12 - Brock
Brock
“Long time, no see,” I said, wiping the salt powder from my hands. “I'd shake your hand but mine look like this right now.”
Officer Thorne shook his head. “No problem, Mr. Lawson. Thanks for agreeing to meet up with me today.”
“Hardly my choice,” I grumbled, folding my arms across my chest.
And that was true. I felt like a disappointed dad who was just dying to be a deadbeat. Instead I had to meet Merrick's parole officer regularly to make sure he wasn't doing anything he wasn't supposed to.
Officer Thorne smiled apologetically. “I don't mean to interrupt the work flow. I know how…rigorous this type of work is.”
I eyed him briefly. He was a man in maybe his late 50s with a husky build and the type of complexion that looked like he'd spent one too many years under office fluorescents. He had a raspy voice that sounded like a bad coffee habit. But I didn't want to judge.
“Okay, I know the drill. Let's see—total hours logged a week is forty, on average. One late start around three weeks back due to traffic. No unexcused absences since last month. He's clocked in every shift.” I paused.
Next up were any reported “behavioral red flags.” Here was where it would be so easy to give Thorne something that would get Merrick taken off this crew.
It wouldn't be a far cry for him to believe that Rafe had done something reckless especially since, you know, I was pretty sure he was screwing our client.
Not that I cared but it was less than professional. That was the only issue, of course.
“No conflict incidents or inappropriate behaviors otherwise,” I frowned. “No observation of any altered states or energy levels, so pretty sure he's clean. He's followed orders and protocols pretty well.”
I couldn't throw him under the bus like that. The guy was a grade-A dick but he didn't actually do anything to violate his parole.
“That's excellent, Mr. Lawson,” Officer Thorne said excitedly, typing something into his phone. “Fantastic. Now, there was some business I needed to discuss with you regarding Mr. Merrick's potential, um, past as it was. As it pertains to you now.”
My frown deepened. “What’s happening?”
Officer Thorne's expression darkened, which was unusual for him. He inched closer as though telling me a secret.
“We had a snitch come in recently who was affiliated with Mr. Merrick's old crew.
Mentioned something in his statement about how there might be some of the others looking for him now that they know he made it out.
Now, I'm not saying that it's anything to hit the panic button over just yet.
But I'd keep my eyes open if I were you.”
My jaw flexed and I cast a quick glance to the firehouse's front door. “I appreciate the heads up.”
He nodded and was about to turn back to his car when he stopped and regarded me again.
“You know…you've done a very good thing by taking him on your crew.
Not many people would've agreed to that, not with his history and I think having this job is a big reason for why he's staying clean.
But you don't owe him anything, Mr. Lawson. Least of all protection.”
Right. I nodded in acknowledgment. “Same time next week?”
“Next week.”
As the PO headed off, I waited a few minutes before going back to the work site. I'd already been hesitant to let Merrick join Cornerstone with his past, but knowing that that past could be bleeding into the present and put my team and client at risk…that wasn't something I could abide by.
Mr. Thorne hadn't been wrong, exactly. Yeah, I didn't owe Merrick anything. But he was still part of my crew now. If there was anything that made it glaringly obvious Thorne had never worked a shift in construction in his life, it wasn't his skin or body or even the way he spoke.
It was the fact he didn't understand the weight of what it meant to lead a crew, even when one of them was the sole cause of all the bullshit. And if there was someone I did owe something to, it was my client. Whatever that looked like.
*
“Did the others clock out already?” Lauren stood in the doorway of the watch office, a hand on her hip and her head resting against the doorframe.
I was finishing up my rounds, ready to head out for the day. I looked at her, then shifted my focus back to the toolkit I was packing in.
“Yep. Both left around twenty minutes ago,” I answered. Which I was surprised she didn't recall, given she'd actually greeted them as they left. The watch office was a very efficient vantage point which meant that she should've known I'd be the last one here.
“Ah. Well, I suppose I can still invite you out with me, then. Join me for a drink on the roof?” she asked casually.
My eyes drifted back up. She was trying very hard to seem indifferent.
But there was a nervous stiffness to her movements, making it clear she was overcompensating. Did I make her that nervous?
“I don't think that's a good idea, Lauren.” I zipped up my bag.
“Hey. You called me ‘Lauren’ out of your own volition for the first time, that's a start,” she said, smiling.
Shit.
“Please? Just a drink, I promise. You did say that you needed to discuss the permit situation with me anyway, right? Why not now?” she said.
She practically fluttered her eyelashes at me and my god. My decision-making capabilities were failing me already.
“Fine. One drink and a quick update,” I muttered, leaving my bag on the desk.
A small triumphant smile nested in the corner of her mouth but she turned so quickly I barely got a chance to see it.
I followed her lead that passed through a steel ship's ladder at the end of the bay, a two-handed narrow climb that terminated in a roof scuttle she had to push back to unlatch. It landed with a loud bang and we emerged through the opening and onto the flat, gravel-dusted rooftop.
My eyes scanned the perimeter and all I could think of was that this place needed work, too. Between the exposed, structural steel I-beams and original masonry details, there was much that needed refining up here.
“Gorgeous, isn't it?” Lauren breathed, sweeping her arm out.
I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not. I scratched the side of my neck. “It has potential, I suppose. Are you thinking of having this space renovated as well?”
Lauren rolled her eyes at me. “Not the roof itself, Brock. Here.”
She took my hand and led me to the edge of the street-facing side of the building, right to the parapet wall that served as a railing against the drop.
“Look.”
She directed my gaze to the view out ahead and it actually took my breath away. The skyline was already starting to glow yellow with evening lights against a purple-bruised horizon. Between the buildings and greenery winding in and around the blocks, I could see what she meant.
I turned to tell her that and froze.
Lauren's profile was mesmerizing against the same purple sky. She had a small, content smile on her face as she gazed ahead, her eyes bright and filled with wonder.
I cleared my throat and she turned to look at me.
“I thought you promised drinks,” I said.
“Already waiting,” she replied, pointing to an old but sturdy-looking wooden pallet that housed two glasses.
I raised an eyebrow. “That was presumptuous of you.”
“I prefer the term, ‘optimistic’,” she said, moving toward the makeshift bar. “I made Tequila Mules. They're supposed to be a local favorite.”
Two drinks I noticed. Not four.
“For a reason,” I said, taking the mug she handed to me. “Thanks.”
“To crafting an amazing apartment that’ll bring new beginnings,” she said, raising her own glass. I only hesitated a second before clinking them together.
We took a sip and I savored the way the creeping, spicy heat tickled my throat.
“I take it you approve?" she asked.
“I do,” I answered.
It was actually pretty peaceful up here, a stark difference to the usual noise of construction that took place downstairs. But with the sunset and cool breeze licking our faces and the bite of the drinks, it was tempting to unwind just a bit.
“How's the project been going?” she asked, taking another sip.
“As good as can be expected. You're here to see it for yourself. Is there anything in particular bothering you?” I said.
Lauren closed her eyes briefly. Was that frustration on her face?
“No, I just meant that I obviously don't know exactly how you guys feel about the work. Where your headspace is, if it ever gets too much,” she clarified. “I get the outside view, sure, but just because I can see the work, doesn't mean I know what it's like to be in the thick of it. The pressure.”
Pressure, wasn't that a funny word?
I shrugged. “The firehouse isn't the worst project we've ever worked on.”
“That’s it?” she nudged me with her elbow. “That's all you're going to give me?”
“What else is there to give?” I asked.
“Oh, Brock,” she sighed and the way she said my name like that sent my lips straight for another sip. “Fine. You wanted to tell me about the permits?”
Yes, that I could do.
“Given the pushback coming from some of the community members, I think it's likely someone issued a formal challenge to the building's zoning or historical status," I said. “Which means there's likely a technicality the DOB overlooked and some bastard exploited that.”
Lauren scowled. “Callum told you about the meeting then, I assume.”
“Yes.” The mob chaos. The bucket of rotten vegetable skins. My hand tightened on the mug.
“Is this gonna be a problem?” she asked. “Is there some way I can appeal against this?”
“We can figure it out,” I told her. “I'd put money on the ringleader being Tim Chalmers.”
“Urgh. Good old Neighbor Tim.” Lauren shuddered in disgust.
“I see you've made his acquaintance," I guessed, taking a seat on the pallet.
“I've had the displeasure,” she said. Then she giggled. “But I did have the pleasure of seeing Rafe scaring the shit out of him when he tried to intimidate me. It was a sight to behold.”
“Right.” I downed the rest of the drink. Which wasn't perhaps the best idea because I was already feeling a little buzzed.
Empty stomach, I reminded myself. That's it. That's definitely the reason you feel sick.
Lauren took a step toward me, a look of curiosity on her face. “You don't like him very much, do you?”
“Never said that.”
“You never say much at all but you say enough,” she shot back.
And to that I really could say nothing.
“Brock, why did you warn me to stay away from him last time?” she asked. “You were pretty insistent on it, too. You can't really say something like that and not tell me the reason why.”
I wished she would stop looking at me like that. Officer Thorne could grill me all day about Merrick's behavior and I refused to crack. But now? All Lauren had to do was ask and I was singing like a canary.
It's the tequila, I thought logically. It doesn't like you as much as you like it.
“He's trouble, okay?” I said bluntly. “I don't know how much about his past you know—”
“Nothing, really,” she said quickly.
“Then maybe you should ask him,” I replied.
“Please, Brock?” she begged.
I sucked in a breath, then sighed. This goddamn woman.
“He has a bit of a rough past,” I started.
“How rough?” she asked.
“Well, he's currently out on parole.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah, my god too.” I squeezed the pressure point between my brows, right where a wicked headache was starting to throb. “Look, we're not best friends or anything. I just know the basics and if you want anything more than that, you're gonna have to ask him yourself.”
She nodded eagerly.
“He ran around with the wrong people. He had no family to fall back on, back rent out the ass and more than a few bad breaks. His crowd eventually decided a smash-and-grab at some cell store was the answer to their problems and it went wrong.” I shrugged a shoulder.
“Rafe was just the lookout but his buddies bailed and left him with an aggregated burglary charge. He was nineteen. Spent two years in Stateville and has been doing odd jobs in construction ever since.”
I waited for Lauren's response, expecting shock, disbelief, maybe a little bit of disgust.
“Wow. That poor kid,” she said.
I made a sound that crossed a scoff and a laugh. “What kid, the thirty-year old man breaking through walls for a check?”
“No, the teenager who was desperate enough to do something illegal and had no one to help him,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself against the growing cold. “Desperate people do desperate things, he was probably just trying to take care of himself.”
“And the guy whose store he planned to rob, that guy wasn't also just trying to take care of himself and his family?” I pushed back.
“It's more complicated than that, Brock,” she said. “Did he hurt someone?”
“That makes it better?” I had no idea why I was fighting so hard against her empathy for Merrick. What the hell was I getting out of that? But I just couldn't help myself.
The tequila, I insisted.
“Would you have defended him if he was anyone else? If it was me or Cal or some random asshole down the street, would you say the same thing?” I said. Then I scoffed. “Or is that your type of guy? If so, you have strange taste in men, Lauren.”
My throat was burning. I didn't know why—the drink wasn't that strong. Lauren observed me for a moment, her gaze piercing me right down to the bone. I felt exposed. Maybe I'd let myself unwind just a bit too much.
But then she slowly walked over to me and I swallowed hard at the movement of her hips. Slow and calculated. Malicious, actually.
She straddled me, holding onto my shoulders.
“I'm a woman of many tastes,” she said in a low voice, almost a purr at my ear.
Shit.
She leaned in, so slowly as if to give me time to back away and I should've. But she smelled like clean musk and vanilla, some fragrance that faded and mixed with her natural body scent. Oh god.
Her lips were so close all it would take was an extra inch of movement on my part to close the gap. She was right there. Blood rushed from my head to less logical places and I immediately pushed her off my lap as gently as I could.
“I'm sorry, Miss Wolfhaardt,” I said gruffly. “This was a big mistake.”
Then I practically stumbled away from her and rushed downstairs, collected my bag and toolkit and left without looking back once.