Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ETHAN
Dust coats the back of my throat, and the clamoring of a jackhammer reverberates through my skull.
Across the skeleton of the future high-rise, my crew members shout over the grind of machinery, the cubs checking their watches every two minutes for a break.
It’s hot and humid, but the sky’s a glaring sheet of gray and we’ve got to get this concrete pour finished before the storm hits.
Sweat drips into my eyes, and I wipe it away with my forearm, tasting dirt.
Where the hell is the plastic sheeting I asked for? If the rain comes down before the concrete sets, we’re screwed. We’re supposed to have stuff like that ready to go, but Michael would rather beef up his annual bonus than take care of us.
So, like always, it’s not here, and it’s my problem to fix.
My head swings around to where Ned is leaning against the scaffolding, trying to balance a bolt on each of his fingertips.
For fuck’s sake.
If I wasn’t in such a shitty mood, I could almost laugh at this clown.
Unfortunately, this place swallows humor whole. It’s all dirt and noise and toxic fumes. This build is barely four weeks in, and already, it feels as if it’s coming apart at the seams.
The fact that I’m not even supposed to be back here yet, that I should be strolling barefoot along the golden sand of Inner Shores right now, makes me almost catatonic.
What am I even doing here? Sweating through my shirt, trying to keep control of another project that’s headed for disaster, that’s what.
First thing this morning, I noticed that the inspection log for the site hadn’t been filled out in weeks.
Half the steel shipment was short.
And the concrete pump we rented—the cheaper one that Michael insisted on—keeps clogging every twenty minutes.
Right on cue, the pump groans and splutters, shooting a sticky mess of concrete back into the pit.
I grip my hard hat with both hands, swearing along with the crew. Forget plastic sheeting. We need a new pump, and lucky for me, the boss is onsite today. Nothing gets added to the budget without Michael’s approval.
I spot him near the base of what’ll become an elevator shaft, his glossy phone pressed to his ear.
As soon as he sees me stomping over, he hangs up his call. “Ethan... just the man I wanted to see.”
“Why? Did you want to discuss the new pump you’re about to order?”
His brows meet in the middle. “What? No. I wanted to ask what the hell’s going on over there with the pour. It’s going to start raining any minute.”
“No shit.”
He shifts in his polished leather boots. “What’s with the tone, Ethan?”
I jab a finger at the site behind me. “Look around you, Michael. The concrete’s clogging because the pump you picked is garbage, the inspection logs are half empty, the deliveries are short.
You’re cutting costs on everything to save a buck.
And now you expect me to clean up the mess? No wonder your last foreman quit.”
His face flushes red. “Ethan—”
“I came back early from my vacation to run your project,” I cut in, “not to figure out how to fix the fallout of all your shortcuts that are putting every crew member here at risk. I thought I was here to help, not to cover for your relentless incompetence.”
He stares at me, looking flabbergasted, while a tight breath cuts through my lips. Wow, it feels like I’ve been holding that in for way too long.
“Fine, I–I’ll look into a new pump,” he splutters. “But I won’t stand here and nitpick every little thing. I’m up to my ass with deadlines here.”
I only half hear what he’s saying. I make a mental note to call OSHA the first chance I can.
Or an independent safety investigator. Someone who can hold Michael and the firm he works for accountable if he keeps taking shortcuts.
It wasn’t my fault when Leo got injured because I was exhausted, overworked, and juggling too many things at once, and it wouldn’t be now either.
“Now, was there anything else?” Michael says, glaring like I’m some naughty kid who just stepped out of line.
“Nope. I’m done.” My patience for this guy’s bullshit ran out yesterday.
Sweat trickles down my temples as I turn and head back toward the pit, my stride feeling a little lighter. Telling Michael that he’s the problem, and it’s his job to fix what’s wrong with this place, has stripped some of the weight off me.
On my way back over, I dig out my phone and check it for the twentieth time today.
Damn. Nothing. I still haven’t heard a peep from Chloe since I sent her that text yesterday.
Mario, the deputy foreman, calls out to me over the racket. “Ethan, the sheeting’s finally on its way.”
“Good. Maybe it can do the pump’s job while it’s at it.” And bring me a decent coffee. Maybe a Reuben too.
He frowns. “Plastic doesn’t work like that, man.”
Oh, jeez. I turn away. Mario’s nice enough, and a solid worker, but we’ll never have the same banter I once shared with Leo, which got me through each grueling day.
I rest my forehead against a cool steel beam for a moment, my mind looping back to the idea Leo had about starting our own business. The way he described it sounded so damn good.
Imagine that—actually liking what I do. Not this rat race and the pressure of a forty-story tower chewing me up and spitting me back out.
Just fixing up people’s homes, so they’re exactly how they imagine them.
Maybe even building them from scratch eventually.
Handing someone the keys to their dream.
Like Mom and Dad. I already know how happy they’re going to be in that beautiful house. In that beautiful place.
With that beautiful neighbor.
My whole chest wrenches up.
If I shut my eyes and tune out the noise and polluted air, I can almost pretend I’m there.
The wind that whistles through the tunnel of scaffolding fades, replaced by the gentle ocean breeze at Inner Shores.
I can see the calming stretch of blue sea, smell the salty air, and feel the warmth of the sand enveloping my toes.
I can see her gap-toothed smile as she rides her surfboard. Hear her joy-filled laugh inside the warm walls of Mugs. Feel her soft fingers threading through mine as she tugs me close.
“Davis!”
I snap out of my stupor.
Lauren, one of the crew, is waving me over from the far end of the building site. A small crane looks like it’s about to tip over, leaving a steel beam swinging.
I jog over there, shouting, “Move it! Watch the beam!” My voice cracks over the roar of machinery, and more sweat stings my eyes.
How many minutes are left today before I can leave this hellhole behind?
It’s closing in on dinnertime when I finally tear off my hard hat and make a beeline for my truck, turning down an offer to join some of the others at the bar across the road. Thank heavens for small mercies—the rain only just started sprinkling.
I pull out my phone, but I don’t see a call from Chloe.
Instead, there are two missed calls from a number I don’t recognize. There’s also a voicemail message. I tap to listen.
“Hi, Ethan,” gasps a female voice that sounds vaguely familiar. “It’s Willow.”
The tremor in her voice sends my stomach straight to my dirt-caked boots.
“Can you call me back?” she chokes out. “Something’s happened.”