Rich listened with half an ear but was puzzled by their excitement. “I don’t get it. Don’t you actors hate paparazzi? Protection of your privacy and all that crap?”
Olly opened his mouth but then quickly closed it, clenching his jaws as he did—as if the temptation to interact with Rich pained him. So it fell to Sandy to explain. “Once you’re famous, sure,” she said. “But when you’re a nobody, you want to be photographed as much as possible.”
“You’re not a nobody,” Rich and Olly protested in unintended unison.
Sandy beamed and called them her favorite boys. Rich noted the flush of color on Olly’s cheeks and how adamantly Olly didn’t look his way. Olly clearly didn’t cherish the idea of being lumped together with Rich. The irony tickled Rich in all the wrong places.
They were about to start painting at last when Sandy’s phone rang—it sounded like a foghorn. “I have to take this,” she announced and scurried inside.
For a minute, Rich watched Olly fussing about with the napkins and cups and avoiding eye contact with steely determination. The day was shaping up to be an awkward one. Rich decided to put the kid out of both of their miseries. He gathered the dregs of his once abundant charm. “So, Olly, it’s all right if you’d rather skip out. I can handle the job alone.”
The look Olly gave Rich was equivalent to a slap in the face. Or more like a fist to the jaw. “Fuck you, Dick.” Olly spat the words out. “I’m not here for you. I came to help Sandy out, and I’ll stay. If you don’t like it, too fucking bad. You can take your attitude and shove it up your ginger ass.” He was staring Rich down something fierce, but his smooth young face and the floppy blond hair shading his eyes ruined the effect. Like one pissed-off kitten, he was rather…NOT CUTE—Rich cut off that line of thinking real quick.
They kept glowering at each other, but Rich found it harder and harder to keep a straight face. The sillier he felt, the more his own irritation dribbled away. He didn’t even have to force his next smile. “My apologies. I meant no offense. If you wanna get down and dirty, be my guest.” Too late did he recognize the innuendo potential of his words.
Mercifully, Olly didn’t act on it. The stiff lines of his shoulder relaxed, and he finally blinked. “Well, okay, then.”
Sandy appeared, wearing different clothes than she had minutes before. “Sorry, guys, but I have to bolt. Allan—my agent—wants to meet right away, so we can accidentally run into a certain casting agent who’s about to have brunch at Spago. Allan’s brilliant—he has spies all over town. You see, there’s this movie—” She threw her hands up. “I’ll tell you later. We should postpone this whole painting thing till tomorrow.”
“Nonsense,” Olly cut in. “Rich and I’ll do fine without you. Go.”
She considered them with misgivings etched into her face. Her gaze fixed on Rich.
He shrugged. What was he supposed to do? Olly wanted to paint; Sandy wanted them to get along. “Go, sis. We’re grown men,” he said generously. “We can manage without you. It’ll be like a party.”
She didn’t seem quite convinced, but the urgency of her business won out. She rushed off, shouting, “Play nice!” over her shoulder.
Rich went to the fridge and grabbed a beer.
Rich gave Olly a swift demonstration on the use of the power roller—it was not rocket science. Of course, he could’ve commandeered the tool for himself and let Olly toil away with the manual roller, but he didn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to be an asshole enough. And anyway, the extra care needed for the old-fashioned method would do well to occupy his mind. He took the radio and fumbled with the tuner till he found a station playing something loud. Olly made no comment.
They started in the master bedroom. The only piece of furniture to cover up was the bed—they covered it up and moved it into the middle. In the master bath, Rich had to tape around the tiles and cover the fixtures, but it was easy enough. Ditto with the second bathroom. Fortunately, he’d already put a layer of primer on before he and Sandy moved in. They painted those rooms in different shades of pale green called “Lazy Caterpillar” and “Olive Martini”. Rich wondered if he could make a new career in naming paint colors. Was the world ready for “Self-loathing Gray” and “Crushing Anxiety Blue”?
They worked without exchanging more than a few words. Olly either sensed his desire or was sulking. Either was fine with Rich. Olly pulled more than his weight—Rich had to give the guy as much—and they were making good time.