by Julie Cannon
“You’re a very hands-on leader. Everything I hear about you shows how much you care.”
“I do. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like, what’s important.”
“Yes, I know what’s important too,” the senator said. She hesitated, and Nicole suspected she was expecting her to ask what that was. No way was she going there.
“I understand a bill for tax incentives for solar power sponsored by Senator Felix is working its way through committee.” Nicole referenced the senator’s peer from Colorado.
Senator Mason frowned at the shift of topic. “Yes, but I don’t want to talk shop tonight. I do that all day. I want to relax, enjoy a drink and a good meal with a beautiful woman.” She took another healthy swallow of her fresh drink.
“Senator, I’m not available.”
“Available?” The senator shifted away, a false questioning look on her face.
“For anything other than a few minutes tonight. I have a call with one of my crew chiefs at eight.” Nicole looked at her watch to make her excuse more plausible.
“Nicole,” the senator said in a tone she probably thought was sexy. It wasn’t. “I want to get to know you better. You’re a beautiful woman. You can’t blame me for that, can you?”
“Senator, I’m not available, and if I were I don’t think it would be appropriate.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“I appreciate that, Senator, but I don’t think it is. I’d be more than happy to talk with you and the other committee members in the committee room, not in a restaurant where the intent could easily be misconstrued.” Nicole was as diplomatic as she could be, but if the senator didn’t back off she could and would make her lack of interest perfectly clear.
“You’re right, Nicole, the committee is completely focused on the safety of the public. We have to do what we think is in the best interest of the American public. Even if it makes your business much more difficult or expensive.”
Nicole’s back stiffened. “What are you implying, Senator?”
“I’m not implying anything,” she countered, a smirk on her face this time. “I’m just clarifying the role of the committee.”
“That you are the chair of.”
“Yes, that I am the chair of.”
“Well, Senator, you are highly respected and have an outstanding reputation for not letting your personal views affect what’s right for the country,” Nicole lied. “I’m sure you’ll do the right thing. Now if you’ll excuse me,” Nicole said, standing. “I have to make my call. Good night.”
Nicole turned and walked out of the restaurant feeling far more confident than when she’d walked in.
*
Nicole fumed as she waited for the valet to call her a cab. Senator Mason was completely out of line, and when Nicole had rebuffed her advances the bitch had pulled the power card. Nicole had been through too much in her life to let someone like Colleen Mason bully her. Did she actually think she could blackmail Nicole into sleeping with her? How archaic and completely heterosexually male. The senator looked old, foolish, and desperate.
Still fuming, Nicole changed her reservation and caught an early flight out, and the next evening sweat dripped off the tip of her nose. She was breathing fast, the blinking red lights on the heart-rate monitor on the treadmill signaling that she was forty-seven minutes into the cardio zone. The TV in front of her was tuned to CNN, the volume high enough to be heard over the rhythmic pounding of her feet on the rubber track.
She used the large room on the far east side of the house as a workout room. Beside the treadmill to her left was a set of free weights and a stationary bicycle. Directly across was a seventy-pound heavy bag suspended three feet above the floor by a shiny chain secured to a rafter in the ceiling. Her training gloves lay where she’d left them on the floor underneath. In the corner a speed bag dangled from its mount, the letters of the brand worn off by her constant battering of the red leather.
Before the accident, her body had been toned from the hard physical work of extinguishing raging oil-well fires. She had run in the light of day, under the bright sunshine and fresh air, her hair pulled through the hole in the back of her favorite running cap. The music on her iPod was loud, her gait smooth as her long legs stretched across the asphalt, her clothing no more than a pair of shorts and a sports bra. The pictures of her smiling as she crossed the finish line of dozens of half marathons and a handful of full marathons, were in a box in the attic, a painful reminder of her previous life.
Tonight, like many nights, she ran mile after mile in the privacy of this fifteen- by twenty-three-foot room. She used to kickbox in a gym filled with other enthusiasts twice a week but now only sparred with the solitary heavy bag. She didn’t swim anymore, and the only pedaling she did was reflected on a simulated mountain trail displayed on the video screen in front of her bike.
There were no mirrors in the room. She didn’t need to ensure she had the right form, technique, or stance. No one would ever see her compete again or judge her on how well she controlled her body. She certainly didn’t need to see what she looked like. She already knew.
Switching to the heavy bag, Nicole tightened the Velcro strips holding the gloves in place on her hands. She bounced on her toes and moved her head from side to side, stretching the muscles of her neck, shaking her arms as she moved. In her mind she saw herself as she used to look in the kickboxing ring—tan, with tight muscles under smooth skin preparing to do battle.
She hit the bag gently at first, then built up both her speed and power. The scar tissue on her leg was tight, limiting the range of motion and height of her kicks. Punching skillfully at the heavy bag, Nicole hit it harder than normal. Her hands would hurt in the morning, but she needed to release her anger and frustration, and the bag was always the safest outlet.
Nicole was in this room several nights a week. Normally a circuit around the room took the edge off her anger, frustration, and anxiety, but tonight it was taking longer than usual. A right jab for Colleen Mason’s smirk during her testimony. A left for the way her eyes had traveled over Nicole’s body in the ladies’ room. A right, left combination to the midsection of the bag for the insinuations she’d made toward McMillan. Jab after jab, punch after punch, she let her thoughts of Colleen Mason drift away and replaced them with images of Brady Stewart.
It wasn’t fair. But then again Nicole’s father had always said, “Fair is a four-letter word and it starts with F.” She was single, rich, in her thirties, and the head of a major company. She should have life at her fingertips, with her calling the shots and making the rules. She should be traveling around the world with her crews and building her future with that one special woman.
But she had narrowly escaped death, and because of that her life was anything but under her control. She hadn’t been on a job site since the accident, hid her panic attacks, and could barely get out of bed some mornings. And there would never be that one special woman. Other than Katherine, there would never be any woman. No one to talk with over morning coffee, call in the middle of the day just to hear her voice, and reach for in the moonlight. She would live the rest of her life alone, wearing the tightly controlled mask she would never allow to crack.
She beat on the bag for what she used to have, what she had left, and what she’d never have. Her arms grew heavy and sluggish until she could barely lift them. Finally, after one last flurry of fists, and breathing hard, Nicole pulled off her gloves and let them drop to the floor, her tears mixing with the sweat dripping off her face.
Chapter Ten
Brady hated flying, which was a terrible position to be in with as much as she did. She could never understand how two hundred tons of steel got up in the air and stayed there for hours at a time. She had had several close calls, primarily in the small planes ferrying her to and from the well sites. But nobody knew. One of hundreds of things she kept to herself.
You didn’t show any fear or weakness in this business, especially if you were
a woman. When Brady had first started her career she was given every shit job and grunt assignment there was. As a woman she was an interloper. She didn’t belong on the line, and the men on the crews she worked with made that very clear. Her locker had been stuffed with tampons, Kotex, and one particularly embarrassing time with several very realistic and very large dildos. She kept one.
The pranks weren’t pranks. They were the men’s attempts to get her to leave. She couldn’t be fired; she was doing her job, but it was obvious she wasn’t wanted. Even though the companies were American and were bound by equal-employment and sexual-harassment laws, those didn’t apply out in the field. The field had its own rules. She could make them apply: file a complaint to her superiors who would probably turn a blind eye. She could go to their supervisors and continue to crawl up the food chain until she eventually got some resolution. But where would that put her? It would make her even more blackballed than she already was. She was teased, ridiculed, and several times actually put in harm’s way. One specific incident had come too close to her actually getting hurt.
The man responsible had been in the crew quarters when Brady entered. She walked over to where he was sitting at a table with three other guys. The four were a pack, a nasty pack of wild dogs.
“Stand up, Wilson.” The man in question ignored her as his buddies snickered. “I said stand up.” Brady’s body was coiled, ready to do battle. When he ignored her again Brady grabbed the back of his chair and pulled it out from under him. He hit the floor and his posse jumped up, ready to join the action. Brady glared at them. “Back off. This is between me and Wilson.”
There was an unwritten code among crews that a man fights his own fight. Or in this case a woman. Not trusting the men, Brady watched them out of the corner of her eye as Wilson scampered up.
“You just made the biggest mistake of your life, bitch.”
Brady was ready. She’d seen him fight before and knew his first punch was always a roundhouse with his right. She stepped away from the punch, and when his arm missed its target and breezed by her left cheek, she struck. She threw a solid left cross, followed by a right to his midsection that left him doubled over gasping for breath. Another left and he staggered backward, obviously dazed. Brady moved in.
Grabbing his crotch in one hand and the front of his shirt with the other she pushed him even farther back until he was flush against the wall. “If you ever come near me again I’ll rip these peanuts.” He screamed as Brady tightened her grip on the referenced body part. “And I’ll shove them so far up your ass you’ll choke on them. Don’t think I can’t or I won’t do it.” Brady looked up into his pain-filled eyes. “Do I make myself clear?” When he didn’t answer she squeezed his nuts harder, and he screamed again with a combination of pain and acknowledgement. She let go and he slumped to his knees.
She loved her job. She enjoyed the physical work, the sense of independence, and the money. The money was what she’d started doing it for, but the love of the job was why she was doing it now. So she’d sucked it up, bit her lip, and endured. Eventually the men realized she wasn’t going anywhere no matter what they did. But that nasty experience had been with another company.
When an opening came up at McMillan she jumped at it. The company had a reputation of fairness and respect on the job site, and, even though her job was very much a man’s job, McMillan didn’t tolerate any bullshit from their workers. The men there were a bit rough around the edges, but that suited Brady just fine. They were honest and didn’t have hidden agendas, and what you saw was exactly what you got.
From the very first day she signed on with McMillan, she’d been treated with nothing but respect. Sure, she had to prove herself on the line, and she had the opportunity to do so without the previous bullshit that was intended to undermine her ability. She’d found a home here. The company didn’t have a formal job-bidding system, but when there was an opening on Flick’s crew, she sought him out and talked with him because she’d heard very good things about how he ran his crew.
When she met Flick she was surprised because he couldn’t have been an inch over five feet five and probably weighed less than she did. He was missing his pinkie and ring finger on his right hand, but his handshake was firm and solid, and he looked her right in the eye. He asked questions that judged her firefighting ability and just as many about her personally. He stated that his crew was honest and fair and didn’t do any of “that screwing and drinking shit” that was common in the industry. The locals might call them oil-field trash, but his crew would be anything but, he said proudly. All but two of the men were married with kids, and they didn’t fuck around. They worked hard, played harder, but never crossed the line, or even came close to it, for that matter. He invited Brady to join his crew.
That was six years ago and too many fires to count. Brady respected Flick, his knowledge and his temperament, more every day. If she ever wanted to be a crew chief she had the perfect role model in him. He pushed his crew to their ability and just a little bit more, never sacrificing the safety of anyone on his watch. He had rules and expected people to adhere to them. If not, he banished them from ever setting foot near any fire his crew was fighting.
On more than one occasion Flick had bodily thrown a subcontractor or an employee of the well company off the site. More often than not it was due to a safety violation, for which he had zero tolerance.
Normally Brady couldn’t wait to get back to the site, the job she loved, the life she knew. But this time something was different. Normally when she was off, all she could think about was getting laid, how she could get laid, and waiting anxiously to be called back out. This trip she accomplished the first, but for some reason it didn’t have the same effect as all the other times. The second barely crossed her mind, and it wasn’t that she didn’t want to return to the site. She just wished she could have spent more time with Nicole McMillan.
An attractive flight attendant who made her interest clear served lunch. Any other time Brady would have taken her up on her offer, but today she ignored it. She picked at the meal, thinking about her boss. In the few hours she’d spent with Nicole she hadn’t detected any sign of the hard-ass bitch she’d expected to see. Except for her crew, whenever anyone referred to Nicole in conversation they usually used words like ball-buster, bitch, and the ever-popular dyke. Flick would never permit such derogatory talk on his watch, and everyone knew it. Brady just thought that type of vocabulary showed the limited intellect of the speaker.
She, on the other hand, prided herself on not only her vocabulary, but her grammar and the fact that she was well read. After she’d been working for about a year, she hired a tutor. She’d never been really good in school. She was more focused on trying to keep her peers from noticing her and ignore the never-ending stab of hunger pains that greeted her every day.
Her tutor was a retired teacher, and though embarrassed at first, Brady quickly warmed up to him and thrived on his teaching style. He had her read the newspapers, as well as Time, Newsweek, and her favorite, National Geographic. He quizzed her on what she heard on the evening news, her financial portfolio, and the latest political events in Europe. Even though she had been almost twenty, she couldn’t read at more than a seventh-grade level. He never made her feel stupid but challenged her with just the right amount of coaxing and praise. He didn’t make a big deal when she accomplished something she didn’t think she could but acted as though he’d expected it all along. Now she was a voracious reader, devouring everything she could get her hands on.
No one had any idea she was as diverse and educated as she was. Most, if not all of the men she came in contact with every day had little more than a high-school education. But they were good people, and she never once felt smarter or dumber than any of them. They were her crew, her buddies under fire, and she trusted them with her life.
She adjusted the headphones on her iPod and settled in to listen to the third lesson. She was learning to speak French from Rosetta Stone.
The flight back to North Dakota was short, and finally back on site, Brady endured the good-natured taunts and teasing from her crew. It was all in good taste and fun, and she gave back as much as they threw at her. They all looked out for one another and kept each other in line when temptation reared its beautiful head. She loved these guys. Flick was like the father she wished she’d had, Mast was a sailor in his free time, and Couch got his nickname from the furniture he sat on every moment he wasn’t on duty. Rounding out the crew were Anchor, a tall, blond, extraordinarily handsome man who belonged in front of a camera, not behind the wheel of a bulldozer; Peanut, who never went anywhere without a bag in his pocket; and Crank, who refused to tell anyone where his nickname came from. Six other crewmembers were out on the line finishing their shift.
Dig, a tall, lanky twenty-year-old from Blue Springs, Alabama, handed her an ice-cold Diet Coke.
“How many?” Brady asked, taking the can and popping the top. Dig had recently asked her to stand beside him at his wedding, and he was counting the days until his “sweet little Sara” would be his wife.
“Seventeen,” he said proudly, grinning from ear to ear.
“Did you miss me?” Brady asked, flopping onto the clean but stained couch in the crew quarters.
“Nope,” Dig answered, opening his own can. The third finger on his right hand was missing from an accident early in his career. “Didn’t even know you was gone.”
“Bullshit,” Brady replied. “You probably took my shift, ate my snacks, and used my toothpaste like you always do,” she teased him. Of all the crewmembers Dig was her favorite. He had an air of innocent honesty about him that she found refreshing.
“Nope, but I did look at the pictures in your National Geographic.”
