A Shore Thing

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ETHAN

I can’t take another second of this.

Ice-cold rain hammers my back as I give the scaffolding a firm shake, making sure the downpour hasn’t weakened any of the joints holding up the frame of what’ll eventually be an apartment building.

Fucking cheapskate boss refusing to pay for sheeting, even though this storm was forecast. Classic Michael.

As the general contractor’s project manager, he’s always cutting corners to save money and make himself look good to the company.

Heaven forbid he take the time to check the weather while he was off counting pennies.

Satisfied that the structure isn’t gonna fold under the torrential downpour, I climb down the drenched ladder, swearing under my breath and doing my damndest not to slip and bust my ass.

My boots land and skid in a slushy pile of mud, earning a cackle from the new apprentice whose first lesson on the job is going to be: Don’t piss off the foreman.

I snatch up one of the wood planks that the eighteen-year-old’s been sanding, running my gaze over it. “Hey, Ted, this plank looks a touch short. Could you get the wood stretcher and make it about half an inch longer?”

The gum the kid’s gnawing stills in his mouth. “It’s Ned. And I’ve never heard of a ‘wood stretcher,’ sir?”

I remove my hard hat and comb my fingers through my matted hair. “It’ll be in the site shed. Go on.” I replace my hat and shoo him away with both hands.

With wide eyes, the newbie bolts toward the storage unit, and one of the old timers lets out an amused snort. Hey, if the kid’s dumb enough to believe in a wood stretcher, maybe it’s best we know that now, so we don’t let him near any of the power tools.

I glance at my watch. Shit, it’s nearly three—no wonder my stomach feels emptier than this project’s budget. This rain I shouldn’t have had to deal with has set us back a mile, and I know Michael will blame any delay on me.

“I’m taking a short break,” I call over my shoulder to Mario, the new deputy foreman. I can’t look him in the face without my throat clogging. Mario gets the job done, but I still expect to see Leo handing me a dry towel or making a funny wisecrack.

I give the building site another cursory glance, but everything looks solid.

After telling Mario to keep an eye on things while I head out, I nearly collide with the pink-cheeked apprentice.

“I couldn’t find anything that looks like a wood stretcher,” he mumbles, “and when I asked the other guys, they said we only have a reverse saw onsite.”

I bite back a laugh. “A reverse saw will work too. I want that plank lengthened by the time I get back from lunch. You got that, Jed?” I clap a hand on his scrawny shoulder, then stride over to my truck, hearing Leo’s gently castigating voice in my head: “Don’t be too mean to the cubs, boss-man.”

Fuck it, he’s right. It’s not the kid’s fault that I’m tired, pissed about the rain, and counting the minutes until Sunday—the beginning of my six-week break.

A break that almost cost me my job.

Construction’s about to start on a forty-story skyscraper down the street, and Michael had a shit fit about having to bring in a replacement for such a massive project.

I stared him in the eye, refusing to back down.

He’s been promising me this time off for years, and it’s high time I collected.

He must’ve seen how close I was to quitting altogether, because he caved the next day.

All that’s left is to choose a place to escape to that won’t be crawling with people.

Louisiana is still top of my list, so I can hit some historic museums and eat all the Cajun food I can swallow.

Maybe I’ll even get around to reading Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom, which has sat unopened on my nightstand for months.

Fuck me, it’s cold for April, even for Philly.

Wherever I end up needs to be warmer than this.

I take off my hard hat, then tug off my soaked jacket and shirt, ignoring the wolf-whistles from two other newbies who think being epic smartasses is part of the job description. Wood-stretcher’s comin’ their way too.

I unlock my truck and fling open the door, leaning over the driver’s seat to fish out a dry shirt from my duffel bag.

Construction rule number one: Bring a spare set of clothes.

Rule number two: Keep your lunch in a cooler, because you never know what time you’re actually gonna get a break.

Especially when your boss is a jackass, who thinks making money is more important than basic human needs.

After sliding into the driver’s seat, I unwrap the jalapeno grilled cheese roll I picked up on my way in and set an alarm on my phone in case I zone out.

I’m tired enough for a power nap, but that’d be breaking rule number three: Never fall asleep on duty, no matter how exhausted you are.

A familiar knot coils in my stomach, and I tap on the radio, flipping through to one of the political news channels to keep me awake.

Five more days, and I’ll be done with this downtown complex that’s been a shit show from the start. Then, I won’t have to think about the mud pits, the twelve-hour shifts, the sliced-up hands, the five a.m. alarms, and the revolving door of clock-watching apprentices I have to babysit.

When I started out in construction after high school, I knew I had to get my hands dirty and put in the hours to earn respect.

Nowadays, these entitled kids think they can waltz in, snap up all the easy jobs, and rack up overtime to pad their wallets when half of them can’t tell a Phillips head from a flat-head screwdriver.

But whatever labor’s the cheapest, right? What a joke.

My phone lights up with a text from my mom.

Mom

Hi darling. Dad wants to start earljer tonight, so cam ypu be by at 5pm?

Thank, love. Xxx

Looks like she’s lost her glasses again. I let her know I’ll be there, finish my lunch, and swipe the crumbs off my seat and onto the road.

Finally, the sun breaks through the clouds, and I slip on my sunglasses so I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone who’s pissed me off today. Then, I head back out to set things straight with young Ned and put him out of his misery.

The “For Sale” sign in my parents’ front lawn feels like it’s been hammered through my chest. It’s not just the thought of saying goodbye to the house my brothers and I grew up in that sets me off-kilter.

Whoever set the real estate sign couldn’t even get the damn thing straight.

I head over to give it a few kicks with my boot until it’s properly angled.

Who the hell came up with the slogan: Let’s hit another HOME run?

Awful. Doesn’t even make sense. What does baseball have to do with selling houses?

I head up the path and push my spare key into the lock. The door pops open without me turning the key, and my frown deepens.

“Who is it?” Mom sings from the kitchen as I step into the hallway and lock the door behind me.

“A drug dealer high on meth who’s come to rob you,” I say as I walk over to her.

She catches my waist with both arms and presses her head into my chest. “Poor drug dealer won’t get much out of me.” With a smile, she lets me go.

Dad strides into the room wearing his “uniform”—blue jeans, a grunge-band T-shirt tucked into a nylon belt, and bright white sneakers. My old man is firmly stuck in the 90s.

While I catch up with them about my busy week, Mom finishes arranging a platter of cheddar cubes, peppered salami slices, and crackers. When she’s done, I carry it into the living room, where Dad’s projector is already aimed at the pull-down screen—his favorite toy aside from his CD burner.

“We doing old family movies again tonight?” I ask, flopping onto the brown leather couch. No one loves nostalgic home movies more than Old Man Davis.

“Nope,” Dad replies with a smirk, then offers me a beer.

I twist open the cap while Mom sits beside me and glances at her watch.

“Grayson should be here soon, so I’ll let Wyatt know to expect our call,” she says, squinting at her phone as she taps out a message to my youngest brother.

He’s somewhere out west, I think—Wyatt’s impossible to keep track of, no matter how hard I try.

I assumed this was just a casual catch-up, not a family meeting. “What’s going on?”

The rattling of the front doorknob interrupts her response. Dad jumps up from his recliner. “That should be unlocked.”

“No, it really shouldn’t,” I say. Does no one in this house care about their own safety?

Dad strides over to the hallway, stepping back in with Gray still in his veterinary scrubs. My younger brother brushes rain droplets off his messy caramel hair.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, bending to give Mom a hug before plonking down beside me. “I had to put down a cat with renal failure.”

“Aww, poor thing,” Mom replies over the tone of a ringing video call. “Everyone say hi to Wyatt!” She holds up her phone. I lift up my beer to my little brother’s smiling face, his scruffy hair stuffed under a baseball cap. Looks like he’s in a bar, leaning against a stack of speakers.

“Are you gonna tell us why we’re all here?” I ask Mom and Dad. Gray elbows me, and I elbow him back. There’s no sense beating around the bush. If there’s something wrong, we need to know what it is.

Dad points his remote at the projector. “Your mother and I want to show you something.”

Mom lets out a little squeal as she faces her phone to the screen so Wyatt can see.

“Sweet ceiling fan, Mom. Is that new?” Wyatt quips, and Mom lowers her phone. Gray doesn’t even notice that his beer has left a ring of condensation on the table. I lean forward to wipe it clean with a napkin. For a guy in his field, you’d think he’d be a bit more careful.

Dad clicks on the projector, and the vinyl screen fills with an image of a weather-beaten old house resting on high stilts built behind a grassy sand dune.

The outdoor staircase leading down to the beach is half-collapsed.

The wooden siding might have been a light blue color, but it’s so worn and faded that it’s hard to tell.