Page 60 of The Bartender Special

“Oh, thank God. It’s my shampoo. Uh, Citrus Chime? One of the grooms I worked a wedding for a few years ago told me about it. It’s a salon-only brand and—to be honest, very expensive—but one I just can’t move on from.”

He whipped around, confidence restored, and went to the workbench along the opposite wall of the garage. Jack followed and put the box where he patted the tabletop. True enough, there were painting supplies inside.

Jack could still smell the citrus.

“Okay, so now we can save Roger even more money by using Callum’s stuff to paint the nursery.” He beamed. “If we do this right, no one is paying anything big for this whole boat to nursery to parade float thing.”

“Just manual labor hours. My manual labor hours.”

That amused Benny.

“I've already seen that body of yours. I doubt a little extra manual labor is going to be too much for you.”

“I didn't say I couldn't handle it,” Jack corrected. “I was just pointing out I'm the only one who's actually doing the work part so far.”

Benny shook the box.

“I'm providing the connections, thank you very much.” He pointed to Jack. “You're the hammer and I'm the one handing you the nails. Free, no-money-needed nails. That’s being frugal, and being frugal in this economy? Sexy.”

“Sexy,” Jack deadpanned.

Benny nodded, matter-of-fact.

“Pages-stuck-together sexy.”

Jack was about to run down the origin story behind that comment when something on Benny’s shoulder caught his eye.

Jack, a rabble rouser with the best of them, abandoned any plan of teasing.

His chosen silence was noticed right away.

“What?” The one syllable managed to be the highest pitched one Jack had heard from the man yet.

He held his hands up.

“It’s not that big of a deal, sweet cheeks, but I'm going to need you to not move while I get something off your should⁠—”

What had once been a spider on Benny’s shoulder became a blur of panic, movement, and screaming.

Jack wasn’t afraid of spiders—even if he was fairly sure the thing that had just crawled onto Benny’s shoulder was a rather large wolf spider—but that didn’t mean he was a fan of having one flung on him either. Then again, maybe his urge to take a step back came from the powerful screech that was filling the garage.

Jack stumbled back and watched in terrified awe as Benny headed a one-man aerobatic show. One second he was in front of Jack, the next he was in the middle of the garage, wide-eyed, loud, and cussing.

Then, he did something Jack had only ever seen in movies.

With wild abandon, Benny De Carlo threw his shirt off.

If he had been at a Mardi Gras parade, he would have been gifted several beaded necklaces in return.

“Is it still on me?” he yelled, dancing a few steps away from where his shirt had fallen. He slapped at his body and spun around to try and see his back. “Can you see it? Jack?”

Jack could see it.

Benny’s back.

Benny’s front, too.

Benny.