He slept with her.

The following morning, Jim's first thought was a real shitkicker, and to try to get away from it, he rolled over on his bed. Which just made his wakey-wakey worse. Dawn's early light was kicking the ass of the curtain next to him, and as the brightness barged into his skull, he wished the frickin' window were made out of Sheetrock.

Man, he couldn't believe he'd slept with that gorgeous, vulnerable woman in his truck - like she was some kind of whore. The fact that he'd then come back here and drunk himself into a Corona-tose state was a little more believable. But what it all added up to was that he still felt bad about what he'd done and he was going to have to hammer nails all day with a hangover.

Great. Planning.

Throwing off the blanket, he looked down at the jeans and flannel shirt he'd worn to the club. He'd passed out before he'd had a chance to get naked, so everything was rumpled, but he was going to wear the Levi's to work. The shirt, on the other hand, he had to save from twelve hours of construction. It was his only "good" one - which meant no paint specks, no holes, no missing buttons, and no frayed cuffs. Yet.

Jim stripped down and dumped the shirt into the leaning tower of dirty laundry by the bed. As he walked his headache into the stall shower, he was reminded of why not having a lot of furniture was a good thing. Short of his two piles of clothes, the clean and the needed-to-be-cleaned, all he had was the rattan couch that the studio had come with and a table with two chairs - all of which were mercifully out of the path to the bathroom.

He shaved fast and showered quick; then it was boxers and the Levi's and four aspirin. Undershirt was next, followed by socks and boots. On the way to the door, he grabbed his tool belt and his work jacket.

His rental was on top of a garage-like outbuilding, and he paused at the top of the stairs, squinting so hard he bared his teeth. Goddamn...all that eye-piercing light made it seem like the sun had decided to return the Earth's attraction and move a little closer to seal the deal.

Down the creaking wooden steps. Across the gravel drive to the cold truck. All the way with an expression like he had a spike through his foot.

As he opened the driver's-side door, he caught a whiff of perfume and cursed. Images came back to him, all of them carnal as hell, each one of them another source of inspiration for the headache.

He was still cursing and squinting as he drove out the lane and past the white farmhouse, the owner of which was his elderly landlord, Mr. Perlmutter. No one had lived in the big place for as long as Jim had been a renter, its windows boarded up on the inside, its porch perennially empty of wicker anything.

That nobody-home routine along with the thirty days' notice to get out were his two favorite parts about where he stayed.

On the way to work, he pulled into a gas station and bought a large coffee, a turkey sub, and a Coke. The quick mart smelled like old shoes and laundry softener, and there was a probability that the sandwich had been made last week in Turkey, but he'd been eating the same thing for the last month and was still upright in his boots, so the shit obviously wasn't killing him.

Fifteen minutes later he was steaming up Route 151N, drinking his coffee, wearing his sunglasses, and feeling marginally more human. The job site was on the western shore of the Hudson River, and when he got to the turnoff for it, he recapped the Styrofoam mug and ten-and-two'd the wheel. The lane that went down the peninsula was pothole central, thanks to all the heavy-duty machinery that had barreled across its bare back, and the truck's shock absorbers bitched and moaned the whole way.

At some point there was going to be manicured lawn everywhere, but for the moment the rolling earth resembled the skin of a fifteen-year-old boy. There were countless tree stumps across the shaggy winter-brown grass - pimples on the face of the land that had been created by a team of guys with chairt saws. And that wasn't the worst of it. Four whole cabins had been torn down, their footings and the bald plots beneath their first floors all that was left of structures that had been there for over a hundred years.

But everything had to go. That was the command from the general contractor. Who was his own client.

And about as much fun as a hangover on a cheery, chilly morning.

Jim pulled into the line of pickups that was forming as more of the workers came in. He left the sandwich and the Coke behind on the floor of the cab to stay cool and crossed the tire-chewed dirt tracks toward the gestating house. With its skeleton of two-by-fours erected, its skin was now going up, the particleboard sheets being nailed onto the bone structure of the frame.

Fucking thing was a monster, so big it was capable of making those McMansions in town seem the size of dollhouses.

"Jim."

"Chuck."

Chuck, the foreman, was a six-foot guy with square shoulders, a round gut, and a perpetual cigar stub shoved in his mouth - and that was about it for conversation with him. Thing was, Jim was clear which part of the house he was working on and what he was going to do, and both men knew it. With a crew of about twenty carpenters on the project, there were varying degrees of skill and commitment and sobriety, and Chuck knew the drill with everybody. If you had half a brain and could throw a hammer well, he left you alone, because fuck knew he had enough on his plate with the jackholes.

Jim braced himself and headed for the supplies. The nail boxes were kept stacked in a lockable cabinet on the six-car garage's concrete slab, and next to them, lined up in a row, were the gas-powered electrical generators that were already going at a roar. Wincing at the noise, he stepped over the snakes of extension cords that ran out to the table saws and the nail guns and filled up the pouch on the left side of his tool belt.

It was a relief to head for the southern side of the house - which, considering the floor plan, was practically in the next county. Setting to work, he began hefting six-foot-by-four-foot sections of particleboard and locking them in place against the framers. He used a hammer instead of a nail gun because he was just that flavor of old school - and because even with the manual stuff he was one of the fastest carpenters around.

The sound of a pair of Harleys coming down the dirt drive brought his head up.

Eddie and Adrian pulled their bikes in together and dismounted in sync, removing their leather jackets and their black sunglasses in the same rhythm too. As they approached the house, they came gunning in his direction and Jim groaned: Adrian was looking at him with a whole lot of what-the-hell-happened-with-the-hottie on his pierced face.

Which meant the guy had noticed that Blue Dress disappeared about the same time Jim did.

"Shit," he muttered.

"What?"

Jim shook his head at the guy next to him and refocused on what he was doing. Positioning one of the sheets against the frame, he held it with his hip, unhooked his hammer from his belt, got a nail, and pounded. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat -  "Have fun last night?" Adrian said as he came up. Jim just kept on pounding.

"Ah, come on, I don't need all the details - but you could spare me a few." Adrian glanced at his roommate. "Back me up, would ya?"

Eddie just walked by and knocked his shoulder into Jim, which was his version of a good morning. Without being asked, he took over bracing the particleboard, which freed Jim up to hammer twice as fast. They were a great team, although Adrian balanced out the pace. He was less than industrious, preferring to spend his time fucking around and running his mouth. It was a wonder he hadn't gotten fired in the four weeks he'd been on the site.

Ad leaned against a naked doorjamb and rolled his eyes. "You aren't going to tell me whether you got a birthday present or not?"

"Nope." Jim positioned a nail and creamed the head of it. Two hits and the top was flush with the board and then he got another fresh shot at imagining Adrian's face on a target.

"You suck."

Yes, he certainly had last night - not that it was any business of that friendly neighborhood gum-flapping motherfucker with a metal fetish.

Things fell into their usual rhythm, and the other guys got out of Jim and Eddie's way as they went around, closing the gap from where they'd stopped the day before, sealing things up from the spring rains that were just starting. The house was going to be about fifteen thousand square feet in size, so to get it battened down tight in just one week was a tall order. Still, Jim and Eddie were busting ass, and the roofers were already halfway across the rafters. By the end of the weekend, they weren't going to have to worry about the cold drizzle or the freezing wind anymore, and thank God for it. Yesterday had been a suckfest of wet and nasty, and there were still puddles here and there that splashed up onto his jeans.

Lunchtime came quickly, which was what happened when he worked with Eddie, and while the other guys propped themselves on the edge of the house facing the sun, Jim went back to his truck and ate alone sitting in the cab.

The sandwich was still cold, which always improved the taste, and the Coke was spectacular.

As he sat on his own and chewed, he glanced over to the empty seat next to him...and remembered dark hair spilling over the upholstery and the arch of a female neck in the dash lights and the feel of a soft body beneath his.

He was such a shit, taking advantage of her like that, and yet, after it was all done, she'd smiled up at him as if he'd given her exactly what she'd wanted. Except that couldn't be true. Sex between strangers was just a temporary reprieve from loneliness. How could that be enough for someone like her? Christ, he didn't even know her name. When the deep breathing had passed, she'd kissed him and lingered on his lips; then she'd pulled the top of her dress up and the bottom of it down, and left him.

With a curse, Jim threw open the driver's-side door and took his lunch around to the back bumper It was warmer out in the sun, but more to the point, the air smelled like fresh pine boards, not perfume. As he turned his face to the sky and tried to wipe clean his mind, he lost interest in the sandwich, putting it aside on its Saran Wrap and focusing on the Coke instead.

The dog appeared a moment later, peeking out from behind a stack of felled trees that were due for removal. The thing was the size of a small terrier and had a coat that looked like mottled steel wool. One ear was flopped over and it had some kind of scar on its muzzle.

Jim lowered his Coke bottle as the two of them locked stares.

Damn animal was frightened and using the grizzled stumps as cover because they were far, far larger than he was, but he was also starved: Going by the way that little black nose was sniffing the breeze, clearly the smell of the turkey was calling him.

The dog took a tentative step out. And then another. And another.

It walked with a limp.

Jim reached to the side slowly, putting his hand on the sandwich. Popping off the top of the roll, he pushed aside the languid lettuce and the Styrofoam tomato, and picked up a slice of turkey.


Leaning down, he extended the meat. "Don't taste like much, but it won't kill you. Promise."

The dog circled, closing in with that gimpy front paw, the spring wind lifting its wiry coat and showing sharp ribs. The thing had its head extended as far as the neck would allow, and its back legs were trembling as if they were ready to leap into a retreat at any second. Hunger, however, pushed it to go where it didn't want to be.

Jim stayed still and let the animal inch closer to him.

"Come on, son," Jim said roughly. "You need this."

Up close, the dog looked exhausted, and when it took the turkey it was with a swift snap and a back-away. Jim got another piece ready, and this time the animal came more quickly and didn't move away so fast. The third piece was accepted with a delicate mouth, as if the animal's innate nature were not what its experiences had turned it into.

Jim fed the thing the roll, too. "That's it."

The dog planted its butt in front of Jim, curling into a sit and tilting its head to one side. There were smart eyes on the thing. Smart, old, tired eyes. "I'm not a dog person."

Evidently, the dog didn't understand English. In a leap that was surprisingly graceful, it propelled itself up into Jim's lap.

"What the..." Jim lifted his arms out of the way and stared down. "Jesus, you don't weigh much."

Duh. Probably hadn't eaten in days.

Jim put a tentative hand on its back. Christ. All he felt was bones.

The whistle blown meant lunch was over, so Jim gave the dog one stroke before putting it back on the ground. "Sorry...like I said, not a dog person."

He grabbed his tool belt out of the cab and strapped it back on as he walked away. The look over his shoulder was a bad idea.

Shit, the dog was under the truck, behind the back tire, and those old eyes were on Jim.

"I don't do pets," Jim called out as he went off.

The purring sound of a car approaching rolled across the job site, and when the men who were lined up on the lip of the house looked over, their expressions fell into a collective fuck-me - which meant Jim didn't have to pull another over-the-shoulder to know exactly who it was.

The general contractor/owner/pain in the ass was here again.

Son of a bitch showed up at all different times of the day, like he didn't want to set a schedule the crew could depend on so his spot inspections would be more accurate. And it so didn't take a genius to figure out what he was looking for: lax workers, sloppy construction, mistakes, theft. Made you feel like you were dishonest and lazy even if you weren't, and for a lot of the guys that was an insult they were willing to let pass only because they were always paid on time on Friday.

Jim stepped up his pace as the BMW M6 pulled up right next to him. He didn't look at the car or the driver: He always stayed out of the guy's way, not because he had anything to apologize for in terms of performance, but because he was a grunt, pure and simple: When the general came to inspect the troops, the chain of command mandated that the asshole was Chuck the foreman's problem, not Jim's.

Thank you, Jesus.

Jim hopped up onto the flooring, and headed back over to where he'd been working. Eddie, ever ready to pitch in, followed and so did Adrian. "Holy...shit."

"Okay...wow."

"Madre de Dios..."

The comments bubbling up from the workers made Jim glance back.

Oh, hell, no...talk about your fuck-me-and-a-halfs: A stunningly beautiful brunette was stepping out of the car with the grace of a flag unfurling in a calm breeze.

Jim squeezed his eyes shut. And saw her in the cab of his truck, stretched out with her perfect breasts bare to his mouth.

"Now, that is a helluva woman," one of the workers said.

Man, there were times in life when disappearing was a great idea. Not because you were a pussy, but because you really didn't need the hassle of dealing. This was one of them. And then some.

"Well, shit, Jim..." Adrian dragged a hand through his thick hair. "That's..."

Yeah, he knew. "Got nothing to do with me. Eddie - you ready with that board?"

As Jim went to turn away, the brunette looked up and their eyes met. Her lovely face flickered with recognition, just as her man walked over to her and wrapped his arm around her waist.

Jim took a step back without looking where he was going.

It happened in an instant. Faster than the strike of a match. Quicker than a gasp.

The heel of Jim's boot landed on a piece of two-by-four that was lying across an extension cord and gravity took hold of his body, sweeping him off balance. As he fell, he split the cord from its joining with another, and sent the live end popping free and flipping into one of the puddles.

Jim hit the flooring in a loose sprawl of limbs...which ordinarily would have just left him with some bruises on his ass and his shoulders.

But his bare hand landed in the water.

The electrical shock blared up his arm and slammed directly into his heart. As his spine jacked for the sky and his teeth locked together, his eyes flew wide and his hearing shorted out, the world receding until all he knew was the wild, consuming pain in his body.

The last image he had was of Eddie's long braid swinging wide as the guy lunged forward to help.

Vin didn't see the guy fall. But he heard the hard landing of a big body and then the scramble of boots and the shouted curses as people ran over from all directions. "Stay here," he told Devina as he took out his cell phone.

He punched in 911 as he rushed toward the commotion, but didn't hit send yet. Jumping up onto the floorboards, he jogged over -

His thumb hit a button and the call was made.

The workman on the ground had eyes that were fixed and unseeing on the bright blue sky overhead, and his limbs were stiff as a corpse's. The live extension cord remained in the puddle, but the man's spasms had carried him away from the source of the deadly charge.

Vin's ring was answered. "Nine-one-one, what kind of emergency is this?"

"A man's been electrocuted." Vin dropped the phone from his mouth. "Turn off the fucking generators!" Lifting the cell back up, he said, "Job site address is Seventy-seven Rural Route one-fifty-one N. He appears to be unconscious."

"Is someone administering CPR?"

"They will be right now." Vin handed the phone off to Chuck the foreman and pulled guys out of the way.

Dropping to his knees, he yanked the workman's jacket open and put his head down on a muscled chest. No heartbeat and a hover over the mouth revealed no breathing, either.

Vin yanked the guy's head back, did an airway check, pinched the nose, and blew two breaths deep into those frozen lungs. Moving to the chest, he linked his hands together, positioned his palms over the guy's heart, and stiff-armed ten compressions. Two more breaths. Thirty more compressions. Two more breaths. Thirty more compressions. Two more breaths...

The color in the guy's face wasn't good and only got worse.

The ambulance took about fifteen minutes to come, although not because they weren't hauling ass. Caldwell was nearly ten miles away, and that was the kind of geography no amount of pedal-to-the-metal was going to improve. The second they arrived, the EMTs didn't waste any time getting up into the house, and they took over from Vin, doing a vital statistics check before one continued what Vin had started and the other went racing back for the gurney.

"Is he alive?" Vin asked when the workman was lifted from the floor.

He didn't get an answer because the medics were moving too fast - which maybe was a good sign. "Where are you taking him?" Vin said as he hopped off the foundation and hustled along with them.

"St. Francis. You got a name, age, anything on his medical history?"

"Chuck! Get over here - we need information."

The foreman ran up. "Jim Heron. I don't know much more than that. Lives alone down on Pershing Lane."

"You got an emergency contact?"

"No, he's not married or anything."

"I'm the contact," Vin said, taking out a card and giving it to the medic.

"Are you kin?"

"I'm his boss and all you've got at the moment."

"Okay, someone from St. Francis will be in touch." The medic disappeared Vin's info into his jacket and the workman was shoved into the ambulance. A split second later, the double doors were shut, and the vehicle took off with lights and sirens going.

"Is he going to be okay?"

Vin looked back at Devina. Her dark eyes were glossy with unshed tears and her hands were up around the collar of her fur coat, as if in spite of all the white mink she was freezing cold.

"I don't know." He went over and loosely took her arm. "Chuck, I'll be right back. I'm going to take her home first."

"You do that." Chuck took his hard hat off and shook his head. "Damn it. Damn it to hell. He was one of the good ones."

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