo everything three times to get it right. I need you, ya hear me? So go fuck around in Newport with some annoying gigs so you can pay your bills, but don’t get used to day jobs where you’re your own boss. Your asses are mine as soon as I say so.”
I’m not a poet, and I’m also not that great at pep talks, unfortunately. But hopefully, they understand I’m coming from a good place.
“Is there anything we can do?” Mike asks me. “Can you talk to Wren?”
I shake my head. “I have. She’s doing her best, working with that Oliver asshole all day. Did I mention I hate that prick?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but they all laugh. “A time or two . . . hundred,” Roscoe teases.
Mike corrects him, “More like thousand.”
“Shut up, assholes,” I growl, knowing they’re probably right. “You’d be pissed, too, if your girl was hanging out all day with a guy like that. You should see the way he looks at her. Makes me want to punch that smug smile right off his face.” Even thinking about it makes me angry again.