Page 1 of Drilled

1

Lane

If there was one thing I hated more than Chicago's bleak March weather, it was when said weather decided to coincide with some or other bullshit happening in my life. It felt like a kind of cruel irony or sick joke at the expense of my patience.

And as though winter's final blow of cutting wind and soot-covered slush wasn't enough, I also had to contend with the fact that I was running late to court with a docket heavier than the boot-sucking mud outside.

It didn’t help that the oh-so-highly-recommended Cornerstone contractors who were meant to have been here fifteen minutes ago were nowhere to be seen.

I glared at my phone's clock. Sixteen minutes.

“Relax, Lane,” I muttered to myself as all sane and wise people do, of course. “Sure the bathroom’s still a mess and you had no hot water last night. Sure, the renovation team hasn’t even started and you’re probably straddling the line between “fashionably late” and “contempt of court” territory.” I paused, momentarily forgetting where this was going. “But that’s okay. You have all your cases on lock and get to wear the outfit you’ve been saving for for months. Little blessings, silver linings, blah blah blah.”

As though in mockery of my attempt at positivity, a loud, ominous groan erupted from somewhere in the old Graystone’s foundation. It was punctuated with a cranky metallic clanging that I immediately knew was coming from that decrepit bathroom.

I swear, this house was trying to purge me like a boil but I wasn’t going to let some ramshackle Vintage Walk-up dictate how my day was going to go. Absolutely not. I was its new owner and I was going to get this place fixed up and unrecognizable by the end of the mud season if it was the last thing I did…if those Cornerstone guys would actually just pitch up. I sighed and gave myself one final assessment in the standing mirror of the living room.

I was wearing a fitted hourglass peak-lapel blazer over a simple structured blouse and a pencil skirt that terminated just above the knee. The sheer black hosiery paired well with the pointed-toe pumps I was keeping on retainer in my tote, because I for damn sure was not braving the gray slush of Chicago with anything less than the commute boots waiting for me at the door. Even those were black.

I squared out my shoulders, forcing as much power into my frame as I could. Polished and professional. Well put-together despite the chaos that had been my life for the past few months since I got the news about Uncle Ricky. Even if everything was falling apart in private, I needed just a few moments to stick the tape on and get moving again. And if I was going to be dealing with crisis after crisis in and out of the court room, I figured I might as well look good doing it.

I shot another glance at my phone. Twenty minutes.

“Coffee,” I said out loud, much in the same way I imagined the first human who discovered fire might’ve announced its name.

I sauntered over to the kitchen, moving on autopilot while I distracted myself with thoughts of my first case of the day. As I mentally combed over the details, I filled up my travel mug to the brim. I was certain that I hadn’t forgone any of the minutiae, but either way I could always rely on Nance to check me. That’s what friends and paralegals were for and I was two for two on that one.

If only she could somehow work her magic on this house. I was grateful that Uncle Ricky chose to leave this place to me, but I had no idea it was going to require this much work just to—

“Fucking fuck fucker!” I yelled, keeling over and grabbing my foot. My little toe throbbed with pain where I’d stumped it against the chair leg and I bit my bottom lip to stop the other shored-up curses from spilling over. I was still getting used to the smaller size of this kitchen, goddammit.

A series of thumps sounded from above and I cringed in anticipation of their herald. An older, cranky male voice boomed from the unit above, barely muffled by the floor-ceiling.

“Hey! Keep it down down there! This isn’t a sorority house!”

I exhaled sharply, my eyes closing even as I saw red behind the lids. Ordinarily, I might’ve apologized to Sandy Manning as I usually did whenever he decided to throw a tantrum about something asinine. But today was not exactly an ordinary day for me.

I had half a mind to tell him that if he’d asked the HOA to insulate the floorboards instead of his ego, we’d both have a better morning. It was hardly the professional thing to do and I had to swallow back the words like bile because Sandy Manning was not exactly the kind of man you wanted to get into a back-and-forth with when you were already pressed for time and pissed as hell.

That was when I heard the sound of my front door opening and two pairs of footsteps shuffling into the house. Two low voices mumbled to each other and I just about straightened up and smoothed down my outfit when two men clad in Cornerstone hats and softshell jackets emerged from the hallway and into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Miss Whittaker,” the first said, his voice a deep baritone. “I’m so sorry we’re late.”

I resisted the urge to lash out at them and instead hurried past, heading straight for my boots. I tugged them on quickly, the men following me back into the living room.

“I’m going to be around half an hour late today,” I said as my only concession to anger.

“Some roads were blocked this morning, ma’am. You know what things are like this season,” the first man said apologetically, not phased whatsoever by the bite in my words.

Beside him, his giant of a friend joined the conversation. “But now that we’re here, you won’t have to worry. We’re on the clock and finally able to get started.”

I practically ran right past them again, grabbing my leather tote and briefcase and eyeing the travel mug still waiting on the kitchen counter. “That’s great.”

The tall one continued speaking as I spun around and stalked back in their direction, aiming for the door.

“Uh, I’m Silas. This is Bear,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow as “Bear” cleared his throat.