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Pulling my hand back, I shake my head. "Just tell me when I start, and we can figure out the rest."
"Wow, you're easy," Dom mutters. Stephen and I both reach out, slapping him on the back of his head. "Ow! What and the fuck!"
"My mother would have smacked you so much harder for that comment," I snap, though it lacks any real heat.
"My motherwillsmack you harder than that when I tell her what you said," Stephen adds, snorting at Dom's look of panic. Turning to me he gives me an approving nod.
"You're hired. You start Monday.
Chapter Four
Thisentiredayhasgone to shit, and it's not even 9:00 AM.
The Nelson project is going to put me into an early grave, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’ve decided to just accept my fate, here and now. My guys have been trying to make progress on the build site, but the out-of-date zoning issues and the constant pushback we’re getting from the city are making it nearly impossible. At this rate, there is no way in fuck we’ll reach our deadline.
When I took over Huxley Homes for my father, I knew running the company wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. I knew it, yet every day, something still manages to knock me on my ass.
As the oldest of four boys, I’ve always been aware this was my future. Even when we were kids, my father prattled on about how one day it would all be mine.
I swear to God, at ten years old, I equated that speech to the scene in the Lion King when Mufasa showed Simba Pride Rock. The way the light looked shining down on the grassy valley as the antelope majestically hurdled over bushes made me excited for my own future.
To me, Huxley Homes was better than Pride Rock.
Everything was so amazing and new. The construction trailer had a little golden halo permanently suspended over it. My father’s hammer was equivalent to a magic wand as it sat in his fairy tool belt. Job sites were places where we made dreams come true. We built people the homes they’d always wanted. They cried and thanked us, blubbering on and on about all the babies that would grow up there, the memories that would be made, the holidays,etc.
As a child, I believed the fairytale.The lie. I was so fucking excited to be old enough to run Huxley Homes. To take over the family business and carry on the tradition. To be successful. To have a job my future wife and kids would be proud of. Someone who built beautiful things and made dreams come true. I was so excited that one day, I would become a man they looked up to, the way I had my father.
But then, everything went to shit.
Now, here I am—38 years old, single, never been married, no kids, and a family legacy I can barely keep above water. A company that is by no means magic and rainbows. Instead of making people cry because they get to live in their dream homes, I make them cry because I rage out over deadlines and lumber costs. Let’s not forget about the two brothers and retired parents who are depending on me to make sure this ship doesn’t sink.
Like I said, an early grave.
The only thing that could possibly make this day any worse, is the knowledge that in just a few short minutes, I’ll have to enter my own personal Hell.
My office.The real one.
The one I try to avoid with every single fiber of my being, preferring to work out of the trailers we set up at each of our job sites. Unfortunately, my office is in our company building where we hold official meetings, house our records and blueprints, as well as a bunch of other random shit a low-tech trailer can’t accommodate.
However, it’s also a cesspit of memories I’d rather forget. Big, painful fucking memories.
So, I avoid it. I don’t stay to clean or sort through paperwork, afraid of what I might stumble upon. I don’t relax in my office, kick my feet up on the desk and admire the award-winning views. I just flat-out avoid it. Now, the place is a wreck, which only aids in worsening my overall anxiety and further solidifying my early grave theory.
Unfortunately, today, I don’t have a goddamned choice. Stephen, my younger brother by two years and unofficial accountant, called me first thing this morning, demanding I pick up files for him. He claimed they’re urgent, but that he’s too busy to drive down here and pick them up himself. As if I’m not already drowning in checklists, errands, meetings, and phone calls. I told him just as much, lacing my rebuttal with a thinly veiled threat.
As I pull into my assigned parking spot, I roll my eyes. Yeah, my threats were apparently ineffective.
I fight the urge to sit in my truck and talk myself out of going inside. I know if I allow myself even a moment to think twice, I’ll throw my truck in reverse and high tail it out of here. Rolling my neck side to side, I release an audible exhale, shove my door open and jump out, pocketing my phone as I go.
“Fuck,” I grunt, eyeing the large post-and-beam building. It’s gorgeous. Even I’m not so jaded that I can’t admit that. It’s a testament to our craftsmanship abilities and a prime example of our work. It’s also the last thing I built with my father, and three brothers, before everything got fucked up.
It’s basically a log cabin, with a modern twist. One story with a high peaked a-frame. The façade is a mixture of natural stone, pine, and forest green slatting. At over 2000 square feet, it houses four offices with individual bathrooms, each containing a shower in case we come for a meeting straight from a job site. There’s a large break room for all the staff we never hired, a waiting area with a reception desk, and two meeting rooms. All were built with the intention of Huxley Homes growing once it was passed down. It’s an iconic building in the town of Blue River.
A memory of the five of us surfaces so quickly and intensely that I almost stagger backward. I can see it clear as day, like it’s happening right in front of me. My father, on his ladder, barking orders left and right. Stephen, running to do his bidding like the good son he’s always been. Charlie fucking around, throwing scraps of wood in a makeshift game of baseball with—
Nope. Not today, Satan.
Swallowing down a lump in my throat, I push back the emotions that hit every single time I come here and unlock the front door, letting myself in. I’m greeted with silence. Though we built it in a way to support high amounts of daily foot traffic, it sits empty.
