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“Shit,” Harley mutters. “I knew I forgot something. Ali is going to have my ass. I’ll be back.”
He grumbles all the way down the ladder, complaining about sunscreen being for pussies. I watch with a smile on my face as he grabs a bottle from the care station, as Emmalyn called it when she started putting out bottles of water, snacks, bandage, and sunscreen.
“Why such a large first aid kit?” I ask, chuckling as Harley scrunches his eyes like a toddler before turning the sunscreen bottle toward his face.
“Fuck!” Rocker yells.
I turn just in time to see his hammer fall to the decking at his feet.
Harley points at the man who is now holding his hand. “That’s why.”
“I don’t know that we’re cut out for this shit,” Rocker says around the thumb he has inserted into his mouth.
“Is it bleeding?” Kid asks. “If it is, it’s probably not best to put it in your filthy mouth.”
“Simone loves my filthy mouth,” Rocker argues.
“And so does bacteria and germs. Go get that shit cleaned up. You’ll end up having to have something fucking amputated,” Kid grumbles, using the back of his arm to swipe at sweat dripping at his temples.
“You don’t want that,” Aro says as he grabs a bottle of water. “Trust me.”
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Rocker says, pouring a bottle of water over his injured thumb rather than using a real antiseptic.
“Speak for yourself,” I say, twirling my hammer and sliding it into my tool belt. “I’m a professional.”
“Not everyone was raised to build a barn in two days,” Grinch mutters.
I don’t know why the man is complaining. He’s just as capable at construction as I am. I’ve seen his work today, and it’s top notch.
“Stereotype much?” I ask with a smile.
I give credit to the texting with Drake or more specifically, those videos he sent, for my jovial mood. No one questioned me when I had to head inside for a little while. I’m sure they thought I was flaking on work or had to use the restroom. No one gave any indication they knew I went inside and masturbated like a teen boy who lost the battle with managing his urges.
“I worked odd jobs,” Grinch says. “I didn’t have anything better to do on leave, and I wanted to stay busy.”
A couple of other guys nod their agreement. We’re the type of men who don’t do leisure very well. Grinch isn’t exactly wrong about some of my skills coming from growing up on the compound, but I’ve continued to use them while in the Corps, doing exactly what Grinch just described. Working with my hands and exhausting myself through construction work helped me tamp down those urges I’ve fought against for so many years.
“You don’t have to help,” Kid says to Rocker, squeezing his empty water bottle, collapsing it before screwing the lid back on it.
“Like hell,” Rocker snaps, still looking down at the injury to his thumb. “I’m not going to let you guys talk shit about me.”
“There are other things that you can help with,” Kid continues.
“We’ll need lunch soon,” Grinch tells his best friend, his smile wide on his face.
“We’re not going to start that sexist gender role bullshit,” Kincaid says as he approaches.
Rocker looks justified, but it still doesn’t wipe the smirk off of Grinch’s face.
“I seriously appreciate all the help you guys are providing,” Kincaid says as he stands in the makeshift door cut out from the side of the living room. “Finding enough workers to get all of this done has been impossible.”
“Blame them if it ends up being a complete shit job,” Rocker mutters.
“Says the guy who can’t hit the damn nail,” Kid says, getting in on the ribbing.
“Go have Em look at that,” Kincaid says. “You probably need a tetanus shot.”
“He’s had all his shots,” Shadow says as he walks out onto the decking platform we had built before ten this morning. “It’s looking good out here, but damn it’s hot.”
A wave of agreement goes through our group of men.
“Not joking,” Kincaid says to Rocker.
He grumbles as he walks back inside the clubhouse, making several men laugh at him.
My phone chimes again in my pocket, and my eyes immediately dart back to Harley, who has already voiced his concern with me not answering it.
“You going to get that?” Kincaid asks.
“Not while I’m working,” I answer.
“Could be important,” my president counters.
“It’s not,” I assure him the same way I did Harley earlier.
I don’t answer the text or even look at it when I pull my phone from my pocket and silence the thing.
“We need to discuss the camping trip,” Shadow says, shifting his stance so he’s a little more shaded from the sun.
“I wouldn’t consider a bunch of cabins in the woods camping,” Kincaid says. “More like glamping.”
“Gigi refuses to sleep in a tent,” Hound adds.
