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“Well, sure, but I’d hoped it would be in his own damned shoes instead of taking mine from me. The day you kids decided I was too old to stack stone, that boy took over the company and crammed me into a little office. I’m not cut out for this technology shit. At least, let me go out on job sites.”
“He tried that, remember? You took over and laid the job yourself when you didn’t like how the younger guys were doing it.”
“Hmph. Clearly, I’m not going to get any sympathy from you.”
“Sorry, Not Sorry, Dad. Sympathy seems to be a familial trait that skipped the last few generations of Phelps kids.”
My father harumphs again. “Made you tough, though, didn’t it?”
I pull the towel off my head and finger through the damp strands. “It did, which is why I’ll always be your number one ass-kicker.”
“Damn right. The trickiest too. Your brothers never saw you coming. Speaking of, when’re you coming around here next? I’ve just about forgotten what you look like.”
It has been a while. I miss the Gatlinburg mountains, my dad’s overalls, and the comfort of his East Tennessee drawl. “A few weeks. My team is headed out of the country in the morning. I plan on coming home as soon as I get back. I’ve been jonesing for a Fannie Farkle dog.”
“Damned tourist attraction.”
I can only laugh at his old complaint. Hypocritical, considering he’s the one that lives in a tourist town. And that he loves them as much as I do. “Everybody ok out there?”
“Mostly, though Blake might be suffering a smartphone up his ass in the near future.”
Now, I’m rolling. God, I really need to go home for a while.
“Sadie, you be careful, you hear? This old man ain’t got it in him to bury one of his kids.”
“I’ll make it back, Dad. I always do. You get back to work and don’t give Blake too much trouble. At least he’s not making you work with the architects.”
“Know-it-all dumbasses,” he grumbles. “I ain’t promising nothing.”
My sixty-seven-year-old father pauses, and I know I’m about to get his version of I love you. “Give ‘em hell. Sadie Kate.”
“Love you too, dad.”
The clock on my wall reads five pm on the nose, so I have about fifteen minutes before Bonnie makes it home. Spinning my hair in a quick bun, I secure it with a tie and hop up off my seat. I take down Gunny’s boarding bowl, a more traditional fishbowl I use when he stays with Bonnie. Water and plants from his everyday tank are used to fill it, and I scoop Gunny over as soon as the bowl is ready.
Carrying the bowl in one hand and his heater and food under my arm, I step out my door and walk across to Bonnie’s place. Marshall barks at my knock, and Bonnie answers the door a few seconds later. “Come in, Sadie.”
I follow her inside and commence setting Gunny up in his usual spot. “It looks like you’ve been home a while already,” Bonnie observes.
“I wanted to handle a few things before shipping out tomorrow.”
The friendly woman’s raised brow and wry smile is the only warning I get. “So, we’re not calling it sex anymore?”
“Bonnie!” I yelp and escape from the apartment with her laughter ringing in my ears. Back at my place, I grab my bag and run right back out the door.
The office parking lot is mostly empty when I pull in. Most everyone has gone except for the people here for their support shift and security. I walk through the building to my equipment locker and stow my bag containing underwear, uniforms, and toiletries with the rest of my gear.
After beers with Aaron and Brock, I’ll return and stay in the staff dorms to be on hand for any last-minute changes or security updates. For about the next hour or so, I’ll reverify mission details and confirm that our personnel have been cleared.
With all my tasks completed and no other stall tactics available, it’s time for dinner and team beers. Or what I’m more expecting to call the inquisition.
Mel’s Place is packed when I pull into the parking lot at eight. I traded out my bun for my usual braid during a lull in activity at the compound, and I’m dressed in jeans, a cropped Braves raglan shirt, and runners. I hadn’t bothered with makeup. These guys are used to seeing me without it.
I walk in and find Aaron and Brock waiting for me at our usual table. A draft beer sits in front of each of them, but neither one is smiling or laughing like usual. “What is this, a funeral or something?” I ask, pulling out a chair.
“Or something,” Brock mumbles under his breath.
I wave to one of our usual waitresses for a Cherokee Red Ale and flop down into my seat. Neither of my friends speaks or looks directly at me, which is way out of character for the two.
