When Rich went back outside, refreshed and relieved, he saw Olly nowhere—must’ve left. The twinge of regret came as a surprise, but then he noticed the open garage door, and it evaporated in a jiffy.
He found Olly leaning over the unfinished sideboard, brushing his hand over the naked wood, even sniffing it. There was something suggestive in the way he did it, in the expression of bliss on his face. “I love the smell of wood,” he said, glancing up. “You made this, didn’t you?” His voice was full of warmth and sunlight, and it dug under Rich’s skin.
Rich didn’t know how to respond to this kind of enthusiasm directed at him and had a hard time meeting Olly’s gaze. He shrugged. “I did. No biggie.” In truth, he was rather proud of his work—a solid piece of furniture with two compartments with doors to the sides and three drawers in between. All handmade and meticulously put together. He just needed to stain it and put on the hardware. It would look good in the dining room when he was finished.
Olly couldn’t be shut down so easily. “Are you fucking kidding me? This is some quality workmanship. You could make big bucks with this.”
“Hm.”
“When I moved out from my parents’ place, I went to one of those unfinished furniture places in North Hollywood, thinking I’d find something cheap there. Yeah, right. I ended up getting some particleboard stuff from IKEA instead. This”—Olly knocked on wood—“is a whole other class.”
“What do you know about cabinetmaking?”
“Not a thing, but I have eyes.” Olly stepped back and squinted at the sideboard, the antique handles and hinges lined up on top, and the doors and drawer inserts sitting to the side. “Same style as the house. Craftsman?”
“They call it mission style, but yeah, it’s the same thing.” It was strange to talk furniture with someone genuinely interested. His friends in the past, even Julie, had regarded his hobby with polite disinterest.
“Can you do other styles too?”
“Sure. Definitely, based on existing plans, though I can make up my own designs. Takes longer, though.”
“How long have you been making furniture?”
“Since I made a stool in wood shop in high school.” He fell in love with the smell and feel of the wood and the whole process of taking raw materials and shaping them into something new and useful. “It’s just a hobby.”
Olly pursed his lips. “Yeah, and Michael Jordan just liked to toss a ball around in his free time. Have you thought of going into business with this? Sounds more fun to me than house painting or whatever general contracting stuff you do.”
Rich had considered it, especially in the last six months, but there was one little catch. “Starting a business takes money, and I’m dead broke.” All he had managed to rescue from his previous life were his tools and his bike.
“Oh.” Olly chewed on his lower lip—he seemed to be thinking hard, but Rich found the sight perturbing for other reasons.
Rich turned and switched the light off on his way out of the garage. He hoped it would make Olly stop fondling his handiwork. He heard a murmured dickhead from behind—his plan had worked. Now he just had to figure out how to politely get rid of Olly. Maybe he could find something antisocial to do. He looked around. Mowing the grass sounded like an excellent choice—assuming his sister owned a lawnmower.
He spotted the pile of mail Sandy had left behind. As he picked it up, photographs fell out of a big orange envelope. He couldn’t help but see their contents as he crouched to collect them. The photos showed a road in a forest, or maybe a park, and one of them a trashcan. Totally fucking weird. Unable to resist his curiosity, Rich looked into the envelope and pulled out the single printed sheet inside. He barely read a few lines before he started seeing red.
The letter was rude and full of vague threats of “exposure”, and its author demanded money. The photos were of the location of the drop-off.
“Son of a bitch!” Olly’s growl made Rich jump. He hadn’t noticed Olly sneaking up behind him. “Sorry,” Olly added.
Rich stood. “Do you know who’s blackmailing Sandy and why?” The fact that his normally over-sharing sister hadn’t said a peep about this bothered him.
“I have no idea.”
“You’re the one all up in her business,” Rich said in a tone of accusation.
If Olly were a paint color, right then he would’ve been Pink Fury. “Hey!” He seemed to have more to say, but his lips froze half-parted. They were pink too, but a darker shade—Rich noted. The lips moved again. “Yesterday!”