Makeshift Couples

My name is Ethan Anderson. After bombing my college entrance exams, I bounced between dead-end jobs, barely keeping my head above water. Eventually, I slunk back to my podunk hometown—just in time for Uncle Vincent to show up at our doorstep.

Word around town was he’d hit it big as a construction foreman. Dad practically tripped over himself pouring drinks and piling food onto Vincent’s plate. Half-drunk and full of himself, Vincent bragged about the easy money in construction and offered to drag me to the city for a shot at it.

Before we left, I dug around online for info about construction gigs.

The juiciest detail? Rumors about "work-site marriages."

The whole ride there, I needled Vincent for details.

Vincent Lowell was in his forties—built like a fireplug, with a buzz cut and a tacky gold chain that screamed midlife crisis. Dressed like a guy who’d just discovered money, he white-knuckled the steering wheel while bragging about his fat paychecks.

"Kid, the site’s in the middle of nowhere, and the work’ll break your back," he said, catching my side-eye. "But the cash? Worth it. Stick with me, and you’ll be rolling in it."

I nodded at the dainty silver bracelet on his wrist—obviously a woman’s, engraved with the initials "JN." Looked ridiculous on his meaty hands.

"Friend gave it to me," he muttered, dodging.

"What kind of friend?" I smirked.

"None of your damn business." He swerved the topic. "You asked about work-site marriages? Happens all the time. Two people shack up for the job. Wait till you see the women—curves for days, faces like angels..."

I glanced at his schlubby self. Yeah, right.

So I pushed.

Vincent didn’t sugarcoat it.

"Pretty girls end up on sites for one reason: cash. Guy pays, girl plays. Wave enough money around, even the hottest ones’ll drop to their knees. Gotta wine and dine ‘em first, though. Get ‘em loose. Once you seal the deal, she’s yours." He grinned, all teeth.

"What if she says no?" I challenged.

Vincent’s smile iced over. "Then you make her."

He clammed up after that.

I nudged. "How?"

Vincent shook his head and floored the gas.

"Stick around, kid. You’ll learn."

I let it go. Probably just talk. What woman would touch him?

Rolling down the window, I watched the barren outskirts fly by—construction sites sprouting like weeds. In a few years, this’d be another soulless suburb.

After twisting through backroads, we pulled up to the site.

Vincent dumped my bags in a prefab dorm, then herded me to a nearby diner.

I figured it’d just be us. Nope. Two women were already at the table.

One was Scarlett Lopez—all curves, caked in makeup, dressed like she was headed to a club. The other wore a simple tee and jeans, quiet but sharp.

"Uncle Vincent, Tony sent me," Scarlett cooed.

"Scarlett… heard all about you." Vincent squeezed her thigh. "Play nice, and you’ll leave with a fat stack."

"You’re terrible," she giggled.

"Wait till tonight." He jerked his chin at me. "This your friend?"

Vincent clearly didn’t know the girl in the tee.

"We just met," I said.

"Pretty thing like you on a construction site?" Vincent eyed Olivia Evans up and down. "Think you can hack it?"

"Her dad’s sick. Needs the cash," Scarlett cut in. "We’re tight, so I brought her. This your new guy?"

"Yeah. Heard the money’s good," I said.