Drilled by Three Contractors

1 - Lane

Lane

If there was one thing I hated more than Chicago's bleak March weather, it was when said weather decided to coincide with some or other bullshit happening in my life. It felt like a kind of cruel irony or sick joke at the expense of my patience.

And as though winter's final blow of cutting wind and soot-covered slush wasn't enough, I also had to contend with the fact that I was running late to court with a docket heavier than the boot-sucking mud outside.

It didn’t help that the oh-so-highly-recommended Cornerstone contractors who were meant to have been here fifteen minutes ago were nowhere to be seen.

I glared at my phone's clock. Sixteen minutes.

“Relax, Lane,” I muttered to myself as all sane and wise people do, of course.

“Sure the bathroom’s still a mess and you had no hot water last night.

Sure, the renovation team hasn’t even started and you’re probably straddling the line between “fashionably late” and “contempt of court” territory.

” I paused, momentarily forgetting where this was going.

“But that’s okay. You have all your cases on lock and get to wear the outfit you’ve been saving for for months.

Little blessings, silver linings, blah blah blah. ”

As though in mockery of my attempt at positivity, a loud, ominous groan erupted from somewhere in the old Graystone’s foundation. It was punctuated with a cranky metallic clanging that I immediately knew was coming from that decrepit bathroom.

I swear, this house was trying to purge me like a boil but I wasn’t going to let some ramshackle Vintage Walk-up dictate how my day was going to go.

Absolutely not. I was its new owner and I was going to get this place fixed up and unrecognizable by the end of the mud season if it was the last thing I did…

if those Cornerstone guys would actually just pitch up.

I sighed and gave myself one final assessment in the standing mirror of the living room.

I was wearing a fitted hourglass peak-lapel blazer over a simple structured blouse and a pencil skirt that terminated just above the knee.

The sheer black hosiery paired well with the pointed-toe pumps I was keeping on retainer in my tote, because I for damn sure was not braving the gray slush of Chicago with anything less than the commute boots waiting for me at the door. Even those were black.

I squared out my shoulders, forcing as much power into my frame as I could.

Polished and professional. Well put-together despite the chaos that had been my life for the past few months since I got the news about Uncle Ricky.

Even if everything was falling apart in private, I needed just a few moments to stick the tape on and get moving again.

And if I was going to be dealing with crisis after crisis in and out of the court room, I figured I might as well look good doing it.

I shot another glance at my phone. Twenty minutes.

“Coffee,” I said out loud, much in the same way I imagined the first human who discovered fire might’ve announced its name.

I sauntered over to the kitchen, moving on autopilot while I distracted myself with thoughts of my first case of the day.

As I mentally combed over the details, I filled up my travel mug to the brim.

I was certain that I hadn’t forgone any of the minutiae, but either way I could always rely on Nance to check me.

That’s what friends and paralegals were for and I was two for two on that one.

If only she could somehow work her magic on this house. I was grateful that Uncle Ricky chose to leave this place to me, but I had no idea it was going to require this much work just to—

“Fucking fuck fucker!” I yelled, keeling over and grabbing my foot. My little toe throbbed with pain where I’d stumped it against the chair leg and I bit my bottom lip to stop the other shored-up curses from spilling over. I was still getting used to the smaller size of this kitchen, goddammit.

A series of thumps sounded from above and I cringed in anticipation of their herald. An older, cranky male voice boomed from the unit above, barely muffled by the floor-ceiling.

“Hey! Keep it down down there! This isn’t a sorority house!”

I exhaled sharply, my eyes closing even as I saw red behind the lids. Ordinarily, I might’ve apologized to Sandy Manning as I usually did whenever he decided to throw a tantrum about something asinine. But today was not exactly an ordinary day for me.

I had half a mind to tell him that if he’d asked the HOA to insulate the floorboards instead of his ego, we’d both have a better morning.

It was hardly the professional thing to do and I had to swallow back the words like bile because Sandy Manning was not exactly the kind of man you wanted to get into a back-and-forth with when you were already pressed for time and pissed as hell.

That was when I heard the sound of my front door opening and two pairs of footsteps shuffling into the house.

Two low voices mumbled to each other and I just about straightened up and smoothed down my outfit when two men clad in Cornerstone hats and softshell jackets emerged from the hallway and into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Miss Whittaker,” the first said, his voice a deep baritone. “I’m so sorry we’re late.”

I resisted the urge to lash out at them and instead hurried past, heading straight for my boots. I tugged them on quickly, the men following me back into the living room.

“I’m going to be around half an hour late today,” I said as my only concession to anger.

“Some roads were blocked this morning, ma’am. You know what things are like this season,” the first man said apologetically, not phased whatsoever by the bite in my words.

Beside him, his giant of a friend joined the conversation. “But now that we’re here, you won’t have to worry. We’re on the clock and finally able to get started.”

I practically ran right past them again, grabbing my leather tote and briefcase and eyeing the travel mug still waiting on the kitchen counter. “That’s great.”

The tall one continued speaking as I spun around and stalked back in their direction, aiming for the door.

“Uh, I’m Silas. This is Bear,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow as “Bear” cleared his throat.

“My bad, this is Barrett,” Silas corrected.

“Glad to see you finally made it, Barrett and Silas,” I said absentmindedly, moving right past them and waving my tote over my shoulder. “I trust you boys can find the bathroom within the next hour or so. Try not to break anything.”

Then I was out the door, practically flying down the stoop, my boots slapping against the stonesteps, frantic and uneven as I tried to make up time. I felt like I’d dissolved into a blur of tailored wool, caffeine and adrenaline when the bubble suddenly burst.

A deafening roar accompanied the smell of burning rubber and I stumbled to a stop as a gleaming motorcycle, obnoxiously loud enough to rattle my teeth, banked hard toward the curb I’d been seconds away from crossing.

It screeched to a halt mere inches from my exposed shins before skidding into the gap beside the Cornerstone truck, kicking up a spray of slush that narrowly missed my skirt.

“Watch yourself, asshole!” I yelled, checking my bags and clothes to make sure I was mud-free. Fury heated my words, the cold wall I’d been building against that anger now at melting point. “You could’ve taken my legs off!”

When I finally looked at the rider, he didn’t so much as flinch. He kicked the kickstand down with a heavy, practiced thud and dismounted in one fluid motion. He was still wearing his ridiculous helmet as his head moved infuriatingly slowly from my ankles to my shins, then my waist and back again.

I tightened the grip on my tote, angry and annoyed all at once.

“Now that would’ve been a real shame,” he said, his deep voice somewhat muffled through the helmet before he removed it. My mouth went dry at the lazy, lopsided smirk that tugged at his mouth. “Those are some really pretty legs.”

His face was all hard edges, his cheekbones hollowed and heavy jaw squared off, topped by a smooth shave that just about staved off the five o’clock shadow.

His eyes were deep-set, selfish in what they observed but refused to give.

His hair was clean on the sides, tapering into skin while the top was side-swept and neatly styled but still somehow a little rough.

But even beyond all of that was his body—it was clear that despite the layers of clothes he was wearing, he was athletically dense, carrying his broad-shouldered weight with the lazy, dangerous grace of a predator who knew exactly how much space he took up.

And for once, I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even buy a syllable.

Why were the hot ones always dicks? I was still trying to formulate a thesis on that, when he simply walked right past me, heading straight for my house. And that’s when the penny dropped…this man was the third contractor.

I spun around, watching him disappear behind the front door before I managed to get back on track and make my way to the station. Just then, Sandy’s front window rattled as he threw it open and popped his head out.

“Lane! That truck is double-parked in a tow-zone! I’m calling it in!" he shouted.

I didn’t even look back as I rounded the corner to the L station. “Write me up, Sandy. I don’t have time for this!”

Even from this distance, I could hear him slam the window shut.

*

“Morning, Counselor. Don't look at your watch, it’ll only hurt your feelings. Focus on this.”

I was met with the most delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee as the Daley Center’s elevator doors opened before me.

Nancy stood like an angel, wafting a cup under my nose and I stifled a groan as I swapped out my empty travel mug for the new drink.

I took a long, nourishing sip as we fell into step together.

“I found the 2018 precedent on the Miller case—turns out the defendant has a history of 'forgetting' to file tax returns. I’ve flagged the pages in your binder. You’re in Room 2402 in ten minutes,” she said.

“Only ten?” I asked, turning my head to face her in surprise.

“I may or may not have helped buffer the client,” she said nonchalantly. “She’s nervous for today. Turns out people don’t mind waiting a bit if they get to vent.”

“I owe you my first-born,” I said solemnly.

“Lovely offer but I’d have to decline in honor of a letter of commendation. Or a dinner at the Sterling & Oak,” she said, clicking the pen she always carried around and wielded like a physical grammatical flourish. “During steak night.”

“Done and done.”

“I love a mutually beneficial friendship. And anyway, it’s not exactly your fault when your renovation crew turns up late.”

The thought of that prick on the bike immediately brought a warmth to my face that had me cuss under my breath. But ever the detective, my reaction didn’t escape Nance’s notice. She tilted her head, the tell-tale sign that she had sniffed out a lead she was going to chase to the very end.

“Hmm. And that look?” she asked.

“What look?”

“You know Lane, for a pitbull of a lawyer you sure are a terrible liar,” she said. “At least to me. You never blush. Not even when you’re pinned in a courtroom with a squad of overpaid parasites on the opposing counsel. This is new.”

My shoulders sagged as we turned the corner, Room 2402 a mere leisurely stroll away. Nance looked at me with those large, inquisitive brown eyes of hers and she was right, as always. I couldn’t lie to her.

“Look, there’s no time to explain everything. The cheat sheet version? Worst part of the morning was some arrogant jerk on his Ducati,” I said, lowering my voice so that only she could hear. Against my better judgement, I added a reluctant addendum. “A hot, arrogant jerk.”

That single qualifier changed everything.

"Hot jerk? A Ducati? Oh, honey," Nancy grinned, clicking her pen. "We are so talking about this over drinks tomorrow night. But for now, Room 2402. Go kill 'em."

I grinned, steeling myself and letting the mask drop.

Just like that, the day began to take its shape. I forgot all about the renovation and the creaky bathroom and Sandy and Ducati Guy. For the next few hours, I lost myself to negotiations, avalanches of paperwork, revolving hearings and the mercy of a pee break here and there.

But the pressure that kept it all spinning, that’s what I thrived on. That’s where I shined, one area of my life I refused to belittle with humility. I was damn good at my job and I enjoyed it.

Which was why when, in the middle of a client meeting, I received a call from the renovation team, I was less than enthused at the break in rhythm. I excused myself, then hopped into the hallway and answered.

“Miss Whittaker?” came a gruff voice on the other end of the line. “It’s Barrett from Cornerstone.”

“Hi. Is everything okay?” I asked, a small part of me vaguely concerned that there might very well have been the kind of emergency I’d kept my phone off silent for.

“We’ve got a bit of a situation in the basement. One of the old clay pipes under the foundation has completely collapsed. The ground is so saturated that—”

Alright. So it was an engineering issue.

“Barrett, I fail to see what that has to do with me. I’m working right now with forty-eight files on my desk and a client who thinks I’m a magician.

I don’t have time for this,” I said, my eyes flitting to Nancy through the glass meeting room walls.

She widened her eyes slightly, which I knew was a sign to get the hell back in there.

“Look, I understand that but the HOA is on my back right now and if we don’t immediately shore this up then—” he started.

“Then shore it. Just handle it, that’s what I'm paying you guys for,” I said before hanging up and heading back into the fray.

More hours passed, and by the time I was walking back home, my feet were aching. I was exhausted, hoping for nothing more than a hot shower after a challenging day but all illusions of a peaceful evening were shattered when I saw the Cornerstone truck still parked in front of my house.

I felt like a zombie, dragging my feet until I shoved the door open only to be met with darkness. The only source of light came from a lantern set up on a table in the kitchen, the three-man crew huddled around it.

When they heard me enter, they turned to face me, their features cast in the underlight and making them look like a Renaissance painting. One that spoke of gloom and doom and nothing that any exhausted lawyer wants to hear about after a day like today.

Above us, Sandy was losing his shit again, his steps thundering on the floor-ceiling between loud, angry comments at no one in particular.

“We had to turn off the water and power,” Barrett explained simply, not bothering with dancing around the topic. “That pipe I told you about? If we don’t get that fixed up immediately, the back-flow is going to be so bad you’ll be swimming in the Chicago River by midnight.”