Page 25 of I'm Your Guy
“Honestly, Carter,” Rigo says through a bite of pizza. “I would have thought you’d learned to google your clients. Especially after that disaster with—”
“Rigo. Shut it,” I say, exasperated.
Tom doesn’t pay us any mind, though. He’s already demolished his first slice of pizza, and he’s reaching for his second.
“Listen,” Rigo says to him. “I gotta ask a favor. My husband gets back from deployment in a few weeks. It would make his whole year if I could get your signature on a jersey. I’ll save up for one, buy it in the shop, and maybe pass it to Carter?”
“Sure,” my client grunts. “I’ll sign whatever you need. Newgate lives across the street. You want him to sign, too?”
“Newgate?” Rigo says this word with startled awe. “No way! That man is a snack. Which house?” He turns toward the living room, as if on his way to gawk out the front windows.
I grab him by the back of his shorts and haul him back. “Stop drooling on the hockey players. We’re here to work.”
Rigo sighs. “Yeah, sorry. But this is very exciting to me. This will make a great Christmas gift for Buck. I know how much he’d love a signed jersey, because we bid on some of the Pride jerseys last year. But the prices went sky high.”
“Yeah, right?” Tom says. “I’ve always wondered who buys those.”
“Wait, why?” Rigo demands. “You think there aren’t any queer hockey fans?”
“I didn’t say that.” Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but my client’s ears seem to be turning pink. “But those jerseys raised a hundred grand. So that’s, what, four grand for a shirt I wore for thirty minutes? That’s a lot of coin.”
“It’s for charity.” Rigo shrugs. “Good excuse to blow the budget. And there’s plenty of queer hockey fans right here in Colorado. What do you think was playing on the TVs over at Sportsballs during the playoffs?”
“Sports…” Tommaso coughs. “…balls?”
“Best name for a gay bar ever, right?” Rigo asks cheerfully. “Plenty of hockey fans also fly the rainbow flag.”
This whole line of conversation is surely not what DiCosta bargained for when he hired me. “Hey, Rigo? We really need to get back to painting, so we can get out of Mr. DiCosta’s way.”
“Call me Tommaso,” he says. “Got an extra brush? I’ll join you.”
“Sweet!” Rigo says. But then he frowns. “Hold on, isn’t it game night? Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
My client grabs another slice. “Not a napper,” he says through a bite of pizza. “And there’s no way I’m gonna sit around while two other guys paint my house. Who does that?”
“Literally every other client,” Rigo says. “That’s kind of the point of hiring painters.”
Tommaso pulls a grouchy face that I’m starting to know very well. “Nah. This project is on a tight deadline. I got two hands. I can paint.”
Ten minutes later, I find myself on my knees in front of the baseboard, showing Tom how to paint the trim. “We don’t have to prime this part, because the trim is already white. Tomorrow, Rigo and I will paint over the primer he’s putting on the walls right now.”
“Got it,” he says.
“Hey man, you might want to change,” Rigo says. “Don’t get paint on the team shirt.”
“Eh. I got dozens of these.” But then he carefully rests the brush on the rim of the paint can and strips off his shirt.
I nearly swallow my tongue. Those abs of glory make another appearance at point-blank range. I can see every chiseled curve. Every thread of neatly trimmed dark hair that dusts his happy trail…
The glory is gone a moment later, though, when he puts the shirt back on inside out.
When I remember to breathe again, I see Rigo on the other side of the room, fanning himself dramatically. I’m just lucky he didn’t whip out his phone to take a video.
I motion him back up the ladder. “Come on, man. We’re on paid time here.”
“You are a slave driver,” Rigo says, but he picks up his brush and gets back to painting.
Since Tommaso is here, it’s the perfect time to think about the accent wall. I open two quarts of paint that I’ve purchased, and I use two fresh rollers to paint big swatches on cardboard. Two coats each.
