Page 11 of I'm Your Guy
But now I’m wiped. If it were possible to fall asleep in the shower amid twenty other hockey players and a blaring stereo speaker, I probably would.
Coach says a few rousing words while we’re getting dressed, but I’m too tired to process it. I can’t wait to drive back to my empty townhouse and crash on my only furniture—a king-sized mattress.
As I shove my phone in the pocket of my suit jacket, I find a business card and pull it out.
Carter & Macklin Interior Designs.
It takes me a second to remember where it came from. But then Mr. Hottie’s face swims into view in my mind.
Carter. Or maybe he’s Macklin? Either way, he knows about furniture. I’m your guy, he’d said. Maybe I could hire him to shop for me and to wait for delivery, too.
“Night, fellas!” I call out.
“Nice recovery, DiCosta!” my coach calls out.
Gotta hand it to Powers—he’s nothing like my uncle. Powers tells you when you’re fucking up, but he tells you like you matter.
I walk through the bowels of the stadium, my gym bag over my shoulder. When I reach the underground parking lot, I stop for a moment beside my car.
And I tap Mr. Hottie’s number into my phone.
FOUR
Carter
It’s a chilly day. On the drive out to Boulder, I turn on the radio. The first thing I hear is Madonna belting out “Santa Baby.” It’s a cute song, but I’m not in the mood. She wants a diamond ring and a luxury car and a yacht.
Don’t we all, honey.
When I change the channel, the next station is playing a Christmas tune, too, so I shut off the radio entirely.
I can’t even think about the holidays without getting anxious. For one thing, business will be slow. Rich people tend not to start any big home renovations during the holidays. They’re busy spending money on other things, like luxury gifts and beach vacations.
If I get any work at all in December, it will be only holiday decor—trees, garlands, and throw pillows. Those jobs are paltry. And often tacky. Home design is my life, but even I don’t want a chic Christmas tree—they have no soul. I prefer a cacophony of family keepsakes. Like the trees we used to decorate at home with the wreath I made out of tinfoil when I was seven, and the felted bird my father gave my mother the year she rescued a baby owl who’d survived a raccoon attack on its nest.
Home is Briarton, Montana. I have conflicted feelings about the place. But not so conflicted that I don’t feel an ache when I think about how expensive a flight home would be.
I don’t have the money for a ticket, so this will be the first time ever I won’t be going home for Christmas. I haven’t even broken the news to my mother yet.
I’m dreading that, too.
My car is almost out of gas, and I can’t afford to refill the tank. I shouldn’t be driving thirty miles to meet with Mr. Italian Suit. His real name is Tom DiCosta, and he sounded pretty desperate on the phone a few days ago.
“There’s a lot to do,” he’d said. “And I’m in a hurry. I need to play host during the holidays, and it has to be impressive.”
My first impulse had been to celebrate. A rich dude needs to make himself look even richer? Let’s go! My body is ready.
Lately, though, my natural optimism has taken some hits. So my next reaction had been caution. I’m deeply in debt, and even a big job like this might not be enough to save me.
Besides, a hundred things could still go wrong. The client might get sticker shock when we discuss the cost. He might expect me to work for almost nothing. He might just be an asshole.
“Use the left-hand lane to turn left,” says Google. “You have arrived at Red Rock Circle.”
So I have. When I make the turn, I find myself in a development of recently built semi-detached townhomes. Sometimes a housing development is where good design goes to die. I’ve seen some horror shows with boxy little rooms and low ceilings.
This place is more interesting than I’d expected. For one thing, the houses aren’t all identical. They’re attractive, with peaked rooflines, and a mix of wood finishes and trendy industrial metal cladding.
I’ve definitely seen worse.
