1
FUCK THE HATERS
POPPY
While I knew better than to overdress for the construction site, the day was perfect for my cutest tailored floral crop jacket and my curve-hugging pencil skirt. The weather was not cold, which would require pants, and not hot enough that I’d be soaking through the fragile crepe shirt I wore underneath said jacket. And because the pencil skirt dipped just below my kneecaps, my round-toe platform wedges were the only option because someone once said their shape elongated my stumpy legs.
October in Pennsylvania was a crap shoot. Rain, heat, cold — you never knew when it would be beautiful. Therefore, like my father used to say, fuck the haters, wear what you want.
And for me, that meant the bright hibiscus pink, deep jade, and violet-colored jacket that demanded attention.
Commence the catcalls.
“Shake it, Poppy!” A wolf whistle followed Poke’s demand.
“Fuck me, little mama, you wanna ride?” Cutty didn’t mean on his motorcycle. I ignored the way his hips rocked at me. Itwas only the seven-hundred and fifty-something-th time he’d asked.
“Wrap those sweet little legs around a real man, Popsicle.” Big Joe said.
To which I paused, because there was no way that wouldn’t go unanswered. My daddy didn’t raise meek women. I gestured to my legs with a smile. “I don’t think these wouldn’t fit around your beer gut.”
“Wanna try?” The ridicule he received for not knowing better muted his words. One voice rose over the others.
“If she wants a man, it wouldn’t be you, ya asshole.” That was Sprout, my boss, and owner of the company. He ran this peculiar mix of miscreants and knuckleheads. He was about eight years older than me, but I’d known him since I was born. He was my Destroyers’ family. His father was a full-fledged biker like mine. And the very first minute old Jeffery “Pinner” Albert got a hold of me, he introduced me to his club as one of theirs, and they were mine. Sprout had the same initiation, as his father and grandfather were members.
It’s a shame both of us lost the close connection we had with our fathers. I counted my blessings. At least I could still talk to Dad. He was available during visiting hours at SCI Frackville. The only way Sprout could talk to his father was through a tombstone.
To get straight to work and cut off any more shenanigans, I told Sprout, “I brought the estimates for the Williams River Walk project.”
Sprout made a face. “Yeah, about that… I got a revision.”
Nothing new there. Construction rarely began and ended in the same place. Clients were always making changes. But this one was a city contract, which meant whatever we did had to stay within the original scope, or we’d have a PR fight on ourhands to get the change order approved. “Are we talking scope, or schedule?” I prayed it wouldn’t be the latter.
“Personnel.”
At first, I was relieved. Then I groaned silently. The Destroyers swapped out workers like diapers. Part of it was because, especially on beautiful days like this, no one wanted to work, and another part was because they had to create legitimate money trails for their club members. But I wasn’t supposed to know that. Which was so naive of the club to think that way. I knew by age six that my dad didn’t work an honest day in his life. That meant I expected what Sprout was going to propose, but hadn’t expected it to come right on the heels of last week’s switch. “Not another one.”
“Let’s go inside. You need help climbing the steps with those shoes?”
I glaredupat him. He was well over six feet thanks to his Danish heritage. Which put my little half-Hawaiian five-foot-nothing ass at a disadvantage. The most we had in common was curly hair. He could afford to joke. I couldn’t. “Ha-ha.”
No set of stairs would defeat me. Nothing could, I vowed.
That was all well-intentioned. Except, out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. Which meant I caught my foot on the next step.
Sprout steadied me and his next joke faded into the background.
My attention stuck on the man changing from his Destroyers vest and thermal riding shirt into his work gear. He had toned abs, a sprinkling of dark hair that trailed south, and impressive upper body sculpting. An average biker would have a bit of a beer gut, or lack the definition this heathen god of a man had. I barely noticed much else because I’d only ever seen such masculine beauty in photographs…or in a museum. Thenhe turned and tugged on a company pullover, and I caught the tattooed webbing on his left elbow.
Shit. Shit-shit-shit-shit. “Is that the new guy?”
Sprout looked where I pointed. “Uh, yeah. I hired him Saturday. He’s legit. Your dad can vouch for him, if you wanna know the full story.”
My heart sank into my shoes. If my dad knew him, that tattoo told a terrible tale. I hadn’t counted how many spirals looped around, but it was over five. Which meant he’d done somethingawful.
And silently, I chided my thoughts. Dad did something awful, too. For good reason. And honestly? If I could have, I’d have done exactly what he did.
“Are we adding him for real, or just bumping the payroll?” I kept my voice down so it couldn’t be picked up over the noise of heavy equipment and power tools.
