by ML Nystrom
I raised an eyebrow, giving her a really? look while I wiped the blood from my swelling lip with my thumb.
Being the youngest of six, the rest all brothers in a proclaimed Irish family, I was not one to back down from a fight. But however belligerent the woman was, she was weaving back and forth so much that the fight wouldn’t be very fair. These were the people my family were working for, and it wouldn’t be a good idea to get into a beatdown with one of their women. Besides, I had no idea who she was talking about, Stud or the pool shooter.
“Don’t know him or you. I’m just here having a beer and waiting for my brothers,” I imparted, hoping she would get the hint and move on. I lifted a finger to my bleeding lip. Damn! That hurt!
Her bleary, wandering eyes finally worked together and focused on me. She looked me up and down and sneered, “Whaddar yoo? One a them lezzbee wimmen?”
My swelling mouth tightened up. This was not the first time I had been questioned about my sexuality. I never cared about anyone thinking I was gay, but I hated it when I got judged on my appearance. I never knew my ma, as she died when I was a baby. I was raised by a pseudo-Irish father who had no clue what to do with a daughter. I worked in my da’s company since I was first able to hold a hammer, and growing up he had always treated me like one of the boys. I didn’t go dress shopping, I got my brothers’ hand-me-downs. When we got haircuts, Da would line us all up at the barbershop and I got the same short do as my brothers (that was one reason I insisted on wearing it long now). I also wasn’t small, dainty, and fairy-like. I was around five-foot-eight inches with heavy, muscular shoulders, thick arms, and hard, defined thighs. I was, as they say in the gyms, cut. That happened when you worked a jobsite, lifting, sawing, hammering, drilling, and the rest of the physical work when you’re expected to keep up with your brothers. I’d been on this earth for twenty-four years and a good part of that I was pushed to keep up by my brothers and my da.
I reached up and slipped the small silver hoops from my ears. I tucked them into the pocket of my work shirt. If I was going to have to fight, I didn’t want to take any chances of having my earlobes torn again. Growing up with five brothers, I was not immune to scraps with them or scraps with other people caused by them. When men fought, they threw punches at the face and gut, and the few times I’d been caught in one of the messes Patrick and Angus started, my male opponent gave up when he realized it was a woman he’d thrown punches at. It was pretty predictable. Women could get vicious, going for the hair and earrings when they fought. They’d grab, pull, slap, and claw at anything they could get to, and they certainly didn’t care about the gender of the person they were scrapping with. I was facing the drunk skank and bracing myself. Always best to let them make the first move.
“This is not a good idea. I suggest you move back. Don’t start something you can’t finish.” I hoped my size and low voice would intimidate the skank enough to make her back down. I really didn’t want or like to fight. My lip was still bleeding and was starting to burn.
She blinked at my height and thrust her chin out in a show of beer-soaked bravado.
“Ah ain’ scairda no man stealin’ bish! Yoo think yoo can suckem ov in da back an’ me nod find aout?” she declared, waving her hand in front of my face, palm up. I could see that the lethal red nail tips she wore needed new paint. “Ur a goddam freak iz whad yew are! Ah ain’ movin! Yew fuckin mooof!”
I sighed. I really needed an interpreter who could speak Southern drunk.
She attempted to place her hands on my shoulders to give me a shove. I blocked her arms easily, knocking them to the sides. She nearly fell over. I rolled my eyes. This was not going to end well.
“BISH!” she yelled, and came at me swinging hard, claws out ready to do some damage. I caught her wrist as it sailed toward my face and used her momentum to knock her to the floor on her knees. I twisted her arm straight back and put a lock on her elbow while she hollered in surprise and pain. Maybe I was going a bit far, but dammit, I was mad! First at my brothers for ditching me here, then at this drunk dumbass, and finally at that man of hers! Had to be Stud since he was the one getting some action in the bathroom.
“I don’t know your fucking boyfriend! I’m here in this town to do a job and that’s it. Not play around with locals. Not play around with their fuckin’ drunk girlfriends. Just a job. Now are you gonna back the fuck off or do I get to finish what you started?”
I finally noticed the silence from both the stage and the bar; the only real sounds were the whispers of the spectators and the drunken whimpering from the blonde I held on the floor. I looked up at Stud, who I assumed started this mess. Apparently he too had finished his business in the bathroom, and he was watching me handle his girlfriend with a fierce scowl on his beautiful face. Stupid cheating bastard! I dropped my eyes from his and looked around. Pool shooter was in the doorway leading to the game room with an amused look. I could see fear on the faces of some bar patrons, speculation on others, and a few sneers of disgust. I closed my eyes and sighed. Fuck my life!
“What the hell are you doing, Eva?”
Son of a bitch! Of course my brothers chose that particular moment to show up. I rolled my eyes and dropped the blonde’s arm to the floor. She pulled herself up, crying and dripping snot.
Patrick and Angus stood in front of me, both tall, whipcord lean and cut like me. We even shared the same ginger-colored hair.
“How many times have I told you to duck with the punches? Jesus on a bicycle, you know better than to let anyone get the drop on ya!” Patrick lectured, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Angus just laughed and slapped his thighs with both hands. This was prime entertainment for both of them.
Me? I did what any younger sister would do when faced with such devoted brothers. I punched one in the gut and the other in the mouth. I nodded at Pool Shooter and gave the same carry-on gesture to Stud as I had earlier. Then I made my big exit, strutting out the door, head high, shoulders back, and swollen lip still oozing a bit of blood. Drama. Just how I wanted to end my night.
Two
Dawn was just kissing the sky when I stepped out of my tiny house, big cup o’ joe in hand and my favorite monster claw fluffy slippers on my feet. It was beautiful up here in the mountains of North Carolina. The sky was striped with color. Blues, grays, reds, oranges, purples. The early summer air was cool and dry but wouldn’t stay that way for long. Still, it was a good day for working the job. I looked up at the high mountains newly covered in green, here and there dotted with white and pink dogwood flowers. I could get used to this!
I breathed deeply of the clean-scented air and took a sip of coffee, wincing a little when the cup rim bumped the torn spot on my lip. Dammit, I hoped Patrick and Angus were in a little pain this morning! Hungover would be better. Fergus MacAteer was not only a tough father, he was a tough boss, tougher still on his family crew. No excuses for missing work, ever. I’d endured many torturous hours of teasing and pranking over being sick, dealing with cramps, or whatever else my brothers could come up with. A little payback was nice once in a while.
I went back into my tiny house. I designed it, earned the money for it, built it, and then bought the truck that pulled it from job site to job site. Working with my family was tough but it paid really well. My brothers and father lived in the big RV, sleeping on single bunk beds that were attached to the walls. They were stacked three on each side with curtains that were supposed to provide a little privacy. I was there with them for a number of years as a child, but for obvious reasons that got awkward as I grew up. Da managed to get long-term jobs during the fall and winter so we could go to school, but we transferred often, sometimes in the middle of the year. I went to seventeen different schools but somehow managed to graduate with a diploma. Patrick and Angus also managed diplomas, but Connor, Owen, and Garrett got GEDs on the road. College was not an option, as we were a working family, or at least that’s what Da said. I always wished I could’ve gone, but it just wasn’t in t
he cards for me.
When I was fifteen, Da got two long-term jobs back-to-back at Myrtle Beach that lasted for just over fourteen months. First and only time we ever stayed in one place that long. I loved it! I made some friends and I got to know my teachers for a change. One in particular taught wood shop, Mr. Fuller. He helped me with my house. I told him about living with my brothers, one bathroom, no privacy, and that being a girl, it was getting to be a problem. He introduced me to tiny houses that could be mobile. I spent my school shop time building it with his help. Some of the other guys in the class helped as well once they got over me being the only girl there. My other favorite was Mrs. Castillo, the home ec teacher, who introduced me to the other passion in my life.
Da wasn’t happy and wouldn’t let me move into it, saying it was safer in the main RV, but I managed to convince him and my brothers it would be in their best interest to let me move what amounted to next door. I began leaving my bras and panties hanging in the small bathroom and over my bunk area to dry. I started putting girly scented shower gels and poufs in the shower closet. I made all of them leave the RV when I was showering or dressing, and if they wouldn’t I’d lose my modesty and go full monty in front of them. Talk about awkward! This didn’t make me happy either, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I think what finally did it was the feminine stuff. I left the boxes of pads and tampons sitting out, even when I wasn’t on my period, and when I was, I complained and groaned loudly at night about cramps regardless of whether I had them or not. It didn’t take more than three months into the next job before my brothers were begging Da to let me move out. Da finally agreed.
I loved my tiny house. At first it wasn’t much more than a giant box with windows, a space heater, and air mattress. I’d started with scraps from the construction site and other leftover bits. Through the years, I’d work on it when I could with what reclaim items I could find in what time I had. Now my house was really a home. Everything in it was my design with the exception of a beautiful dark cherry wood table that my brother Connor built for me. He inlaid a lighter wood to make a checkerboard pattern on the top, so I had a combination dining-desk-coffee-and-game table. I loved my oldest brother!
I had a bazillion coffee mugs, as every time we went someplace new I bought a cheap tourist mug with the name of the place on it. They hung from secure clip hooks on the low kitchen ceiling. So far, I had yet to move my house and smash any on the hardwood floor (from leftover scrap from a jobsite in Oklahoma).
I was proud of my whole house, having spent so much time putting it together just for me. It wasn’t big, but it was enough and it was totally mine. Sometimes it was difficult, like when I had to clear the incinerator toilet or when I ran out of hot solar-heated water, but those challenges didn’t stop me from claiming my own space. This was not a want, this was a need.
I spotted Connor emerging from the RV, stretching and buttoning his green work shirt. Even though he was ten years older than me, he was the brother I was closest to. He was the one who got me through my haphazard school life and managed somehow to make sure I had the credits to graduate with a real diploma. He was also the one my da’s the roughest on, which was a shame as he’s also the one my da depends on the most to keep the business going. At six feet, he was dark haired, broad chested and shouldered, and heavily muscled. Both of us had our mother’s green eyes, but I and the younger set of twins were the only ones who got her light ginger hair and freckles.
Connor waved and walked over to me barefoot. The parking lot wasn’t completely paved and we were staying on the gravel side. We usually stayed at the jobsite both for convenience and for security. Betsey had offered us accommodations at the club’s campground, but Da thought it was too far away from the site. Our tool truck was expensive and full of top-grade equipment; therefore, we stayed with it.
Connor smiled at my goofy slippers. “Got an extra one of those, beag deirfiúr?” He gestured at my coffee mug.
I smiled back at his endearment. “Always for you, deartháir mór,” I replied. I shuffled in my monster feet back into my house and allowed him entry. I only let Conner into my personal space. Maybe Garrett or Owen if the ever asked, but Patrick and Angus? Never! Living in the RV had been a constant barrage of short-sheeted bunks, shoelaces tied in impossible knots, and mixed-up hair products all through my teenage years. No way would I ever let them do that to me here. I keep one of the closet drawers locked with a good padlock just in case they did get in my house. My most prized and private possessions were in that drawer.
“No rain yet. Should be a good day. Need to get the frames done and up soon. You have the design for the bar?” he asked as I pulled down a mug and poured in the last bit of coffee from the pot I’d made earlier.
“I have a layout on the computer. Betsey approved it already, but I made a few changes and put in some extras that will make better use of the space. More storage, less waste. She’s coming by later to see it.”
Connor chuckled and sipped his coffee. “I know you’re the expert on wasted space. Tiny houses seem to be a thing these days, both mobile and fixed. Yours would be easy to set on a foundation. Maybe get to stay in one place for a change. Be nice to put down a few roots before we turn gray.”
I nodded and sipped at my cup as well, leaving the last bit in the bottom. I never cared for the gritty last mouthful that always seemed to come from a French press. I liked my coffee without extra grounds. I probably should’ve invested in one of those new coffee machines that had the little pod thingies, but I hadn’t gotten around to doing that yet. “It would be nice to be in a fixed place. Someday, I hope Da gets tired of the travel and decides to stay put.”
Connor looked at the dregs in his own mug. “Yeah, someday,” he intoned almost listlessly. He knew as well as I did that someday was very far off.
I wondered why Connor was still here, running Pub Builders when his heart was elsewhere. We were all grown-ass adults and had skills that could land us work anywhere we chose to be. Connor could make kick-ass custom furniture like nobody’s business, but still he was slogging around constructions sites, taking shit from Da, and running his ass off to keep us going. I knew part of it was being the eldest and feeling a responsibility to all of us younger siblings. Now I thought it was more habit, not to mention “family business” was drummed into our heads from the cradle.
Why was I still around? In a nutshell, fear. As brash and bold as I was, I still had a fear of being on my own. I’d spent my entire life around my brothers and being without them was unthinkable, even Patrick and Angus.
“Where is everyone? The sun is up. We’re burning daylight. Get your arses out here! We have a lot of ground to cover today.”
I rolled my eyes at the familiar bellow of my da. His short, stocky figure appeared, striding quickly across the lot toward the job site.
“Looks like someday isna happenin’ today, lass!” Connor quipped in a fake brogue. “Let’s get out there and keep the old man happy.”
Three
It was midmorning when he showed up. I was working with Owen on the frames. Owen was like Connor in appearance, but didn’t have much to say to me other than “hi,” “bye,” or “hand me a Phillips head.” I was holding the two-by-fours in place and he was wielding the nail gun. We didn’t talk much, but we worked well together for the most part. The air compressor was going full throttle but still didn’t cover up the low growl of a motorcycle. I glanced at the Harley that pulled into the parking lot.
Owen fired the last nail into the stud. “Gotta reload,” he stated and walked off. I rolled my eyes. What a wordsmith! I took out my tape measure and started the next piece.
“Hey, Eva,” I heard behind me.
I closed my eyes and sighed. I’d been hoping I wouldn’t run into him anytime soon, like, how ’bout never again? I guessed I wasn’t going to get my wish.
I turned, putting as blank a look on my face as Owen would have. “Mornin’, Stud. What’s up today?” My brain i
nstantly remembered the look on his face when I caught him getting sucked off in the bathroom. I heard my inner voice say “that’s what she said.” It took everything I had to keep my face neutral.
He was dressed in worn blue jeans, black boots, and his club’s leather jacket with the fiery dragon on the back. He had taken off the full helmet, which left his hair flattened somewhat, and slipped on a pair of reflective sunglasses. I couldn’t see his eyes but he was just as beautiful now as he had been last night on the stage. Player, my inner voice reminded me.
“You okay? You got hit pretty hard last night.” Even his voice was still beautiful. “You took off before I could check.”
I guessed he was going to ignore the black/blue haired chick episode as well. Cool.
I wrinkled my nose and made a brush off gesture.
“I’ve had worse from my brothers. One little bar bitch isn’t going to hurt me.” Oh shit, Eva! That bar bitch is his girlfriend, right? Or maybe not, if he was with the other one. Damn! Now I have a case of foot in mouth!
His lips rose in that half smile that I was sure made panties drop everywhere. He chuckled. “Yeah, you got her back good. I want to apologize for that. She was out of line and had no business starting trouble.”
I sputtered. “Yeah—um—thanks. Sorry I called your girlfriend a bar bitch. She was just a little drunk.”
He lifted the mirrored sunglasses from his face and frowned. The blue of his eyes struck me again and my breath caught. He really was one of the beautiful people, and I wasn’t immune to it even though I knew better than to go there.
“Nikki is not my girlfriend and she was more than just a little drunk. Plastered off her ass. She wants to be my ol’ lady and thinks she has a claim. She hasn’t figured out yet that it’s never going to happen.”
