Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Shit, I guess I’m that obvious. “Got me. This job next door is gonna last weeks, and I don’t want to piss her off any more than I already have. Any tips?”
The way I ask, he might give me ideas about parking, but I’m really hoping he’s got some insight that’ll help me with Dani herself. These guys clearly know her better than I do, and I’m not above asking for help when necessary.
He shrugs, and at first, I think he’s not going to divulge anything. But then he looks toward Dani’s front door like he’s making sure she’s not coming before offering, “She’s strong, mouthy, a hard worker, and she’s sweet as can be—if she likes you, which doesn’t seem to be the case with you. Just to be upfront, if you hurt her in any way, and that includes her business, you’ll have an entire line of trucks full of guys who’re all ready to put you under your damn pool. Hoffa style.”
It’s not new information, exactly, but it confirms what I already suspected. Dani’s the kind of person who inspires feelings of fondness and loyalty. And the driver isn’t joking or exaggerating all that much. “Well, shit.” I frown, scratching at my bottom lip with my thumb as I consider his words.
“Yup,” the driver adds with a direct little nod that’s half commiseration, half threat. “Dani can usually serve two trucks at a time, one in the street and one at the curb, but with you parked where you are, she’s down to one at a time. Doubles her trips and her wait times, and we’ve got places to be.”
“Wish I could park somewhere else, but not sure where I’d go.” I gesture behind us, toward the lineup of my trucks. Wayne started carpooling the guys in, but still there’s my truck, Wayne’s, our trailer, and our equipment. “I already tried to negotiate, but my client’s clear. No parking in her yard, and well, you know how that goes.” I roll my eyes because if there’s one thing guys like us know, it’s that whatever the customer wants, the customer gets. Usually. Within reason.
“Your funeral,” he answers, sounding like he’d pay good money to see that. “Now get away from my truck before she decides to fire us like she did that other crew.” He waves his hand, shooing me away, and I take the hint, making my way to the back yard to check in on my own crew.
“Got the specs,” I tell Wayne, holding up the tube with the blueprints inside.
“Took ya long enough. You get lost next door?” Wayne teases.
I wish. But instead, we re-check the measurements, including going into the hole itself to check slope and depth. It doesn’t need to be perfect. That’s what concrete’s for. But I do want it relatively close in order to save time and cost.
Meanwhile, Zeus stands by the digger with bated breath, hoping he hasn’t gotten himself in too much trouble. I’m actually not upset with him. All operators screw up every once in a while, and he barely knocked the guide stake down, which was a quick fix. No harm, no foul. But Zeus takes pride in being the best, and any deviation from that is a ding to his ego. Not giving a shit about the guide stake, the dig, or anything else, Frogger’s attention is locked on his phone, but as soon as Wayne or I say the word, he’ll hop back to work.
“We’re good,” I declare.
“Thank God,” Zeus hisses with a fist pump. “Knew it.”
Frogger slips his phone into his pocket and loudly asks, “Now what?”
I cut my eyes over to him, annoyed. He knows what’s next because it’s the same damn thing we do every time—set up the water and power lines for the mechanicals. But he wants me to say it. I shake my head at his juvenile stupidity and the power of inside jokes on a jobsite. “Pump.”
He responds better when I add a little oomph to it, but I’m not taking that chance with Dani likely in her back yard where she can hear, or Kathy probably staring out the windows to watch us. But Frogger’s more than willing to make up for my professionalism.
“That’s right, boss man,” Frogger answers loudly as he starts singing, complete with hip thrusts, “Pump up the jam, pump it up, ah, shh, pump it, pump it real good.”
I’ve told him countless times that he’s mixing up two old songs that aren’t even in the same damn genres, but he doesn’t care, or at least he doesn’t care enough to not do it the next time. For Frogger, it’s all about the hip thrusting and getting to say ‘pump’ as much as humanly possible.
With a shared chuckle at his antics, we get back to it and all four of us are heads-down for the rest of the afternoon. I hear trucks out front and guys calling out their names for their orders but manage to stay focused because dealing with electricity isn’t the kind of thing you want to do distracted. Especially since that electricity’s going to be used around water.