Page 77 of Rugged and Filthy

“Well, it does since I’m currently standing on the very rig I mentioned.”

“In fucking Ireland?”

“In fucking Ireland. Is there something going on with my father and this bullshit?”

“Get out of that country, Foxx. Get out now. If you don’t, you’re going to find yourself in the middle of a war. You get this one warning and I don’t want to ever hear you say I didn’t provide you with one, kid. This situation is bigger than and your goddamn father. Just fucking leave before it’s too late.”

And there it was.

What the hell had my father gotten himself in the middle of? I held the phone to my head, trying to control my breathing. I tried to put my mind elsewhere, including to the tour of the rig I’d been provided.

I’d walked through the rest of the rig with the almost silent Rylee, the only conversation whatever answers I’d asked for or information she’d wanted to provide. The galley was barely adequate, more like a commissary, the refrigeration units and ovens needing to be replaced, and the riggers’ quarters were laughable. But they were usable for a bunch of men who likely worked overtime for the measly forty plus thousand dollars they made per year.

No wonder Sean and Rylee had experienced difficulty in keeping decent men around. They couldn’t pay them shit.

What was top notch was the medical facility, which was another surprising aspect about the day. She’d returned to her room, which was naturally larger than the three we’d been given. I was used to the life of a roughneck. The first rig my father had owned had been a broken-down piece of shit, something that resembled a famous movie about an asteroid that needed riggers to destroy it. I’d loved the open air design, getting my feet wet on the rough work while acting like some bigwig playboy.

Those had been the days. Twelve to fifteen hours of sheer hell that had shifted my beliefs about what it took to be a man. Those had also been the days I’d spent my off time chasing beautiful women and drinking myself into a drunken frenzy for two weeks to a month.

That was also before I’d realized how vital security measures were, not allowing acts of bravery or testosterone to add to the already dangerous atmosphere. I wasn’t certain why I was thinking about the time Jack almost died from a horrific explosion on that very rig. He’d been tossed into the ocean, swept out to sea.

It had taken the damn Coast Guard to find him in the turbulent water hours later and in the middle of a storm.

As I looked at the ominous clouds over our heads on this late afternoon, I had a bad feeling pooling inside of me. As if this was a déjà vu moment. I hoped to God I was wrong.

However, my gut told me Declan was the catalyst to certain events. I’d beat his ass to a pulp once I returned to the mainland. And he would tell me everything.

Cormac continued staring at me, nodding when he realized I’d noticed before turning and heading back to the main group. They were going from one area of the rig to the other, trying to quickly make their assessment. It would seem time was of the essence.

I headed toward the group of men, Jack obviously inspecting the blowout preventer. It was the single piece of equipment I’d learned could provide the most catastrophic effects if something happened to it, which was the reason for the explosion that had almost killed my buddy.

At least after that my father had sold the rig as well as his home, taking out a hefty mortgage on a new one being built. Looking back, I realized it was the best decision the man had made to protect the lives of his men.

I shifted toward the group of four, Jack already a filthy man. He did so enjoy playing in the dirt and muck and today was no exception. The mechanical room was decent enough, the piece of equipment appearing in perfect working condition.

But when Jack straightened up, he lifted a single eyebrow, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands on as he sauntered closer.

“What is it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice down.

“Don’t worry. The buds over there showed me the evidence of clear sabotage.”

“On the blowout preventer as well?”

“Fuck, yes,” Jack huffed. “Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing too. It was set to blow any time.”

“Fuck. Can it be fixed?”

He glanced at Cormac who approached as well. “Not according to Cormac.”

“We ain’t got no money to fix it. I tried to tell Mr. O’Rourke that but he kept pushing. So did Declan as the head rigger. I know what Mrs. Donnelly said about putting a list together of needed replacements, but I ain’t stupid either. We’re lucky we’ve been operational this long.”

“When did the issues start?” I asked him.

He scratched his face, scrunching up his nose. “Five, maybe six months ago.”

Jack lifted his eyebrows at me. “Does Rylee know?” he asked.

Cormac shook his head. “Her father prohibited me from telling her the truth. He didn’t want to upset her after everything she’s been through.”

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