Page 48 of South of The Skyway

“But it would take longer than just doing it myself. And then I’m even shorter on time.” Of course, I’d thought about it. Becoming a business owner essentially traded a boring nine-to-five with someone else’s name on it for a twenty-four-seven with your own. Only by the time I slowed down and showed someone the ropes, I could have put that time into something more productive—finishing the task in a third of the time and moving on to the next. There just hadn’t been a moment where I could afford to make that initial sacrifice. Especially with every jerk off in our generation twiddling their thumbs for a week before they abandoned the post. It was easier to just keep things with me. My plate was organized. Chaotic and overloaded, but organized.

“Temporarily,” Noel allowed with a shrug. “Except Val is right. It’s time, Brex.”

“Hey, tonight is about Vallie’s promotion, not ganging up on Brexley night,” I said as anxiety surged between my ribs. I loathed being the center of attention.

“We just don’t want to see you miss out on something good in the name of your career, okay? Just think about it,” Josie said softly before mercifully redirecting the conversation. “Has anyone heard from Stacey?”

I was vaguely aware that Vallie and Noel dove into discussing her whereabouts, but my mind stayed on books and a particularly mouth-watering blonde for the rest of the night.

Seeing as I was still sitting in my closet of an office, scheduling blog posts when my timer chirped that it was nearly midnight, drawing my focus up and out of the computer, maybe they weren’t so far off base.

City uncharacteristically quiet with the late hour, my eyes drifted to the vacant space across the street when I spotted the light on. The front door was open, releasing the soulful melody of “If Only” by Teeks. That twinge of regret twisted my gut, full of the long list of my if only's. If only I’d had the guts to knock on the door; if only I’d gotten a realtor to reach out on my behalf.

It didn’t matter. I was used to disappointing myself. At least the new tenant had good taste in music.

TWENTY

RHYETT

Would it be pathetic to sleep on a plastic tarp? It was the cleanest surface in the future speakeasy. I’d just worked up the courage to walk over and see if it was Brexley or Noel still working at ungodly hours when the pipe started leaking. I’ve always been damn good with my hands, however, plumbing is an entirely different debacle.

By the time I had the damn thing fixed, the window at The Cracked Corset was dark.Dumb. I should’ve taken the time to pop in sooner.

Maybe it was better this way. If she wanted me in her life, she would've invited me in when I offered. Right?

With a sigh, I rolled over and pushed off the dusty tarp, brushing debris from my skin. Okay, so maybe Brexley and Noel had a point about the commute, because the idea of a forty-minute drive back home was suddenly daunting. Not as daunting as having to wake up early enough to drive the ninety minutes it took with traffic to be there in time for the eight am meeting with the general contractor, Eddy. With a long-suffering sigh, I cleaned up the space, not sure if Clementine would continue to pop in for progress reports or not, but wanting her to see I was respecting the building if she did. The stereo was the last thing to be turned off. Couldn’t think without music.

The drive home was nearly abandoned, and I soaked up the oddity that was a silent city. Still, as my lids grew heavy, I cranked up the music, running through the to-do list for tomorrow.

Meet with Eddy.

Finalize tile selection.

Order custom glass garage doors for the shop.

On and on, I ticked them off on my fingers until I was safely planted on Rhodes property. It took all my remaining willpower to strip off the drywall-coated clothing and step into the too-short shower, ducking to wash my hair under the spray.

My morning runstarted when the horizon was just beginning to turn blue. There was something invigorating about getting started while the world slumbered. Sun hovering over the horizon, skin slicked with sweat, I finished mile five turning down our dirt road, and smiled. Slowed to a trot, panting. My smart watch buzzed to announce the victory.

Good man, Rhyett. That’s what Milo always said when we finished strong. Rhodes were finishers—end of discussion. I intended to attack the house with the same level of tenacity they had trained us to bring to any table we sat at.

After a deep stretch, a cool shower, and an hour of meditation, I looked up to see the two pickups kicking up dust through the broad picture window at the back of the rig. It was a monster of a fifth wheel, about four hundred square feet, complete with a second bedroom in the middle, a loft, and a pull-out sofa. We could almost fit all of us on the selection of beds. Almost. But my favorite thing was the amount of windows they’d built into the damn thing. Made it feel more like a tiny house than an RV.

Packing away the rest of the fruit bowl, I made my way outside. My boots clomped down the stairs as Ed’s red pickup shifted into park beside the house, looking more like the drawings and less like a skeleton of one.

“Morning, Ed,” I hollered as he stepped out. When his right-hand man did the same, I added, “Morning, Joey.”

The men both waved back, turning to retrieve blueprints and coffee before heading in my direction. And with one last sigh, the day was off.

* * *

As soon asmy parents declared themselves residents of Florida, I would get my ass into an apartment in the heart of the city. At least, that’s what I promised myself as I made the drive for the fourth time that week. Doubling down on a family project and business venture might not have been my brightest idea, though Rhodes had done more with less.

It would all work out. It always did. It would just require more black tea and dirty chai than I wanted to admit. I’d pray for my adrenal glands and call it a day.

A sixteen-passenger van pulled away from my store space right as I came around the corner, chugging my Vitamin B energy drink like my life depended on it. But his vacancy opened the perfect spot to unload all of my finds from the week. Turns out, Florida had an impressive selection of salvage yards. Hidden under mountains of clutter sat a plethora of perfect finds to bring vintage back to life in the bar.

Light spilled onto the sidewalk from The Cracked Corset. I glanced at my watch, confirming what I already knew. It was after eleven. They’d been closed for hours. If the lights were still on when I got this truck bed empty, I’d head over and say hello to whoever was burning the midnight oil with me. I was praying it was a certain sexy blonde with a propensity for igniting my blood. Blood that rushed south the moment I pictured that face, the little dimple on her chin.

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