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A Roughnecks Story

Chelsea Camaron

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This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. Involves strong language and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are adults over the age of 18.

All characters are fictional. Any similarities are purely coincidental.

Published by Chelsea Camaron

Copyright © Chelsea Camaron 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Chelsea Camaron, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

1st Edition Published: March 2015

Editing by: Asli Fratarcangeli

Heath

‡

N
othing I’d rather
do than fuck, fight, or trip a pipe.

Yeah, the sticker on the back window of my jacked up Chevy truck sums me up. I live for fucking, fighting, and my job as a roughneck. I worked construction for years. My long-time friend, Maverick Collins, got me a rigging job when the economy took a downward turn and houses weren’t being built as much.

Oil rigging is a way of life here in the great state of Texas. Our economy, in Midland, survives off of it. I am a derrick-man or derrick hand, whichever you prefer to call it. I work the top of the derrick, where I guide the strands of the drill pipe into the fingers at the top of the derrick, while tripping the pipe out of the hole. It is hard work, but it feels good to get a little dirty every day that I am on the rig. It isn’t an easy job and it comes with its own set of dangers. Leaving at the end of the day is a reminder I made it through.

It is more than a dirty job, but hey, someone has to do it. Me – I love a hard day’s work. Call me a good ole boy if you want. At the end of a long day, I want to feel it in my bones. I work hard and I play even harder. I am Heath ‘Hitman’ Thomas.

The job I do, the life I lead, is far from easy. It sure isn’t the life for a pretty boy. There was a time when I could have had more opportunities…maybe.

If I am real with myself, there was a time in my life where I had the potential to leave this town and avoid this life. Fate, karma, decisions of a teen boy all played a hand in where I am today.

Fucking, fighting, and working day in and day out is what I do.

The Basement. My home away from home. Who am I kidding, this gym is my real home. My ‘home,’ according to legal standards, is merely an address to send my mail, and a place to shit, shower, and sleep. I live, really live, here. This is the place I let myself feel alive. Here, at The Basement, is where my focus is, where my life is outside of my work.

The Basement is the gym my childhood friend, Wendol, owns. Ever the observer, Wendol has been in my corner long before I ever stepped into a ring.

Side by side, we survived being the small guys together. Neither of us hit our growth spurts until after high school. This made us both victims to bullies. After losing consciousness from having his head in a toilet one too many flushes, Wendol made a change in his life.

The lanky five foot five inch, barely one hundred twenty five pound, flyweight started running and lifting. He turned his parent’s basement into his own personal gym. Add a bag and he started boxing. Seeing the changes in him, as the months passed on, I wanted that too. He wasn’t gaining weight, no he was packing on muscle by the pound. I started spending my afternoons and weekends training right alongside him. It wasn’t long before those same bullies were trying to be our best friends. Fuck that and fuck them.

The girls noticed the changes too. They were lining up for a round between the sheets with either one of us.

Wendol and I didn’t stop at merely bulking up to prevent being picked on. No we trained. We even managed to get scouted. Wendol’s dreams quickly faded when it became apparent that no matter how good he was, he has a weakness. Glass jaw. Hit him in the jaw and he is out for the count. I have knocked him out more times than either of us care to count. We even went through a phase trying to strengthen it where I would hit him on purpose. It never worked.

On the flip side, I gathered sponsors. I was working my way up. I managed a few professional lower league fights before I was given the boot. Less than two years in and I was handed a lifetime ban in the World Boxing Association.

A league that wants to protect a scumbag, like the one I fucked up, is not the place for me anyway. He deserved what I gave him and more. Walking past his locker room hearing the sounds of his wife saying no as he forced himself on her sent me into overdrive. The adrenaline from my fight, the rage from knowing she was being violated, it was all too much. I beat him to a pulp. He landed in the hospital. I ended up booted out of the association when she wouldn’t back up my story.

That is my past. Lesson learned – stay out of other people’s business. Now it’s me, Wendol, and the underground league. No titles, no trophies, no divisions, no weight classes, just a lottery and cold hard cash.

LoraLeigh

One day I
will be more than an item to be bought or sold, won or lost. One day I will know what it is to be a human being.

Dear Diary,

Today is day two thousand one hundred and ninety, since my mom overdosed. It is day two thousand one hundred and eighty eight since her dealer sold me to the highest bidder.

Today is six years, to the day, I said goodbye to one prison only to fall into another.

At fifteen, I was helpless. At eighteen, I was ruined. Today is day one thousand and ninety five since I tried to run. Today is day two hundred and sixty four since my last thought of suicide. Today is day three hundred and twenty since my last attempt at suicide.

Today is day four hundred twelve with my current owner. Pete ‘Professor’ Charleston isn’t so bad now that we have an understanding. I have certainly been treated worse by others in the past.

Daily reminder-

I will survive another day. I will find hope. One day I will be free. One day I will be me.

Signed,

LoraLeigh Riffel

“Annie, doll up, darlin’, got a fight tonight,” Pete calls to me from outside my bedroom door.

Carefully, I tuck the diary into my pillow. I don’t keep the journals once I fill them, but I write daily to keep track of time. One small notebook slides easily into the seam of a pillow and no one is the wiser.

Annie.

The name sends chills through me.

His words trigger an anxiousness inside me. Fight tonight.

No, no, no. Breathe in. Don’t let the panic win. My heart thunders loudly in my chest. I can’t hear myself think beyond the pounding.

One, two, three, breathe LoreLeigh.

Four, five, six, Pete has won the last seven fights.

Seven, that’s right, breathe. I have to calm myself down.

Annie, they think my name is Annie. Hold on to yourself. Don’t let them break you LoraLeigh. Annie can do this. We will get through to fight another day.

The more time that passes, the harder these ‘pep talks’ become. Pete has been working more. The money should be there. Maybe he is bringing me for good luck not as a payment.

Payment, that word burns into me. At fifteen, my mother’s drug dealer used me as a payment for a debt he claims my mother owed his boss. Whatever.

Giving up my innocence should have been payment enough and then some. It wasn’t. I wouldn’t give him my name so he started calling me Annie. He said I had the freckles and red hair of a raggedy Anne doll. Three years I was under lock and key, a sexual slave to a cartel underboss. One who happened to have a love for underground fight rings. One who then screwed over someone above him and needed quick cash. One who then happened to bet against the wrong fighter. He settled up his debt to the fighter by offering up me. His debt still owed to his boss was settled up with his life.

The closet they held me in had no windows. There was no light except when he brought me out for services. An empty room with a pole, a pot to pee in, and nothing more. The lock would click, the door would open, and I would be given a bag with food and water for my day. At some point – the hours would pass by and night became day, as day became night; he would come in, remove me from the closet where I could empty the contents of my pot, take a shower, and change clothing.

Survival.

The time stuck in that small space broke me. I tried to hang myself from the closet pole. I ripped my shirt to make the noose. Only, he came at some point and pulled me down after I lost consciousness. The first place I was at with the cartel man, I had my bedroom, and I had my journals. When I was in the closet I only had enough time with my pillowcase of belongings to simply make a dash mark to track the times he brought me out. I lost track of time. Days turned into months, turned into years – it was all the same.

Shit, shower, snack, sleep, and survive.

After the attempted suicide, he traded me to a man for someone more ‘compatible’. No, he traded me for someone he wouldn’t have to watch. In time, I ended up here with Pete and his brother Joel. They rotate ‘watching’ me and using me. Pete won me as payment in a fight. Joel was enraged when they first got me home.

I am another mouth to feed. I am another person to take care of. More than that, I am a liability. I know about their world. I know about the death matches. They all could have killed me. I wish someone would have. They all say the same thing, they can’t turn me loose, but they can use me. My tight little cunt was made for them. Same shit different dude. Pete and Joel aren’t tied to some cartel or some drug ring. They seem to work and come home. I don’t know why Pete does the fights, other than he likes them.

All things considered they have been good to me. I have my own bathroom. The one I tried to kill myself in last. I run my finger over the scar on my wrist. The guys didn’t think about the razors they bought me for shaving. They thought I would shave for them, only I took it apart and used the blade on my wrists.

Joel found me. I was then reminded that I can’t go to the hospital. There would be questions. Chills run through me as his words replay in my head.

“Annie, do you want to go to someone else? We don’t beat you. We feed you. We don’t fuck you every day. We aren’t rough with you. We’re tryin’ here, and this is the thanks we get. You aren’t worth the bullshit.”

Since then I haven’t tried to kill myself. I haven’t done anything to draw unnecessary attention to myself. A while back, Pete came home with a few dresses. I started attending fights with him. Apparently money was tight and I was going to be the payment if he lost. Thank goodness he won. Knowing now the guys schedules, Pete has been away more. Joel says he has been working so maybe tonight is about being his lucky charm and not his payoff.

Doll up, he instructed. Okay, time to paint Annie on. I can do this. I will survive another day.

I will survive to fight another fight.

Heath

‡