Coaxing the Roughneck
Puzzlement draws my brows together. “Butch? Who is that?”
“The rig mechanic.” He points down at the floor. “He’s three stories down in the engine room and he hasn’t left it in five years. Not once. Not even for a stroll on the upper deck. I told him your father passed away and you’d most likely have to sell the rig and he told me in no uncertain terms that he’s staying. Good luck explaining to your potential buyer that their new rig comes with a seven-foot beast with a bad temper who takes orders from no one but himself.”
I process this as quickly as I can when he’s halfway out the door and the helicopter blades are whirring so loudly, I have to shout to be heard. “So I have to make him leave, or I won’t be able to sell the rig?”
The lawyer nods. “Yup. Good luck,” he calls back over his shoulder. “Call me if you can manage it.”
His amused laughter is little comfort.
I’m even less comforted when I catch the scent of cigars in the air, a final remnant of my father’s presence. Obviously he loved this oil rig. Loved it so much that he was never home growing up and eventually moved here altogether. When my mother sent him divorce papers all those years ago, he sent them back signed, not even bothering to fight. Well I’m not bothering to be sad now. I’m going to sell this rig he loved without a second thought, pay off my mother’s mortgage so she can quit the graveyard shift at Denny’s and go make a life for myself. The life I’ve always dreamed about but never thought I’d achieve.
Apparently all that stands in my way is a giant named Butch.
My life is suddenly so weird.
I watch the lawyer climb into the last helicopter, the propellers carrying him and the remaining crew upward. Back to NOLA. And the silence that falls is almost deafening. None of the equipment is running, but there is a hum of energy under my feet telling me the rig has not been powered down completely. Probably because of the man still occupying the engine room. Wherever that may be.
“Might as well get this over with,” I mutter, leaving the office. It takes me a few minutes to locate the grated, metal staircase leading down into the bowels of the rig. The farther I venture down, the more it starts to smell like fuel and soot. It gets darker, too, the hum of energy growing louder. I’m no businesswoman, but I’d say it costs a lot of money to keep this rig active—and that’s not good. I need it shut down and ready to sell.
I’m going to do whatever it takes to make that happen.
I need those proceeds.
When I’ve gone down three flights, the hum of machinery, loud now, surrounds me, and my pulse starts to tick faster. A seven-foot giant with a temper, huh?
I’m five two on a good day. I’m strong from working with my hands in the soil and I don’t let anyone push me around. But I’m smart enough to know my limitations. And I’m definitely alone on this deserted mechanical island with a very large man. No one even knows I’m here, except for the pervy lawyer, meaning this situation has the potential to be dangerous. What choice do I have but to go toe to toe with Butch, though, if I want to make him leave, so I can sell the rig?
Adding some steel to my spine, I call out, “Hello? Mr…Butch?”
When the massive, filthy, shirtless beast steps out from behind a steel fuel pump, casually wiping grease from his fingers, it takes every ounce of my courage not to turn and dash back up the stairs.
Oh my dear God.
Chapter Two
Butch
The engine room has been my home for five years. It’s as familiar to me as the pattern of veins on the back of my hand. There is nowhere else on this planet where I feel comfortable. And yet when the little woman appears at the bottom of the staircase, the engine room instantly becomes a place of hazard.
This is a rig in the middle of the Gulf, meaning the metal steps are always slick with humidity and fuel. She could slip. Something could fall from overhead or she could get her long, wavy brown hair caught in a piece of moving machinery. There are a million tragedies that could befall her down here and it’s making me even sweatier than usual.
It’s possible she’s not real.
I’m probably imagining her.
How many times have I been warned by the rig foreman that it’s unhealthy to remain in the dark engine room without sunlight or human interaction? Several hundred, at least. Maybe I’ve finally lost what remains of my sanity.
And hell, if my imagination were going to conjure up a female, it would be this one. She’s making my dick hard and I can barely see her from this distance, her face and form still shrouded by shadows. That breathy voice calling my name alone was enough to tease my balls into tight rocks. I want to see the rest of her, but if by some miracle, she’s a real, I don’t want her to slip and get hurt or something.