So he taught me. And I liked it instantly. I loved seeing the fruits of my labor turn something broken into something saved.
“…a guy named Riley James Jr?” I hear Tommy say to someone. My ears immediately prick. “Nah, man, I don’t know any guy by that name.”
Eye roll. But now I’m more than curious.
I can’t see the front lawn from this vantage point on the roof, so I climb down and make my way to the front of the house. I don’t know what the heck Tommy is up to and this needs investigating. Tommy is a bit of a hot head and can get protective at times. Too protective in fact.
He once tackled an old friend of my Dad to the ground because the guy hugged me and Tommy, who’d seen us from afar, didn’t know who he was. Poor guy didn’t know what hit him. I spent half an hour apologizing while we waited for the EMT to arrive. Tommy anointed himself my protector when he was fifteen and I was twelve and nothing has changed since. I’m just hoping it’s someone in the neighborhood who’s seen my work and needs the services of H&D construction.
As soon as I come around the corner, however, I’m quickly disabused of that notion. My Timberlands come to an abrupt heel-digging halt. Yeah, definitely not someone from the neighborhood. It’s the walking cash dispenser––the guy from that weird night a week ago.
The human ATM machine’s attention shifts over Tommy’s shoulder and he lifts his sunglasses, pushing them to the top of his head. His scalpel-like stare does an up-and-down sweep of me. In the meantime, I am frozen…sweating profusely, but otherwise unable to move.
I’m not sure what to think. Does he want his money back? Because that would be a major bummer. That money has long been spent on Facebook advertising, and I don’t have any extra lying around.
As I slowly approach, he gives me a subtle tip of his chin. That’s all the acknowledgement I get that we’ve met before. Likewise, I check him out. I know it’s been a week, and it was dark that night, but something about him doesn’t look right––seems off. For one thing, he’s less put together than he was at the restaurant. He has a stain that looks suspiciously like vomit on his black T-shirt with a vintage logo on it. And his short dark hair looks…mussed? Messy. And not in a good way. It definitely doesn’t look styled to death by a celebrity hairdresser like it did the other night. Granted, it’s a Saturday, but I thought guys like this one always wore designer skinny jeans and hair product when they kicked back. Not dirty T-shirts and bed head.
“You know him?” comes from my right.
I’d completely forgotten about Tommy. “Yeah,” I admit. And that’s all he’s getting. Doesn’t seem to do the trick, however, because Tommy keeps staring. No doubt waiting for an explanation he is not entitled to. “Thanks, Tommy. I can take it from here.” My tone a little too bright, the subtext being get lost.
That doesn’t do it either. He gives me a suspicious squint. Then, “Why you lookin’ at me like I passed gas in public?”
Wonderful. My cheeks turn so red hot not even a deep toasty tan can cover it. “Go.”
He knows where the line is with me and he just crossed it.
“I’m going.”
As he starts to walk away, my attention returns to my unexpected visitor. “Heeeyyy…,” I say because after that start, what else is there to say.
West looks after Tommy, watching him closely as he disappears around the side of the red brick house. His face is mostly healed with the exception of some bruising around his lips and eye…eyes that are in fact a dark forest green and not brown as previously determined. For a fleeting moment, those same eyes fall on my blue tank top––the one soaked in sweat and sticking to my body––and pause.
Yeah, awkward. Every time I run into this guy I look like a sweaty rented mule. Considering how long I haven’t cared what I look like, the feeling coming over me now is strange and unpleasant. Veronica will be thrilled to hear it.
“How did you find me?” I ask as I whip off the bandana and stuff it into my back pocket. It feels wrong having a serious conversation with this man wearing a napkin on my head.
He takes my business card out of his pocket and holds it up. “Riley James Jr. Owner, H&D Home Improvements. Licensed and bonded contractor,” he reads out loud. “I was going to call Uber, but then I found this in the Bentley…tracked down the address of the LLC. I thought maybe you worked for him.”
He says it so casually I almost miss the fact that he just admitted to a crime. “Pretty sure that’s illegal.”