The absolute worst thing of all though, is the fact that Todd goes to Columbia as well. When we were together, we both decided to go to the same university so we could be close to each other.
Unfortunately, Columbia is not a very large school so I tend to run into Todd more times than I would like. I merely walk the other way when I see him. He's tried to corner me a few times but luckily, there has always been someone around. The best is when I'm with Fil. She scares the crap out of Todd, I can tell. If he even starts approaching when she's around, she merely growls at him, "Walk the other way, Shithead, or I'll sneak into your dorm room at night and cut your balls off."
Oh, I love Fil!
Luckily, I haven't seen Todd all summer and he's been noticeably quiet. No creepy texts about how he misses me, or voice mails begging to see me. And now...my mother wants me to go on a date with him? This is just going to get him hopeful again and I can barely stomach the thought of being in the same room with him, much less on an actual date.
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.
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 o
f paperwork at least a foot tall that I need to do. I hate fucking 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.