1.The Snowed-in Crotch
‘The Snowed-in Crotch’.
That’d be the name of my autobiography – if I ever decided to write one. Because really, I wasfreezing, from head-to-cock-to-toe, and my client just wouldn’t open his damn door.
Chicago, with everything that it has to offer, is anamazingcity, don’t get me wrong. But thewintershere in November…
I shuddered a little as I blew out puffs of air through my mouth, and then knocked on the slightly chipped wooden Dutch dooragainbefore quickly shoving my gloved hands deep into the pockets of my dark jeans.
It was 9a.m., and being that it was a Monday, the vibe around me was…well,glum, to put it mildly.
Maplewood Ave was a very scenic area in Chicago. Every house, including my client’s, was stunning, with snow-coated roofs and stairs, brick-made exteriors, and picturesque windows and doors. Despite the chill and gloomy atmosphere, everything around me was…eye-soothing.
As I waited for my client to open his door, just like I had been for almost ten minutes, I turned around and looked at the brown van parked right in front of his house, next to a set of polished stone stairs.
I scowled. “Remind me again,” I said to the man in the driver’s seat, “whyI’mthe one standing here and freezing my balls off, whileyou,” I pointed a finger at him, “get to sit in the van and keep your ass warm?”
Taron, my ridiculously smug elder brother, and also the creature responsible for my occasional bout of annoyance, smirked at me. “Becauseyou’rethe one who signs our clients, notme. I’m the beast, and you’re the beauty; toughen up a bit.”
Our caramel-brown hair and grey eyes – both a courtesy of our mom – were the only things that were common between us. Where Taron looked like a combination of an axe murderer from the hills (mostly when he smiled at someone), and a lumberjack (because of his build, and, well, his beard), I looked like a chewed-out version of Chase Crawford. Please don’t ask me why, because even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. It was something an ex of mine had posted on her Facebook wall. Justtwominutes after our breakup. 3 years ago.
I ruffled the snow out of my hair and deepened my scowl when Taron arched a brow at me. “Fuck you, man,” I told him.
He chuckled and shook his head. “I’m being serious, Myles.”
“As am I.” I took a step forward, but cursed and moved back when I almost tripped off the topmost stair.
Taron chuckled harder. “Careful, bro. We don’t want that face of yours to get a scar, now do we? We both know it’s the money-maker in the business.” When I flipped him off, he snorted and leaned back in his seat. “I love you, Myles,” he all but sang.
When our dad had decided to call it quits on his job four years ago, he’d asked Taron and I to take over our company,Reyes Constructions. Not the most dramatically unique name for an enterprise, I know, but our dad is a simple man, who prefers to live an even simpler life. Our mom, God bless her, loves every single thing about him, and in my twenty-nine yearsof existence, I haveneverseen them disagree or argue about anything. Inhuman? Maybe. Impossible? Unlikely.
I opened my mouth, ready to ask Taron to go fuck himself yet again, but the door behind mefinallyopened, making me pivot on my feet immediately.
“Mr. Ribeiro!” I said in greeting, and flashed a broad smile at the man before me.
“It’sMonday, Myles; show some respect to it and stop being so damn chirpy. It puts a major damper on the day’s reputation, in case you didn’t know.” When I laughed, he tapped the worn-out tip of his wooden cane on the snow-covered ‘Welcome’carpet. “Did you swallow a living bird or something this morning?”
“Hey, Miguel! What’s cookin’, buddy?” Taron hollered from the van.
I wanted to turn around and glare at him, but decided not to, because really, there was no point in it.
Mr. Ribeiro looked over my shoulder. “You seen your common sense around this morning, kid?” he asked Taron. “No? How would you? It’s because I’ve got it all, and I currently have it on grill in my kitchen.That’swhat I’ve been cookin’,buddy.”
I wasn’t sure whether to double over and cackle, or hide my face behind my coat in utter embarrassment.
For mybrother, of course.
Either way, I chose to keep a poker face and not give into my urges.
“So, Myles,” Mr. Ribeiro began as he brought his attention back to me, “will you be starting today, or do you want to see the rooms and get the measurements and materials written down first?”
He’d hired me to redecorate a couple of rooms in his massive 5BHK Cape Cod. It was a fun project to undertake, because Mr.Ribeiro’s house was a pretty dated one, especially for this part of Chicago.
Before I agreed to take on the renovation, he’d shown me pictures of the rooms that needed rework: the kitchen, and a storage room next to his granddaughter’s bedroom that he wanted me to turn into a mini library for her. The latter would be a challenge, but it wasn’t something Taron, I, and our team couldn’t handle.
“I’ll have to ask you a few questions about what exactly it is that you want changed or added,” I told Mr. Ribeiro, “and according to that, Taron and I can give you design and material options, along with suitable themes and color schemes.”
He raised an amused brow. For a 65-something year old dude, he was pretty sassy. “Your brother will help with the logistics?”
