Foundation

by Lainey Davis

  I try my best to thank him politely and retreat into my office couch to regroup. Even if I split the cost with Valerie, I don’t have that kind of money just lying around. Even though I got my townhouse for a few thousand bucks, I took out a home equity loan when I restored it.

  And let’s be honest. I’m doing ok in the salary department, but not too many people have a quarter million dollars liquid just lying around.

  I pull up an internet search for Isaac Brady and learn that he’s apparently some genius when it comes to soil and weight loads. He’s won awards from the environmental protection people for repairing dams and coal mines. I sigh. If this guy, moody fucker though he may be, tells me this headscarf thing is going on in my yard, it’s unlikely that he’s wrong.

  I try not to fixate on his suggestion that the city was going to condemn my house. My fucking house! The minute I signed that deed, I felt like I was finally free from my parents’ expectations and all the ways I failed to meet them. I didn’t even know how to use a lawn mower when I got that house, let alone how to refinish floors and hang sheetrock.

  Every online tutorial I watched, every contractor I brought in just as a consultant, I felt like I was coming into my self. It paid off at work, too. If I could use a belt sander by myself, I sure as shit could present my ideas to a room full of men set on overlooking me.

  I really feel like I’m going to cry, and this is very, very unusual for me. I call Emma, crossing my fingers that she can answer the phone. If one or more of her kids is asleep, she can only ever text. “Hey,” she whispers.

  “Ems,” I start, and then I burst into tears. Actual boo-hoo sobs out loud.

  “Woah, Nicole, what’s wrong, love?”

  I tell her about the landslide, that it’s so expensive to fix it might as well cost ten million dollars. “I might lose my house,” I sob.

  “Ok. So do you want solutions or comfort?”

  I consider this. I grew up in a house without comfort. My mother has had too much botox to emote. My sister is her protege. Refined girls do not cry, they do not smear their makeup, and they most certainly do not grow curves and curls like I sprouted and refused to rein in. “Solutions,” I tell Emma, and take a deep breath.

  I hear Emma walking down a hallway, presumably where she can talk louder. “Ok, so first you need to call your homeowners insurance and see if this is covered, although I doubt it will be or Zack would have mentioned that.”

  “Isaac,” I correct her.

  “I thought you said he goes by Zack?”

  “Exactly. And that’s a stupid fucking nickname for Isaac,” I snap at my friend. “I’m sorry,” I say immediately.

  “Ok, so we’re going to calm down and do some comfort before we keep going with the solutions.”

  I take a deep breath. She’s right. I’m spiraling. “You’re resourceful,” I hear Emma say. “You’re a bad ass bitch who takes no shit. Not from wolves on Wall Street and certainly not from a damn crack in the ground. Right?”

  I nod. Which she can’t see, because she keeps prodding. “Right?”

  “Yes,” I tell her. “I’m going to defeat this. Just like all the other challenges.”

  “Exactly!” She shouts. “So step one, call the insurance. Step two, you need to talk to my sister-in-law.”

  “Which one?” Since I work for Stag Law, I realize she must be talking about Juniper Jones, Tyrion Stag’s wife. Juniper was a lawyer here for a long time, but is now a judge of…something.

  Emma’s going on about how Juniper is constantly settling property dispute cases and knows all the jargon. “Juniper can help you figure out who to sue,” Emma says.

  “Sue?” Jesus, I do not have time for a lawsuit. I don’t have time for a landslide. I’m supposed to be training for this damn marathon and, oh I don’t know, directing the strategy for a major law firm looking to expand operations.

  “Nik, my love, there’s got to be a reason the earth opened up and swallowed your yard. You need to find the reason, and sue to make the culprit pay for the restoration.”

  It had not occurred to me that there might be a culprit here. “I literally thought I had just pissed off the gods,” I tell her. She’s one thousand per cent right, of course. It all just sounds like so much work. I flop over my desk and rest my cheek on the wood and close my eyes as Emma continues. “Does Zack really think the city will condemn your house?”

  “I think he was just saying that to be a smart-ass.” But I’m not sure. I hear Emma telling me I can come stay with her and Thatcher any time and I thank her, hang up the phone, and head back home.

  I’m useless to anyone where work is concerned. I draw a bath and slide into the tub, trying to forget my stress about the house. I’m not sure what is happening this week, but my entire world has been turned upside-down.

  I’m desperate to relax. It feels like there’s a geyser waiting to erupt in my guts. I wonder if masturbating will help, even though it hasn’t been going very well the past few times I’ve tried. I close my eyes and pull up my handyman fantasy images of Isaac in his jeans, squatting in my yard, and my fingers go to town on my clit.

  But nothing happens. I growl in frustration and turn the water back on, adjusting myself so the flow runs over my crotch. Nothing. “What in the fucking hell is this?”

  I start to wonder if running has broken my clit or something. I kick at the faucet in a rage and head downstairs. I pull the cork out of yesterday’s wine bottle with my teeth and start drinking straight from the bottle.

  As I chug the wine, I try porn. I try online pictures I find of Isaac and his brothers running different races. I try everything I can think of short of zapping my clit with my taser, but nothing works. Eventually, I’m too drunk to care about my inability to come and I pass out on my couch.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Zack

  WHEN I GET to work in the morning, my dad’s secretary tells me to reassign all projects and only prioritize the Kennedy Landslide. “Seriously?” She nods. This is an unprecedented, inefficient use of my time.

  I blow out a breath and get to work on the notes I took yesterday. I have an email from Nicole’s homeowner’s insurance, and I grimace, knowing I have to explain to them exactly what I found.

  This earth movement is a textbook case of a slump landslide, I type. I send them some numbers, estimate that the headscarp will shift rapidly and that the foundation of the house will likely be at risk. I’m fairly certain the insurance will refuse to cover Nicole’s property, and I’m also pretty sure the city is going to need to condemn the house.

  I make notes about the names of the property owners nearby whose land might be affected. I take some time looking up nearby construction projects and making lists of the different utilities that might be impacted. The last thing I want is a backhoe to blow through a gas line in Nicole’s back yard.

  And then I sit and stare at the plans for the lot, noting how close her house is to the river. There’s basically no way I’m going to be able to do anything without rigging a barge on the water. I rake a hand through my hair and decide to drive over there.

  I find a parking spot right next to Nicole’s house and strap on my tool belt, grab my tablet and head out to survey the ground. It looks like there’s been even more of a shift since I was last here, and I squat down to take some more measurements.

  I’m bent over with my tape measure in the fissure when I feel something nudge me in the ass. “Hey,” a voice growls at me. “Hey!”

  I whip my head around to find an old woman staring at me, hands on her hips. “Did you just kick me?”

  “I did. You want to tell me what you’re doing back here? This is still private property last I checked.” I glance around, not sure what I’m looking for. People usually don’t question why I’m at a job site, especially when I’m wearing a hard hat, but then again, this is my first domestic project.

  I clear my throat. “I’m Zack Brady with Beltane Engineering. Ms. Kennedy has hired me to assess your
landslide situation.”

  Her face lights up. “Aha! So she admits I was right!” She crosses her arms. “What sort of engineer are you?”

  She proceeds to question my alma mater, to ask me about my advanced geotechnical licensure, to ask what the hell I’m doing handling a private property landslide if I’m really as experienced as all that. I sigh. “You got me, ma’am,” I tell her. “But I’m here. And you should step back and be careful. Try not to come into the back yard.”

  She pulls out a lawn chair and sits on her patio with her arms crossed, watching as I measure and take notes. I study the yard and am halfway through creating a 3-d model on my tablet when Nicole appears out of her back door, her hair whipping in the winter wind. She’s so fucking sexy, even frowning at me in constant disapproval.

  I give a small wave in acknowledgement that I saw her and return to my model as the wind from the river picks up. I hear the old lady yelling over to Nicole. “So I see you decided to take me seriously?”

  “Yes, Valerie,” Nicole spits back. “The growing crater in the yard was a good clue.” Then, her voice softer, Nicole asks, “Did your homeowners refuse to cover?” They shout back and forth for a bit about the cost of the repair. I try to study the plans of the condo complex a few properties down, but the wind is freezing and making it hard for me to open any of my folders of paper printouts.

  “Hey,” I shout as Nicole is starting a string of curse words about bureaucracy. “Mind if I look at these in your house? Out of the wind?”

  Nicole raises a brow at me but shrugs and gestures toward the house. When Valerie moves to follow, Nicole shakes her head. “Not today, Val. I can’t handle you today.” I hear the woman scoff as Nicole slams the glass door shut behind me. “She drives me fucking insane,” Nicole says as she hangs up her coat and slips out of her heels.

  I look down at my dirty boots and swallow. I’m used to trailers on work sites. I’ll have to remember to get some shoe covers or something if I’m going to spend any significant time here. I sigh and bend over to loosen my laces and when I look up, Nicole is staring at me.

  I wiggle my toes in my socks and take in my surroundings. I see immediately that I was very, very wrong in my initial assumption of this place as a quick flip for a trendy hipster. That might be the trend in the neighborhood, but this is a fucking historic restoration of artisan proportions.

  “You own this place,” I ask, looking at the original oak floors that gleam under an oil finish. Nicole has exposed brick in the kitchen off the sun porch. Marble counters gleam around stainless appliances, and it looks like she consulted an actual lighting engineer when she chose the fixtures. The entire space is bathed in warm light, with no dim patches or dark corners.

  “Yes, Isaac. I own my house.” She starts banging around the kitchen. “Do you need water?”

  I nod. “I’m sorry. I just was expecting it to look…less nice in here. I’ve been inside some of the remodels in this neighborhood…” My voice drifts off and I study her face. When she rolls her eyes, I know that she, too, is familiar with the rapid gentrification happening in her part of the city. Ten years ago, you almost had to pay people to buy houses here. Now, this place would go for over a million. Well, before the back yard fell apart. I clear my throat. “Who was your contractor?”

  She sneers and slides the water across the counter. “Listen, Brady,” she says, rapping her nails against the counter. “I rebuilt this fucking place myself, fueled by the power of my rage at society. Otherwise I wouldn’t give a shit about the yard falling off. So make yourself comfortable at the counter I polished and get to fixing my land.”

  She storms out of the room before I can respond, and I feel my dick twitch in my pants. I look around again at the meticulously tiled back splash with perfectly matched grout. I sip the water she gave me and remind myself the curvaceous woman who passed out after running two miles is a client. Moreover, she’s someone my dad is interested in for the business, which makes her twenty levels of off limits.

  I spread my work out on her counter and lose myself in construction blueprints and court hearing notices. Inspection reports for nearby construction. Eventually, I hear the doorbell ring. I ignore it, because this isn’t my house and I’m trying to concentrate, but Nicole doesn’t come downstairs. It rings again and whoever it is starts knocking.

  I sigh and head toward the front of the house, glancing up the carpeted stairs to see if she will emerge, but there’s nothing. When I open the turquoise door a delivery guy thrusts a box into my arms. “Can you sign?” He holds out his digital signature pad and my brows shoot up.

  “Um, I don’t live here.”

  “Look, pal, can you just sign? I got a quota to meet and I’m double parked.” I look over his shoulder and see there’s already a line of cars sitting behind the delivery van, frustrated, on Nicole’s street. I scribble my name and he scurries away.

  When I look down at the box, I almost drop it when I see the label under the EXPEDITED DELIVERY sticker. “Babe Rocket,” I mutter, as I look at the picture. Nicole Kennedy overnighted herself a huge purple vibrator with rotating parts and, according to the package, a satisfaction guarantee.

  The thought of Nicole being satisfied turns me on so fast, so overwhelmingly that I rush to the kitchen and gather my things. I have to get the hell out of here and jerk off. There’s no question of me doing anything else. My blood pounds in my temples as I set the box on the counter and storm out of the house without letting her know that I’m leaving.

  The delivery confirms that this wild woman, who apparently gets dirty with construction projects, spends her nights making herself come and I know that I will actually explode if I don’t do something about how much that turns me on.

  I barely breathe until I’m at home, where I rip open my pants like a teenager. I squeeze my eyes shut in my kitchen, leaning against the sink, and imagine Nicole in those running leggings, biting her lip while her frizzy hair swirls around her body. I angrily pound at my cock, my knuckles grinding against the teeth of my zipper.

  As I stroke myself faster and faster, I imagine her face transformed by pleasure. Only it’s not the purple vibrator I picture as she screams her release. In my fantasy she moans for my cock, my name on her plump lips as she rolls those thick hips, and I come into my sink. My dick throbs in my hand and the salty semen stings the abrasions on my knuckles. I slump over, my breath ragged, as I try to regain my composure.

  “Fuck,” I mutter. This is going to be a problem.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nicole

  “HE TOOK HIS shoes off when he came inside,” I explain to Tim during our meeting the next day. “Is that weird?”

  Tim shrugs. “It seems polite. What’s he doing today while you’re not home?”

  It’s actually snowing out today, even though it’s supposed to go back up to 40 by the end of the week. I hadn’t considered that Isaac would be standing around outside all day in the snow at my house. “Hm. Doesn’t he go into his office to do…math or whatever?”

  Tim scowls, thinking. “I don’t know. Want me to call my contact at Beltane and ask what’s typical?” I open my mouth to protest, but Tim already has his phone out. “Mick! Yeah, hey. Tim Stag. Yes, I know you know. I’m fine. Yep, kids are fine. Having a third soon!” I tune him out while they get through the small talk portion of their conversation.

  I called this meeting to map out our strategy in advance of our first in-house foundation project. Our client Augusto Cruz, a baseball player, is coming in with his publicity team to listen to our pitch about the foundation he wants to set up to benefit his home country of Paraguay.

  We still haven’t decided the direction he should go. Tim thinks he should start youth baseball programs. Augusto wants to just “help the country,” but hasn’t provided more direction than that. It’s my job to think about the big picture—Augusto setting up a successful foundation means more of our clients will look to us for guidance when they do the same. With severa
l pro sports organizations holding their drafts in the coming months, we’re about to have a bunch of first-year star athletes looking for ways to spend their millions.

  I pore over the background files about Augusto’s upbringing and I hear Tim mention the man to Mick Brady. “I know,” Tim shouts, jovially. “I’ve never been to Paraguay before. I have no idea what we’re stepping into down there.” Tim is quiet for a bit, then he grins. “You know,” he says, “I would love it if you joined us. Yeah, I’m serious, too.”

  My eyes bulge at Tim. Did he just invite Mick Brady on our company trip? Tim’s not supposed to make these kinds of decisions for the company without consulting me, his director of strategy. The last thing I need is some smarmy golf buddy of Tim’s joining us on a fact-finding trip just as our firm decides how we’re going to branch out into philanthropic legal support for our clients.

  “Hey, Mick, thanks for all the info. Have your admin get in touch with Donna so we can find a time for us to grab lunch.” Tim hangs up and rocks back in his chair. “Mick says Zack is fine in the snow. But! It also turns out Mick’s met the president of Paraguay. I invited him to come with us when we go there. Mick Brady. Not the president of Paraguay. He’ll already be there. Anyway, it never hurts to know someone who can grease wheels.”

  I want to punch my boss in the face right now, so I try to focus on Isaac doing math out in the snow in my back yard. I wince. But back to the matter of strategy. “I heard you invite him,” I tell Tim. “Want to tell me what we’re supposed to do with an engineer on our information gathering trip for Augusto Cruz’s foundation?”

  Tim laughs. “Oh, Mick’s not an engineer. His brother handles all the engineering in their company. Mick’s a sociologist.” Tim flips open his folder, signaling that he’s getting ready to start our meeting in earnest. “He studies people and lands them clients. Pretty sure he just met the prez while playing golf.”