Shane (Damage Control 4)

Rubbing my right shoulder, I make my way to the office. I think I wrenched a muscle. Need to be more careful when I lift those goddamn pipes. Ollie keeps telling me that, and I keep doing it wrong. What I need is a good, long session at the gym, to keep those muscles from cramping more.

I knock on the metal door, my mind elsewhere. I’m a sack of nerves. Feels like I’m fourteen again, trying to figure out where I stand with chicks, how they think, what they expect.

Should I call Cassie about tomorrow? Does her not saying anything mean we’re not going together? Should I ask Seth for a ride?

Should I go over to her place? I’ve never been. But maybe Manon could tell me where she lives. Would Cassie want that?

Fuck.

“Come in,” Peter says, and I step inside the container. He has a small heater going, and it’s toasty warm compared to the icy, rising wind outside. “Ah, Tucker. That back not giving you any trouble?”

Confused, I blink at him, my lashes frosted and stuck together—then realize he’s talking about last week when I fell. “I’m fine.”

Pushed, a tiny voice whispers in my head. You were pushed, you didn’t fall.

Dammit, Shane. I pull off my glove and rub my tired eyes. Keep the past and present apart, will you?

“I called you in because someone complained about you,” Peter says and leans back in his creaky chair to give me a once-over.

“Complained.” I cock my head to the side. Maybe I didn’t hear him well. “What the hell about?”

“That you pushed a worker and weren’t careful and dropped a heavy bag on another waiting below the truck the other day. I have been sitting on this, trying to decide what to do.”

“That’s bullshit.” I rub my eyes again. “The complaint is bullshit.”

Who complained? What’s this about? My skin prickles. My stomach ties itself into a knot. I glance behind me, itching to lock the door.

“You’re saying they lied.” At my jerky nod, he sighs. “I’ve been watching you. Tucker. For months. You’re a quiet guy. You don’t like touching or talking much. You don’t mingle. And you also don’t seem like the type to push people and hurt them on purpose. Unless it wasn’t on purpose.”

I blink. What is he saying?

He leans forward, resting his hands on the desk. “These past weeks you’ve been distracted. You don’t look so hot, Tucker. Sometimes I wonder if you’d better go home and find a lower-risk job. Work at a burger joint or coffee shop, or whatever.”

Heat trickles from my chest up to my face. “I didn’t push nobody, and didn’t drop any bags.”

I didn’t. Did I?

Fuck…

“All I’m saying, kiddo, is this.” Peter nods to himself. “I don’t know what’s going on with you. I really hope it’s not fucking drugs or booze. Is it?”

“No, it fucking ain’t.”

“Good. But something’s wrong, and I can’t fix it for ya.” He grabs his cell phone, glares it, and puts it back down. “So you need to fix it yourself. Know what I’m saying?”

Yeah, I hear it loud and clear. It makes sense, too. If I’m putting others at risk, then I can kiss this job goodbye.

Did I hurt anyone? Why can’t I remember?

Am I going out of my fucking mind?

“You seem like a solid guy,” Peter is saying, “just get your shit together and keep at it. I’m sure it’ll work out.”

But I’ve tuned him out already, and I turn to leave the office/container and the doubts it’s planting into my brain.

Doubts about myself.

Was I pushed, or did I fall? Did I drop a bag of cement on someone, or is it a lie? Is my mind playing dirty tricks on me again, or did it never stop?