Rough Around The Edges

Rough Around The Edges VERITY ARDEN Copyright © 2023 L.V. Lane All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author. The author does not grant permission for any AI solutions to read and process this content. Cover by Three Spires Creative Created with Vellum Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Epilogue About the Author Chapter One NATE It’s been a long day, and I’m wiped as I take the elevator up to my apartment. Reckon it’s time I moved out of here and found a place with a bit of land. Don’t get me wrong, the apartment is convenient. Most of my work is in the city or the vicinity. But still, I could handle a commute for the sake of a yard and get a dog, maybe. Fuck! Listen to me. Next, I’ll be thinking about marriage and kids. Nah, that’s where I draw the line. A dog would be plenty enthusiastic to come home to, right? It’s all just a pleasant daydream. I don’t have the time to walk a dog or give it the attention it deserves, but sometimes I like to pretend I could make it work, like take it to clients with me or some shit. God, I feel old. Look at me, wanting to come home to a fucking dog. I used to want to come home and fuck my wife, now she’s my ex and fucking some hot-shot lawyer while I’m getting excited about imaginary dogs. After I caught the bitch blowing him in our bed, she took everything… because he’s a fucking lawyer who has the right friends. So here I am starting over again, a little older, a little more jaded, and counting my blessings because I sure as fuck dodged a bullet there. It’s Wednesday night, and I’m heading home with a six-pack and pizza—not the healthiest choice—but no worse than going to the bar and grabbing a beer and a burger, which is what I planned before I decided I was too fucking tired. That’s what happens when you’re a single guy working long hours every day. I like what I do, a small bespoke carpentry business, and trust me, there are a lot of wealthy patrons in Denver only too happy to pay for skills. Plenty of variety and job satisfaction when you see the work completed. I’m never going to be a millionaire, but I have plans to expand the way my brother Kaleb has. At least the bitch didn’t get her hooks into my business. I paid her asswipe lawyer a visit at his fancy office and explained how no law on earth would protect them if they tried to get their greedy hooks into that. I gave her the house, all the shit in it, and the car without a quibble, which was more than her cheating ass deserved. The elevator opens on my floor, dragging me from a well-scripted fantasy where I put a beating on the bastard after finding him in our bed. I fumble for my keys and catch my thumbnail—I hit it with a hammer two days ago, and there’s a high probability it’s going to drop off. You get used to this kind of thing when you work a manual job. All I can say is thank fuck for steel-capped boots. The door opens, and I kick it shut behind me. It’s not particularly spacious, but there are two bedrooms and an office. The small balcony has a view across the city, and in the distance, you can see the mountains. Denver’s a blessed place—stunning countryside on your doorstep. Yeah, I’d like to live a little closer to that. I dump the beer and the pizza on the table, along with my keys, and pause to sniff myself. I’m getting ripe. It’s been a hot day, and I need a shower. A drip hits me on the head. I glance up, confused. There’s a wet patch on the ceiling, spreading rapidly… and dripping. Fucking great. Looks like the apartment above is having a hell of a flood. There’s a college kid up there. I know because I hear her blasting some god-awful pop music all the time. And her heels; because some idiot decided wooden floors with what I’m guessing is cheap underlay was a good idea in an apartment. I hear her clomping up and down when she’s getting ready to go out, blasting the music, and then the music goes off, which is a relief. Yep, old, jaded, and grumpy as fuck. Also, what kind of college student can afford to live here? It’s not too close to the college. Guess somebody’s got money in the family. At least she won’t be here forever—only three more years of clomping heels and ear abuse. I never went that far with my education, a point of contention with my ex, Marie, who was always on about how her friends’ husbands had office jobs. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her to go fuck her friends’ husbands, then, if they were so good? Yeah, I can be an asshole. But I don’t think she ever saw the real me and what makes me happy. She liked the way I looked and wanted to change everything else. I sigh and eyeball the growing wet patch. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not stupid, but I’ve always enjoyed working with my hands. Getting a fancy college degree and working in an office were never for me. I open