7. Mack
7
I take a good grip on my sledgehammer and swing. Drywall explodes in a shower of dust and debris. We’re taking out the wall between Mila’s old place and the unit beside it, and I have to say, there's something deeply fucking satisfying about this job.
“Feels good, don't it?” Reaper yells with a laugh. He swings his on the other end of the wall, taking out a stubborn chunk.
I prop the sledgehammer against the floor and lean my weight on it as I look over our work. “Fucking wish we had Mila’s number. If she wanted closure, this would do it.” I grin at the idea of her trying to take a swing without knocking herself over. She’s not a tiny girl, but compared to me, she’s a shrimp.
But a shrimp with a nice fucking rack.
“What do you think she's doing?” Scrapper asks with a shit-eating grin. “Sitting in class in a sexy little uniform dreaming about us?”
Reaper snorts. “They don’t wear uniforms in college, dumbass.”
“I know, but it’s my fantasy.”
I grab a hunk of wall that’s barely hanging on and rip it off. “If I’d known she was going to take off before we were even fucking conscious I would have made sure we had another round.”
“You don’t have anything to complain about,” grumbles Reaper. “Doesn’t fucking matter anyway. She’s a college girl that had an itch to scratch. We were just a drop in her bucket list before she graduates and settles down.”
Scrapper shakes his head. “She didn't give me that vibe. Those kinda girls don’t usually move into our neighborhood. I bet you guys twenty bucks we’ll see her again. Trust me.”
“I don’t know. I was with you last time, but I think she’s done with us,” I say.
“Same.” Reaper pulls off his shirt and uses it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Not that I’ll mind paying up again if it works out like last time. I've woken up hard as a rock every morning since the party. Jesus fucking Christ.” And with that, he grips the sledgehammer and swings it like a fucking baseball bat. More debris goes flying.
“Hey, boys,” yells a familiar woman's voice. “Looking good over there.”
“Faith,” I call out in greeting. Eagle-eye's daughter and old lady to Strike Team Motherfucking Alpha. “What're you doing here? Want a hammer?”
She laughs. “No, I’m here to work, but not like that.”
“What the fuck did you do to your hair?” Reaper blurts out.
Scrapper throws a glove at him. “Nice, real smooth.”
Faith grins. “I was complaining about the heat and taking care of my hair with a two-year-old running around, and Kaylee talked me into trying a pixie. What do you think?”
I prefer longer hair, like Mila’s, but I’m not about to tell Faith that. Not my woman, not my problem. “It’s cute. Looks practical.”
“Very diplomatic answer.” She looks around, pulling what I thought was a purse around to her front, but it looks more like an equipment bag. “You guys are making good progress.”
“Are you surprised? I’ve been in the business since I could hammer a nail without hitting my own hand,” Scrapper says with a cocky smirk.
“No, I’m not. Which is why I’m here.” She grins and pulls a massive camera out of her bag. “I revived my old social media account just to see what happened, and it’s been great for the bookstore. I asked Dad if he minded if I played with some ideas for getting the club good publicity.”
I narrow my eyes. She might be a grown ass woman, but she’s still the president’s daughter and what the club princess wants, she’ll probably get. I’m not sure I like where this is probably going. “Oh? And what did he say?”
“So long as everyone agrees, and I’m not filming somewhere private or inside the compound, he doesn’t give a shit.”
Reaper looks pissed. “We're a fucking MC. The whole city already knows who we are. What the fuck are you expecting? Meme dances?”
“Oh man, that would be amazing.” Her eyes glint and she's very obviously trying very hard not to break out in laughter. “But no, people go absolutely crazy for home repair and men with muscles swinging power tools. There’s this guy who chops wood…” She looks at our blank faces. “There’s a girl, too. Trust me. It works. I already made an account for the Fixer Uppers. You guys, shirtless and tattooed, swinging big, heavy tools and breaking down walls? Viral hit.”
“Guys like watching chicks chop wood?” Reaper asks.
Faith blushes. “Eh… that might be mostly women, too. It doesn’t matter. What I’m asking is if you guys mind me shooting while you work. I won’t post anything without letting you see it first.”
“Fine by me.” Scrapper pulls off his shirt.
I’m not surprised, he’s almost as bad as Viking, who seems to take wearing a shirt as a personal insult.
“Yeah, sure.” I nod briefly, then look over at Reaper who has his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Are you in?”
“Why the fuck not?” he answers with a shrug.
“This is going to be good, I know it.” Faith is so excited she's nearly bouncing, and she looks around eagerly. “Any more things to break?”
After throwing my shirt aside, I grab my sledgehammer and put it over my shoulder. I nod my head at the wall behind me. “This one's going next.”
“Nice!” She grabs the worker's light and angles it in some way that makes sense to her. “Okay, go out into the hall and walk in one by one, really sell it, guys.”
I feel like a fucking hamburger. Is this what women feel like all the time? Over the next hour she takes a shit ton of footage of us hammering and tearing and smashing shit. It's hard fucking work, and by the time we're done, I'm dripping with sweat. I can’t wait for summer to be over, it can't come too fucking soon. This isn’t what anyone wants to do in the heat.
I've never been a fucking showoff, but I gotta admit, it’s kinda fun when Faith gets excited about something we do. Scrapper's all over this, of course. He was fucking posing before he even knew what the fuck was going on. And even Reaper is flexing a lot more than he has to, showing off that damn Grim Reaper tattoo that covers his whole back like it pays the bills.
Eventually Faith puts down the camera. “Okay, as you were. I’m going to go fiddle with the editing.” Forty-five minutes later, we’re eating lunch as she walks back in. “You guys are gonna want to see this.”
We crowd around her phone to watch the final videos she's put together from the footage. Fucking stripper ass music starts coming out of her phone, and the next thing I know, we’re there, sweaty and shirtless and swinging our tools. Whatever editing magic she used even makes us look like we’re doing it in time to the beat.
“Jesus Christ, Faith.” Reaper shakes his head in disbelief.
Scrapper whistles low. “Daaaaamn.”
“It’s good, right? Can I post one? I forgot how much fun this is.” She grins. “You’re going to be getting so many nasty DMs. Should I forward the good ones?”
Scrapper laughs. “No dick pics, please.”
Faith chuckles evilly. “Of course not. Here goes.” She hits the post button.
We all stare at her phone. Not that any of us give a shit about social media, but…
A heart icon flashes over the video, then a second, then a third.
“See? I told you!” She shows us how to read the metrics for the post, and where we can see who is interacting with it.
The profile picture for the first like looks oddly familiar. I grab her phone and click on the tiny thumbnail. Mila’s cute smile, with her fingers held up in a peace sign, shines right up at me under the username: Milabear. “Who do we have here?”
“Jesus, no way,” says Reaper, sounding as surprised as I feel.
Scrapper looks smug. “I think I’m gonna make forty bucks.”