Francis Sinclair Construction, LLC.

After grabbing a granola bar and a sports drink from the kitchen, You head out onto the driveway. The sun is strong and the few clouds in the sky are wispy. It's going to be a beautiful weekend, if the forecast held. There was like...a 20% chance of rain for Riley's birthday party on Sunday.
You pull the beige car cover from the 1974 AMC Javelin AMX that was your father's pet project for 4 years. Francis had driven a Javelin as his very first car, and had purchased the rusted hulk of one from an auto wrecking yard.
You had been stunned at the will reading when you found out it had been left specifically to you. Your relationship with the old man had been... problematic at best. You had never measured up to him, and never received many kind words. Francis had always told you to "be a man." "Toughen up." When you had given up the possibility of going to USD on a baseball scholarship to stay with Jenna after she got pregnant and work to take care of her and the baby, you had thought he might disown you. Bastard children and unmarried pregnancies were not acceptable things to the culturally Catholic Francis. He had, however, given you a job with his construction company, though he never treated you as anything but a worker. But that had been fine by you: you earned everything you have now, and you get pissed off when people suggest that you just got everything handed to you. When they had read off the name of the person to inherit not only your father's majority interest in his company, but his pet project Javelin, you had bawled like a baby, which had never done when the call came that he had suffered a heart attack and died. Perhaps, in his own fucked up way, he really had loved you.

All this runs through your mind as you check the oil and tires on the old girl. With the distinctive bass rumble purr of the high compression V-8, you slot her into gear and clean out the valves as you peel out of your driveway like a 17-year old.

You get several appreciative looks and honks as you cruise into town, heading for the shop. It was only about a 10-15 minute drive in normal traffic. You pull into the shop, with its three garages, warehouse and adjoining white concrete offices. Kayla's blue 2008 Pontiac coupe was parked in her usual spot{if@ MasterShower = 0}, and two spots down was a white Dodge pickup with "Scott McCann: Handyman Services" and a phone number in vinyl lettering. Scott himself, in dirty blue jeans and a red t -shirt, was underneath Kayla's car, cursing and fighting with the rear left wheel. The tire was flatter than Calista Flockhart: you can see the roofing nail protruding from the sidewall.
"How's it hanging, Scotty?"
Without sliding out from under the car, Scott replies. "Hey, James. You released the beast, huh? I heard that baby purr from down the road."
"Yeah it's time, plus the Beamer is still at the dealer getting the shocks done for the recall."
"Dude...no one calls them 'Beamers' anymore."
"Well anyway, did Kayla tell you..."
"Yeah man. No problem I'll hook you up. Just got to go home and pick up some stuff first."
You smack his upraised knee. "Scotty, you're a lifesaver, man."
"Hey no sweat man. Wouldn't pass up a chance to say hi to Jenna." his chuckle had a tinge of evil to it.
"Alright buddy, watch it." you laugh as you push open the door and enter your place of business.{else}.{endif}

As soon as you get inside, into the wash of air conditioning and soft jazz, Kayla appears in the doorway of her office.
Her blonde hair cascades loosely around her shoulders, and a pair of square, black-rimmed glasses rest on the end of her nose. She's wearing a black sweater with a scoop neckline, and you can see her pink bra through the weave. Her grey business skirt is perhaps a bit shorter than is appropriate for work, but years of working for Francis had given her a lot of boldness. Your workers never complain; they certainly enjoy having such a pretty woman in the office to come back to and flirt with between jobs. It seems that everyone is out on jobs at the moment: you have a large chunk of men committed to a house flip right now.
"Thank you, James. I'm sorry for dragging you in. I know you've got a lot on your plate." she moves up close to you, perhaps a little closer than is comfortable. "I've just tried everything and I can't find any of the invoices you logged on Monday. It's like they don't exist."
You swallow as her fake tits heave in front of you. Francis had paid for them; you're certain of it.
"Yeah. Yeah. I'll just pop into my office and find them for you." Kayla gives you an annoyed look.
"I've looked in every file, every database, James. It's like they just disappeared." You put your hands up in defense.
"Just..." you make soothing motions with your hands, and almost plant them right on her tits by mistake.

It takes you about twenty-five minutes to figure out what happened, with Kayla hovering by your shoulder until a phone call pulls her away. The software had updated to a new version automatically, and some of the invoices were no longer properly formatted. You roll back the update, make the proper adjustments, and then re-update. Voila'! The invoices appear.