I try one more time to appease my mother. "I can't go out with Todd. Things were terrible between us. Frankly, he's a little scary. How about I find someone else instead?"
I know what Ryan means when he constantly complains that our mother never listens to us. She just scoffs and says, "Nonsense. He's a perfectly nice man. Don't disappoint me on this, Emily."
"I'm not going to do it, Mother," I say in a spurt of wild bravery.
Celia Burnham turns her icy blue eyes on me. She's silent for just a minute as she appraises me and a thin sheen of sweat breaks out on my forehead. Then she lowers the bomb. "You will do this, Emily, and you will do it with a smile on your face. If you do not show up Saturday with Todd Fulgram on your arm, the following Monday I will meet with our attorney and have your trust revoked."
I stare at her in stunned silence. I try hard not to be materialistic anymore. I mean, I can't help the tons of designer clothes and expensive jewelry I already have, but that trust fund is my means of independence from my family. I inherit control over it when I turn twenty-one, just a mere ten months away. Once I get my hands on that money, I can be free of my mother's rule and I can go to grad school for Journalism.
Ten more months.
I can do this.
Just one more week and one sickening date with Todd Fulgram, and then I'm out of here.
CHAPTER 2
Nix
I dump the cardboard box out on the floor and start pushing the junk around, searching for my target. My index finger on my right hand is wrapped in a paper towel to staunch the flow of blood while I paw through the stuff looking for Band-Aids.
I know I don't have a chance of finding them. Hell, I can't find anything in my house. It's been a disaster for the past three months due to a major leak in my upstairs plumbing that essentially caved in most of the first floor ceiling.
Since then, I salvaged what I could, which basically meant throwing all of my shit that wasn't wet into cardboard boxes. I had packed up my clothes and moved into my little brother's condo until I could get the repairs done. He has a sweet place on the Hudson with amazing views of Manhattan. The only thing that sucks is Harley doesn't have room to run as he does here.
Right now, that lazy dog is snoozing underneath an oak tree in the backyard. I'm glad Linc loves dogs and doesn't mind Harley living in his condo. Otherwise, I'd be living in my soggy house, sleeping on the plywood floors I've just managed to install on the second floor.
It's no use. I'm never going to find a Band-Aid so what's a former Marine to do? I'm going to MacGyver the hell out of it, that's what.
I walk out of my house and go back to my workshop...back to the scene of my injury. I had been hammering a piece of sheet metal that I was forming into a gas tank for a custom motorcycle and carelessly sliced my finger along the edge. It was, oh, only about the millionth time that something like that has happened to me.
Grabbing some duct tape, I walk over to the sink. I throw the bloody paper towel in the garbage can, give a quick rinse of my finger under the tap, then wrap some more paper towels around the cut, pulling tight. I rip off a piece of duct tape off with my teeth and wrap it around my finger. I don't have to worry about a tetanus shot. In my line of work, I'm always up to date on that.
There. Good as new.
Turning back to the metal tank, I run my other hand through my hair in frustration. It immediately falls back into my face and I mentally make a note to myself to get a haircut. I had not cut my hair since I got out of the Marines two years ago, so it's probably time for a trim. I scrub my hand over my face and the soft beard reminds me I haven't shaved in about a week. That tends to happen when I work on a new piece. I get so involved that I lose track of time. This means that I don’t shave, I hardly sleep and I’m lucky if I remember to eat.
The tank is giving me nothing but fits today and the cut to my finger means I need to take a break. I should probably grab some lunch but I'm too lazy to walk the fifty feet to my house. My kitchen is about the only room that doesn't have any water damage, so I can at least eat while I'm here at my shop working.
Foregoing a trip back to the house for food, I open the small refrigerator I have in my workshop and pull out a Budweiser. It's the King of Beers after all. Popping the top, I take a healthy swallow.
Yup. Way better than a sandwich.
Walking over to my old, tattered recliner, I throw my body in it and stare at the gas tank. This is normally a project I could do with my eyes closed, yet I seem to be fumbling. I take another sip of beer and glance around my work area. This is my haven. It's the place I can come to be alone with my thoughts and where I can work my sheets of metal, forging and hammering them into art.
I bought this property when I left the Marine Corps at the young in body, old in heart age of twenty-four. I had saved up a hell of a lot of money during my two tours in Afghanistan, particularly because of the extra hazard duty pay I was receiving. I was able to get the property dirt-cheap. The house needed a lot of work but I bought it because of the large garage and workshop in the backyard. It was the perfect place for me to set up my custom metal smith business.
When people see what I do for a living, and then they hear I was in the Marine Corps, they automatically assume I must have been a welder during my time in service. They couldn't be farther from the truth but I don't disabuse them of the notion. That would require further conversation about my time with the Corps and that is not something I like to do.