Until Veronica’s voice cuts through the air like static.
“I thought we agreed on a carbon fiber finish for the guardrails, not steel.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “As I said, the carbon fiber is on backorder. The steel is already here. We’d lose a week or two if we waited.”
She crosses her arms, tablet hugged against her ample chest like a shield. “We’re supposed to be sustainable, Ace. Remember? Optics matter. The investors care.”
“The investors care about me meeting deadlines,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “This thing is opening next month, not next year.”
She’s not out of line here. These are the questions she’s supposed to ask.
She’s just so fucking annoying. When I say up, she has to say down.
I'm starting to take it personal.
She schedules midday site visits during peak work hours, and then I’m the bad guy because I have to tell her she’s disrupting the flow.
She insists on daily reports with color-coded spreadsheets, meanwhile I send one-line summaries because I’m busy actuallybuildingthe fucking thing.
She eats her lunch at my desk because she’s too good to sit outside with the crew, then gets snippy when I remind her to clean up after herself.
It never fucking ends.
But I can handle her. I have no choice. Because I can see it now: Raya showing up to the site in a show-stopping dress and that quiet, dangerous smile she wears when she’s up to something. She’d slice through Veronica’s practiced composurewith that polite but deadly precision that made even my mama blink.
And then Veronica would suffer, everybody would be talking, and I’d have to deal with the fallout.
So I keep my head down, my jaw tight, and I deal with it.
By six-thirty, the site is finally empty. The cranes rest like giant skeletons against the darkening sky. My stomach growls, my neck hurts, and my mind is a mess of thoughts.
I text my boy Titus.
Drink?
He replies before I can even get my phone back in my pocket.
Titus
Already at Murphy’s. Pull up.
I don’t know why Titus picked this place. The lights are so low, it’s hard to tell if everybody in here is depressed or just tired.
I know which one I am.
I drop onto the stool beside him. “Fuck wrong with you?”
He rears back. “Why something gotta be wrong with me?”
I gesture around me. “This sad ass spot. Ain’t even no games on.”
He shakes his head while I signal a bartender. “I wasn’t thinkin’, man. Rough day.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I say. “Old girl is on my ass again.”
Titus lets out a quiet, sympathetic chuckle. “Every time she gets started, just stare at a spot on the wall and think of your paycheck.”
“Whatever, man. So what’s up with you?”
