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  RUINED

  JW GRODT

  RUINED

  Copyright © 2016 Jw Grodt.

  Cover design by Miroslav Smiljanic from Belgrade, Serbia Through 99 Design.com, known there as Quarterback TB

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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  ISBN: 978-1-5320-1085-9 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-5320-1086-6 (hc)

  ISBN: 978-1-5320-1084-2 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016919144

  iUniverse rev. date: 11/22/2016

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  CHAPTER ONE

  Brad Wallace drove his white pickup into the gravel parking lot, pulling into a space next to a pale yellow Chevy Monte Carlo. He opened the driver’s side door, which bore a sign that read “Wallace’s Heating and Air Conditioning,” and stepped out into the temperate autumn afternoon, pausing at the Monte Carlo to toss his jacket inside. After locking the car once more, he scanned the parking lot for Maggie’s car. Good she’s still here. He walked toward the entrance, glanced up at the large sign boasting his company’s name, and hurried inside to catch her before she left for the day. He walked through the door, looked at his watch and smiled.

  “Hi Maggie, any messages?”

  “Nothing exciting, Bradley. However, Bob called from the Jenkins job. He said he didn’t quite finish and has to go back with his crew tomorrow for a couple of hours.”

  “Okay.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Maggie, call Jim Haroldson and tell him Bob’s crew will be on his job by mid-day, thanks.” He headed toward his office then had a second thought. “Also, before you leave, could you please bring me the file for Thompson job? I need to get a quote together.”

  “Right away.”

  Maggie Lewis was a tall, handsome woman with dark hair and eyes. She was the only person besides his mother who called him Bradley. Seemed Maggie had a thing about shortening a person’s name or using nicknames. She didn’t mind certain people calling her Maggie, but always introduced herself as Margaret. All of Brad’s employees addressed her as such.

  She had never married, though virtually every single—and married, for that matter—vendor had tried his luck with her, unsuccessfully. Brad had lately found himself drawn to her, but he couldn’t bring himself to make the approach. Though his late wife, Julie, had been dead for what most would say was a “respectable” amount of time, he just wasn’t ready.

  He settled his six-foot frame into his comfortable, well-worn leather chair, stuck permanently in a slightly reclined position from years of leaning back during lengthy phone calls. As he flipped through a stack of mail, Maggie entered.

  “Here you are, Bradley.” She handed the large blue file to him. “Mr. Haroldson said that was fine. Can I get you some coffee before I go?”

  “Oh, Maggie you’re a doll. Thank you.”

  She smiled that look of acknowledgment she had perfected over the years and headed back to the reception area. Brad watched her walk away, taking in the view, but then shook it off for the umpteenth time and opened the file. Instead of reading, though, his thoughts wandered.

  Julie had been the one to hire Maggie. Their son Jared was four at the time and entering pre-school. Julie had been Brad’s partner in business as well as marriage, but her maternal instincts took over and one day she announced she was “conducting interviews.” Brad smiled to himself as he recalled his late wife’s way of “informing” him what was up, before he ever had an inkling. Twelve candidates came through the door before Julie chose Maggie.

  Brad had thought she was asking for too much money and maybe Julie should hire one of the others, although he did secretly admire Maggie’s looks—especially her figure. However, Julie insisted and later on, after Julie passed, he realized how right Maggie was for the job.

  “Wow, she been with me almost twenty years!”

  “Did you say something?” Maggie asked as she returned with his large white mug of steaming black coffee. She placed it on the coaster on the corner of his desk. He face reddened a bit, wondering what she heard. “Oh no, just thinking out loud.”

  “Okay. Have a good night, Bradley.”

  “Good night, Maggie, and thanks. See you tomorrow.”

  Brad took a slow sip of hot coffee and then swiveled his chair around to the file cabinet behind his desk. As he retrieved a pricing catalogue, a photo on the wall above caught his eye: Major Shope, a Vietnam vet and Marine Corp pilot. The major had taught Brad to fly after he hired him as a night watchman at his private airstrip. Besides providing a job and extra income to a young newlywed, Major Shope became a mentor to him as well. Shope imparted his love of planes and classic automobiles, and then later helped to finance Brad’s business. When he died, he left Brad ten percent of the airport and a 1959 Pontiac Catalina Sport Coupe named “Pocahontas.” He, like Shope, came to enjoy the car and a few years later Brad built an oversized garage in the rear of his house, just for her. He called it his man-cave. It had painted walls decorated with pictures of other classic cars and there was a small kitchen area along with a large TV. It was a place he once spent a fair amount of his time. He could invite his car buddies over, drink beer, talk and work on cars or watch drag races. Julie loved it because it kept all the mess there and not in her living room. After Jared turned eight, he began attending the shows with Brad and became more and more interested in the old classics. Brad loved having his son along with him. They went to as many each year as time would allow. However, the year Julie died he forgot about the car and the shows; then about a year later, when Jared went off to college, he had no one to accompany him. Pocahontas sat covered in her garage, neglected.

  Brad’s thoughts lingered in the memories of those early years, until his gaze swept over to another photograph on the wall: Julie, along with a then thirteen-year-old Jared. Her warm brown eyes smiled back at him. He thought back to the day when she announced to him that she was pregnant. She was seventeen, and her parents were vehemently opposed to her going through wit
h the pregnancy, let alone getting married. When she turned eighteen, they eloped. All the time they were married, she was everything—wife, lover, friend, and confidante. He never wavered in his faithfulness to her.

  Then, the stroke. She was thirty-four…dead before she reached the hospital. He had been inconsolable, denying all of it—even blaming God. Maggie ran the business for months as he languished in grief. Finally, he snapped out of it, manned up. Jared needed him. He asked forgiveness from God and moved on.

  A tear streamed down his cheek as he kissed his index finger and pressed it against the glass picture frame. He turned around, pulled the chain on the desk lamp, and headed for the door.

  Brad had driven Jared’s car to work that day because his son wanted to use his father’s new Lincoln to impress a date. As he drove away from the office, he received a call on his cell phone. After a glance at the screen, he answered. “Hi son, what’s up?”

  “Hi, Dad. Just wanted to thank you again for letting me borrow your car. Janie and I are headed for Baltimore to meet some friends for dinner. Are you going to Kelsey’s?”

  “As a matter fact I just left the office and am heading there now. Think this heap of yours will get me home safely?”

  “Ha ha very funny. I’ll see you tonight, but it will likely be late, so don’t wait up. I’ll see you in the morning. Love you, Dad.”

  Brad never waited up for Jared, so it was a kind of a running joke between them.

  “Okay, son. Drive careful…love you too. Bye.”

  Jared may have resembled his father, or so people often said, but he was definitely his mother’s son. He had acquired her quiet, inner strength, her logical thinking, and her common sense. The two of them had been very close, and Brad really hadn’t minded that when his son had a problem, he usually went to his mother—unless of course it was “guy stuff” like cars or sports. Julie had been the one to encourage their son to go to college, and Jared had done right by his mother and attended the University of Georgia on a football scholarship, eventually graduating and going into IT work. It was after Jared went gone off to college, when the loneliness set in, that Brad discovered Kelsey’s.

  * * *

  Kelsey’s Bar and Grille was the usual, modern-day local watering hole located in a strip mall. Dark green walls were shotgun-blasted with framed mirrors advertising every brand of liquor under the sun. The after-work crowd was there, loading up on free appetizers and Happy Hour drinks. Brad had found the place when he had replaced their outdated HVAC system.

  He spied his friend Johnny Lentz sitting in his—or rather their—usual spot at the bar. Brad pushed his way through the Friday night crowd, eyeing every set of legs protruding from short skirts as he did so.

  “Thanks for saving my seat as usual, pal,” said Brad, the bar chair’s legs making a squawking noise against the laminate floor as he pulled it out to sit down. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and called to the bartender, “Hey, Kels-o! How about a tall cold one?”

  “Hey, buddy!” Johnny said. “Lotta action in here tonight, eh?” He nods toward a group of ladies on the other side of the bar.

  Johnny was a tall, skinny guy, slightly rounded at the shoulders with shoulder-length, snow-white hair left over from the hippie days. It was pulled back and tied close to the scalp with a rubber band. A cigarette constantly dangled from the corner of his mouth.

  “Yeah, I noticed that when I came in,” Brad replied, shooting a look in the same direction. “I’m gonna go grab some food before those babes gobble it all up. Be back in a sec.”

  Brad wandered over to the small buffet table with its lineup of steel chafing dishes filled with the usual chicken wings, cheese sticks, and other pub grub. He filled two small plates. Making his way back through the crowd, he stared at the various women at the bar, taking in legs, cleavage, all of it. He briefly thought about how long it had been since he had been laid, then shook it off.

  When he reclaimed his seat, he looked over at his friend. Johnny was looking at him, grinning broadly. Brad knew what was going on in his head. They had been over this before. Johnny took a long pull from his beer bottle before he opened up.

  “Some pretty good looking snatch over there, eh buddy?” he said “Especially that long-legged one at the end of the bar? How’d ya like to cut that?”

  Brad winced. Sometimes Johnny’s language could be too crude for his tastes. Nonetheless, he went along. “You know it, pal. In a New York minute!” Brad took a drink and ogled the blonde at the corner of the bar. Sometimes, he couldn’t believe what he heard himself saying. He could just imagine the way Julie would chide him. Something in him, though, made him want to talk that way around his friend. It was almost some sort of release.

  “So, Brad ol’ friend, what would you do with that, if you managed to get hold of it?”

  Johnny could be relentless with him sometimes. He had been pushing him for years to take advantage of his single status. Often he had said, “Man, if I were you,” your own business, single, plenty of money, I’d be screwing every broad that looked my way!” This statement would usually be followed up with lots of elbowing and remarks like “What are you, a fag?” and so on. Usually it didn’t get to Brad much, but tonight he was feeling strangely uncomfortable.

  “Hey! Did ya hear me? I asked what would—”

  “I heard you, Johnny. What would I do? Well, whatever I would do, I’d make sure she never forgot me.” With that, he winked and picked up his mug in a “cheers” gesture.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The morning sunlight drifted through his bedroom window, and he squeezed his eyes tightly as pain made its debut in his frontal lobe. Then, the pressure in his bladder hit home. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t awakened to pee the whole night. His prostate had been giving him fits for some time. He must have really been drunk.

  He struggled to pull his throbbing head off the pillow, then stood up and staggered toward the bathroom. After relieving himself and then brushing the awful taste out of his mouth, he popped two ibuprofen capsules and shuffled into the kitchen, blinking and yawning as he grabbed a longneck from the ‘fridge and twisted off the cap—a little “hair of the dog.” He downed the beer while he brewed a pot of coffee. A cup of the strong brew and he began to feel normal again: able to endure his morning workout of push-ups, sit-ups (fifty each) followed by a mile jog. When he returned, he headed straight back to the coffee pot.

  “Morning, Dad.” Jared was seated at the kitchen table, wearing gym shorts and a ‘wife-beater,’ eating toast and eggs. “I see you already made coffee. Looks like you needed it.”

  His son wore a sarcastic expression, and Brad felt a pang of guilt. Jared had seen this side of him too much lately.

  “Thanks, son,” he uttered, somewhat apologetically.

  He grabbed the pot from the coffeemaker, poured himself a cup and then sat down adjacent to Jared.

  “The empty bottle told me you didn’t start with the coffee,” Jared said.

  Brad bristled a bit. “I handled it my way.” Quickly Brad changed his tone and the subject, “So, how was the trip to Baltimore?”

  “Fine, Dad,” he said and took a bite of rye toast.

  “And the new girl? You like her?”

  “She’s okay.” Jared shrugged and looked down at his plate of cold eggs.

  “Just okay?” Brad retorted.

  Jared looked up but remained silent.

  Brad chuckled and shook his head. “Trying to get info from you is damn near impossible. Bet if your mom were here you’d tell her all about, huh?”

  Jared shot him a look, then shrugged again.

  “So tell me, son, did you score?”

  Brad knew at that moment he had said the wrong thing, but something inexplicable made him say it. He wanted to taunt his son.

  “Dad, that’s why I don’t talk to you about this stuff! Yo
u make it cheap and that makes me uncomfortable. Mom would never think of saying something like that!”

  Jared pushed his chair back from the table, picked up his cup and plate and made a beeline for the sink.

  “Okay, okay, I was just messin’ with you, you don’t have to get mad. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Jared replied. He rinsed his dishes, placed them in the dishwasher and then closed the door with force.

  “You headed for the gym?” Brad said sheepishly, trying to change the subject. “Yeah, I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay. Have a good time.”

  Jared nodded and was out the door.

  Brad’s eyes lingered on the doorway to the kitchen for several minutes. He regretted the way the conversation had gone. Sometimes, though, he thought his son was overly sensitive and, well—a little spoiled. After all, he had been a devoted father. Didn’t his son realize that his father missed his wife as much as he, Jared, missed his mother?

  Brad sorted through the newspaper Jared had left on the table and found the sports section and began to read while he sipped his coffee. His mood perked up at the thought of watching the college football games later that day at Kelsey’s.

  * * *

  Folks didn’t come to Kelsey’s and ask him to change the channel if a college or pro game was on. Only an out-of-towner or first-timer would make that mistake. As if the photos and memorabilia on the bulkhead of the horseshoe bar weren’t enough of a reminder, Kelsey frequently boasted of his days playing for Ohio State. Brad and Kelsey shared football in common: having played in college or, in Brad’s case, high school.

  It was late afternoon and the Buckeyes had effectively “handed the Wolverines of Michigan their asses,” as Kelsey put it. Kelsey was in a celebratory mood and had quietly sported his regulars, including Brad, a round. Not that Brad needed another, by any means. His morning hangover had long disappeared, with the three or four he had had during the game.