No, when I got out of the Marine Corps, my skills were not transferable. There wasn't much call for someone that could shoot a target from a thousand yards away or make a HALO jump from a plane at thirty thousand feet. My ability to evade capture and withstand torture wouldn’t work in the real world. Well, except maybe on Wall Street, but I’m not cut out to wear a suit every day of my life.
Thus, I did the only other thing I knew...metalwork. You see, my old man had been a welder all of his life, so I thought, what the hell. If it was good enough for Pop, it was good enough for me.
Except, I didn't actually follow in his footsteps. My dad still toils after nearly thirty years in a shipyard, welding the hulls of barges and other water vessels. It's backbreaking and brutal work. It's also boring with no outlet for expression, so it's something I have no intention of ever doing.
Nope. I decided to use my welding certificate to make custom pieces of art from metal. That includes anything from custom-built motorcycles to outdoor water fountains to massive pieces of wall art. I had enough money saved up from my time in the Corps that I could afford to take the time to build up this niche business, and I was doing quite well for someone with nothing more than a high school education and years of war under my belt. My bikes sell on the cheap side for $25,000 and go on up from there.
I really am leading a dream life. I'm doing work that I love, making great money, and I answer to no one. What could make my world any more perfect?
I glance over at my desk in the corner of the shop. There is pile of paperwork at least a foot tall that I need to do. I hate f**king paperwork. Despise it even.
Luckily, all of my bills are on auto draft so all I have to worry about is depositing my earnings into the bank. But I tend to ignore the little things like balancing my bank accounts, filing sales tax forms, and making the necessary supply orders. I suppose I could do that now since I wouldn't get any more work done on the gas tank today.
That thought lasts only two seconds and then I dismiss it. I'd rather just sit here and stare at the unfinished tank and drink my beer.
Just as I'm finishing the last of my Bud, I hear someone knocking on the back door to my house. I stand up and peek out my shop window.
Oh, shit.
I sit back down and hope like hell she doesn't come out here to where I am now hiding.
A few seconds pass by and then I hear, "Nix...are you back here?"
Shit, shit. No such luck.
I reluctantly stand up and open the shop door.
"What do you need, Lyla?" I say, with as much politeness as is humanly possible for Nix Caldwell to give.
"Is that any way to greet me, sugar?" She runs a fingertip down the middle of my chest and it's not exactly unpleasant but it doesn't have the punch it used to. Lyla is a beautiful girl, with long blond hair and a slammin' body. She and I went to high school together, and we fooled around a lot back then. Just like many of my classmates, she stuck around Hoboken after graduation. I think she cuts hair in a local beauty salon or something. We've hooked up a few times since I've been back, but I've been very clear that it's nothing but sex. No-strings attached. Each time she says that's all she wants too, but then she keeps coming around wanting to do things together. I expect that is why she is here now and it's baffling to me. Lyla has a few other guys on the side that she has no-strings sex with, too. So why doesn't she go bother one of them?
I'm sure they are a lot nicer than I am.
"I'm working right now," I explain to her.
"Oh, don't be such a drag, Nix. Let's go to the movies and then out for some beers."
"Sorry, Lyla. I've just got too much to do."
She steps in a little closer to me and I can smell her perfume. It's overpowering and burns the inside of my nose. She stands on her tiptoes in an effort to get her lips up near my ear. At six-foot-five, I could bend over and help her out but I don't. She gets close enough though and whispers suggestively, "We could bypass the movies and do something else instead."
There was a time when just those words would have caused my dick to stand at attention and I would have taken her up against the wall but clearly my time with Lyla is about to come to a screeching halt. I didn't have a shred of interest and she's clearly wanting more than no-strings sex.
I step back from her and let her down as gently as Nix Caldwell possibly can.
Which is not very gentle at all.
"Look, Lyla...I'm sorry. I'm just not interested in you, okay?"
Her face falls and the seductive smile she had been sporting instantly vanishes. "But...I don't understand..."
The biggest lesson that Lyla is about to learn from post-war Nix Caldwell is that he has little patience. And when it’s gone, he doesn’t hold back. "What's to understand? I have no interest in you. Period. None. Do me a favor and don't come back around."
Lyla's face looks like it's about to crumble, then rage fills her eyes. "You're an ass**le, Nixon Caldwell."
I look at her, my eyes probably as dead as I feel on the inside sometimes. "I know. Now, get out of here."
I turn my back on her, assuming she's going to leave. Instead, an empty bucket hits me in the back of my head. It bounces off and lands on the floor with a clatter. I look back at Lyla and she is wearing a very self-satisfied look, with her hands on her h*ps and her lips pouted out. For a split second, I think about retaliating...not physically...but verbally.
And just as quickly, it's gone. I simply don't care enough to engage and truth be told, I deserved to have her throw the bucket at me. I just stare impassively at her until she turns around in a huff and leaves my shop.