Gravedigger by JC Jaye

Author:JC Jaye [Jaye, JC]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-04-26T23:00:00+00:00

CLINT: SIX

I planted a shiny dime on a crumbly mound of mud, stepping back and wiping my hands.

Godspeed partner, whoever the fuck you are.

Unlike ol’ Errol V. Flin, this stiff wasn’t sporting any temporary nametag until their personalized hunk o’ granite arrived, so I had clue zero as to whose recently departed bones I was sweatin’ over. For all I knew, they could belong to some unlucky bastard from Mooney’s Place I’d crushed at the pool tables.

Too bad I couldn’t give half a rat’s ass.

Heading back to the truck, I flung spade in bed, leaning against sun-hot metal to squint at my watch.

Goddamn. Not even one yet, and I’m soaked to the skin. And I still have another hole to dig, a mother of a monument to set, and a shitload of shovels to clean before I get to go home and stare at my fucking four walls for twelve hours.

I rubbed itchy eyes, my heavy workload and the emptiness of the night bedeviling me.

Up for debate which scenario sucks worse.

Mood blacker than tar, I jabbed key in ignition and hung half out the window, guzzling from my canteen as I waited for the lame A/C to kick in. Once it wasn’t ten thousand degrees in the interior anymore, I took a time-wasting detour on the way to my next dig—the path below Sunshine’s sister’s plot.

Go ahead, say it. Yeah, I’m that much of a pathetic, glutton-for-punishment loser.

As I drove slowly past, my eyes locked on a distinctive pink stone and I blinked at the gorgeous, tousle-haired angel shimmering in the sun. I blinked again and the mirage was gone, replaced by green grass and empty air. Cursing, I ground the gears, enraged that I kept traveling this road, praying that I’d see Sunshine for real. A fantasy as foolish as it was painful.

It’s been two weeks-plus, fuckhead. Not only has the beauty skipped back-to-back Saturday visits, she hasn’t returned a single one of your calls or texts. Time to acknowledge those sexsational sessions with Casey Rae Kent are now consigned to both memory and jack-off banks, never to be repeated except in your pining, Peeping Tom peabrain.

Speaking of texts, my cell pinged on the seat beside me and I grabbed the thing, rapidly reading a missive from Albert the Suit.

“Reminder: you agreed to work overtime tonight. Lawns need to be mowed around the private mausoleums for the cameras in the morning. METICULOUSLY mowed.”

I scowled, flinging the phone away. Shit on a stick, I had forgotten. Some stuffy ceremony was taking place at one of those mini mansions tomorrow, a hundredth anniversary of some muckety-muck’s demise.

Great, lovely. Now I wouldn’t get home to stare at my fucking four walls until well after dark. Only to shove some tasteless frozen dinner in my yap, toss and turn in my lonely bed, and wake up tomorrow to get covered in mud and sweat and dead lily petals all over again.

Good times, good times.

The remainder of the summer yawned before me, Sunshine-less and terrible.

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