The day the certificate came in, Callum slapped it on the clubhouse bar under a shot glass and announced, “College boy passed.”
The room erupted.
Nate whooped like an idiot. Old Rafe clapped me on the back hard enough to rock me forward. Someone put a plastic graduation cap on my head. Someone else taped a pencil behind my ear. The elders gave me hell, but their eyes were proud.
That did something to me.
Something I didn’t know I had still needed.
Pride.
Not the kind that came from being feared.
The kind that came from becoming someone the boy in wet jeans would not have recognized but might have followed around just to learn how.
I started working under a licensed contractor connected to the club. Long days. Early mornings. Real job sites. Foundation inspections. Framing schedules. Permit offices that made me want to put my head through glass. Clients who thought they knew construction because they had watched three renovation shows and owned opinions.
I loved it.
Hated it.
Wanted to build something big enough to quiet every ugly voice from my past.
I wanted houses.
Real ones.
Strong ones.
The kind with good roofs, solid doors, working heat, and closets big enough for more than one pair of jeans.
Clean money started coming in.
Not enough to change my life all at once, but enough to prove there was more than one way to survive.
The club noticed.
Callum noticed most.
“You keep this up,” he said one night, standing beside me outside the clubhouse while I reviewed a bid on my phone, “we’re going to have a legitimate construction arm before the old men realize they accidentally approved progress.”
I snorted. “You make it sound fancy.”
“It is fancy. Paperwork makes everything fancy.”
“I’m still a far cry from JD.”
“Everybody is.”
“You said that before.”
“Still true.”
I looked at him.
Callum’s mouth twitched. “But you’re not trying to be JD. That’s good. We already have one rich bastard in Santa Fe making people cry with legal threats. We could use a man who knows how to build.”
Build.
