Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“No,” I tell him without taking my eyes off the work of hammering a new shingle on. Broke an index finger that way once. Never again.
“Chick’s a smoke show…,” he continues, undaunted. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him grab the edge of his faded Jets T-shirt and wipe his sweaty brow with it, revealing a perfect set of abs and the edge of a V disappearing under his low-slung cargo shorts.
The man hit the DNA lottery in every way possible. Tall, lean-muscled, a head of sandy brown wavy hair and deep brown eyes that could tempt the Virgin Mary to sin. If he had an ounce of work ethic, he could make good money modeling, but we’ve already established why that’s not happening.
“She’s seeing someone,” I shout, hoping he’ll drop the subject. Veronica has expensive taste in clothes and men. No matter how handsome, Tommy will never make the cut.
“Tell her I asked about her anyway.”
“Get back to work,” is the only reply to this constant harassment.
“In a minute…there’s something I need to discuss…” When he uses big words like discuss it’s a sign that we’re going to argue. “Hear me out––”
“No.” I stop hammering and take my gloves off, check my nails. Serving hundred-dollar dishes at night makes it absolutely necessary that I take great pains in keeping my hands clean, the skin unblemished, and my nails neat. Nobody wants to eat food delivered by a waitress with gnarly nails.
“C’mon Rie.”
This time I give him my undivided attention. “Look at this face, Tommy,” pointing to it, “This is my NO face.”
“Can I get an I’ll listen face?”
“No.”
Sweat slides down, under my sports bra and between my breasts. My blue tank top is soaked straight through––not to mention my underwear. Which is the reason I always wear jean shorts to work. No risk of them ever becoming transparent. Learned that lesson the hard way too.
Taking my father’s faded red bandana out of the back pocket of my shorts, I wipe my face with it, then wrap it around my head to tame the crazy mop of hair falling loose from a top knot. Bonnie is a mash-up of Greek and Lebanese ancestry and Dad was a pasty Irishman. I got her wavy darkish brown hair and thighs. I did, however, luck out with skin that tans and my father’s blue eyes so I can’t complain.
“It’s an easy job,” he presses. “The house is empty. The mark spends most of his time in Miami and has a collection of baseball cards rumored to be––”
“No.”
Tommy’s a gambler. Ponies, cards. Rooster fighting until I put a stop to it––the only time he ever took my advice. This is an argument we have whenever he’s low on cash.
“I’m done with the garage,” Fat Jesus shouts from the other side of the house.
I direct a glare at Tommy. “What do I say? What do I always tell you?”
“Finishing on time and within budget is the only way to survive the home repair and renovation business. The margins are tight and the competition stiff,” Tommy parrots, trying to sound like me.
“Fat Jesus is done, and you haven’t even started yet. The answer is no. Nothing is going to change my mind. I’m done with all that. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you.”
There was a time in my misspent youth where I couldn’t say no to every scheme Tommy and his buddies cooked up. Petty crimes that graduated to stealing cars. I was either the lookout or the distraction. But that was eons ago and the band is definitely not getting back together. I’ve tried everything to motivate him to go legit, but at twenty-eight I’m afraid that ship has sailed.
“Fats, can you start on the dormers?”
“Yeah, sure thing,” he tells me. Then shifts his attention to Tommy. “Get moving, pretty boy, or I’m taking home your cut of the job.”
Fat Jesus is my best employee––the hardest working guy I know. Tommy, the laziest guy I know, flips him off.
“We need more felt underlay,” I tell T. “I left the roll on the front lawn. Can you go grab it?” He gives me a squinty eyeball and slow-swaggers away. And I mean slow. If he continues at that glacial pace, I’ll need Botox by the time he returns.
When we were kids, he could basically get me to do anything. Then a cop named Dominic Vega caught me shoplifting a can of Dr. Pepper and a bag of powdered doughnuts and everything changed. Dom didn’t turn me in that day. He took me under his wing and introduced me to his family instead. To this day, his daughter Veronica is still my best friend.
And that’s not all he did. Dom taught me how to fix things, to build them up, to make them beautiful again. How to take something abandoned, discarded, and turn it into something of value. He’d learned the craft from his father who had been a master carpenter. But Dom didn’t have anyone he could hand down the craft to, no sons or daughters with any interest. Veronica wouldn’t pick up a hammer if it had a Gucci label on it, and Selma, his other daughter, was busy with her traveling soccer team.