Not for Sale

by Eden Rayna

  She tries to look ambivalent, but she can’t pull it off. Partially because she’s licking her bottom lip, but mostly because she’s the type of woman who wears her emotions on her sleeve. I bet she’s terrible at poker and amazing in the sack with that inability to hide her thoughts.

  She didn’t come here to ask about my tattoos or have a little peek at my cock. She isn’t here to sell me her place, either. She needs a favour, and she isn’t happy about it.

  Without further delay, Princess gives a slow blink and says, “Mrs. Morrow would like me to have a look at the lighting fixture in the dining room next-door. Please,” she adds after a beat.

  “Fine.”

  I step outside and force her backwards. For a second, our timing is off, and I get too close. My arm brushes against hers and we both jerk away like we’ve been shocked with a cattle prod, searing us with the burn of lust and desire.

  I thrust my arm out, indicating that she should go ahead of me. This way I’ll get a delightful view of her swaying hips as she climbs down the stairs of one duplex and up the stairs to the other. I’m entitled to get something from this request too. At the same time, I’ll get to shift my thickening cock into a more comfortable, hopefully less evident, position.

  I retrieve the key from the lockbox and let her inside. I don’t have to ask her to remove her shoes to ensure the floors remain pristine for prospective buyers. She kicks one leg behind her and pulls on the long, thin heel to take it off, then does the same with the other shoe. She cracks the toes on both feet and lets out a satisfied whistle on the relief-fuelled exhale of being flat-footed again. I crouch to untie the laces on my work boots, expecting that she’ll move off the door mat right away. Instead, I’m met with the up-close sight of her milky legs as she stands still, gathering her initial impressions of the house from the entranceway.

  My fingers stall on my laces—a good place to stop given where I want to put them. While she examines my work, I submit to our proximity; exploring from her painted toes over the curve of her calf, into the dip behind her knee, to the base of her skirt. My heart beats hard against my ribs, keeping pace with each inch of skin I caress with my eyes.

  A moment ago, I was an angry businessman; now I’m a horny teenager. All without her having said a single word. Like me, she’s a natural at silent communication. Her very presence here is getting a rise out of the competition.

  Princess finally takes her first steps beyond the foyer, peering briefly into the two front rooms then walking straight through as though she’s been in here before and knows exactly where the kitchen and dining room are. It pleases me how she reads the flow for the house.

  She glosses over the state-of-the-art appliances in the kitchen and focusses on the smaller details of faucets and lighting. I let her peruse in silence and watch her facial expressions as she studies the choices we made, although I’d be lying if I wasn’t curious about her opinion. As a designer, she would see things differently than Scott and me, and it’s already well-known that we don’t love our current designer who made these choices.

  After all the years of doing this job and having hundreds of people, lay and professional, scrutinise my work, watching Princess is more disquieting than any other time I’ve been through this process.

  She drags her fingers across the counter like she’s getting a feel for the particular slab of stone. She runs her hand along the backside of each bar stool. Her head swivels in all directions as she coordinates the pieces in her mind and decides whether she likes the way it’s come together.

  Maybe liking this residence will be the catalyst to selling me hers. Perhaps she’ll find the clue that tells her I’ll care for Iris’ property and do it justice.

  “Hm,” she says through closed lips as we reach the end of the kitchen. It doesn’t come out as positive or negative and I’m unsure if the sound was meant for me to hear or if it was as subconscious as cracking her toes.

  She turns to the left and enters the formal dining area, separated from the kitchen by a low hutch. Her eyes move upwards to the light fixture Mrs. Morrow is interested in. Princess bobs her head in approval. It’s the first outward sign she’s given that she’s pleased with something, although I’m not sure if it’s because she thinks it’s a good choice for her client or because it’s nice in this context.

  Her ambivalence gets under my skin. I suspect she knows that and keeps it up on purpose.

  “That’ll do. Can I please get the model number?”

  If she’s as good as she thinks she is, she knows who manufactures this fixture and can probably pinpoint the page in the catalogue without my help.

  “I’ll have to go through my invoices,” I tell her, expressing I’m busy and she can wait.

  Princess looks at me for the first time since entering the house.

  “Surely you can set aside ten minutes for our mutual client.” She doesn’t hesitate calling me petty.

  Her pointing out my pettiness angers me. Instead, I stride to the foyer.

  “Are you done?”

  I can tell from the pause that she’d like to see the rest of the house. She’ll have to ask for permission because I won’t offer. I like to see her squirm. Her squirming in the bedroom upstairs would be better.

  Good thing for both of us she opts for her shoes instead.

  Chapter 16

  Izzy

  Dammit. That house is beautiful. The workmanship is top-notch and, although they don’t like their designer, the choices are solid. The finishes are ultra-modern, sleek, and minimalist. There’s no hardware to be seen in the kitchen to spoil the lines of the glossy cabinetry. The staging is well done, too, and highlights the spaciousness of each room—a prize in inner-city housing.

  Back in my house—my empty shell of a house—concerns about my desire to modernise it redouble. It doesn’t matter how much I do to this old place or how much money I put into it, it will never look like the one next-door.

  The second I walked into Owen’s duplex, my stomach dropped like lead, binding my feet to the floor. Some people get excited about a marvellous piece of art. Some people get theirs from beautifully plated food. For me, there’s nothing like a perfectly functional and simultaneously stylish room. Owen’s creation not only has one space that fits the bill but an entire home. Or at least what I saw of it. After the grandstand I made about having zero intentions to view the interior, there was no way I was going to ask him to show me upstairs. Especially since I had no reason to. No professional reason, anyway.

  My body continues to buzz from the way he hovered near me as he took off his boots. I could feel him breathing on the backs of my calves. His measured breaths wafting over my bare skin. An extension of him touching me and, still, I didn’t move. I liked it. I liked that he was getting worked up at my proximity and couldn’t find the dexterity to untie his laces. I enjoyed the sensation of his eyes creeping over my legs. I liked that I made him question himself and his conscience.

  For one moment, he wasn’t in control—because of me.

  I wander through my house, remembering what it looked like for my entire life and how barren it is now. Trying to merge those images with how it will be when complete.

  I go upstairs, listening for the creak on the fourth riser. I recall how many times I skipped that stair to not wake Gran when I came home late at night on visits during university breaks. I turn down the hallway into what used to be my room. I would sit at the window that opens out to the street and design spaces for the neighbouring houses on a sketch pad. Sadly, few of those homes still stand.

  My feet carry me through the hall towards the primary suite. The emptiness of it all leaves me with a gaping feeling. With Gran gone and her house stripped bare, I have no links left to her or to my parents. Nothing except what’s packed into boxes and the memories floating around in my head. The room that Mom grew up in is to the studs and subfloor. So is the kitchen where she ate her meals and did her homework every evening.

  I head to the wind
ow that overlooks the backyard and try to envision what Gran saw when she stood in this spot. All I see is a fucking disaster. It’s actually way worse from here than it is at ground level. The tears that were threatening to fall dry up on a laugh. Gran didn’t give two shits about what the neighbours thought of her or her property. I bet that’s what made Owen the most upset. He knew he could turn this rickety old shack into a stunning home if Gran would have let him.

  I peer over the fence into the shared yard of his semi-detached homes. It’s nothing but a small patch of dirt that will soon be home to a small patch of grass. Gran was right—the enormous homes don’t leave space for any sunlight. Whoever buys that place will have to be satisfied with their inch of greenery because a garden will never grow.

  While I silently criticise Owen’s decision to maximise house size at the expense of natural spaces, he walks out the back door. He holds his phone in his hand and stares at it like he’s either waiting for a call or has recently disconnected. Regardless, he doesn’t appear happy. Not surprising, although it’s not the normal grimace of displeasure. Not the way he was minutes ago when I left his house. He seems, I don’t know, despondent. It’s so out of place on him that it seems unreal, yet at the same time it makes him seem so much more real.

  Owen drops himself into the lone folding lawn chair and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The heels of his hands press into his eyes and his muscles sag like a balloon slowly losing its air. It’s a strikingly similar sequence to the one I went through in Mom’s room moments ago. Burdened by choices. Discouraged by life events.

  After a moment, he shifts to stare at a tattoo on his left forearm. Owen stretches his arm out and twists it, tracing his index and middle fingers along the ink from his elbow to his wrist. Pain rather than pleasure controls the movement. From this distance, I can’t make out the details of the image, but I can tell it holds a lot of meaning. All his tattoos do.

  Abruptly and causing me to flinch, Owen pushes from the chair and takes the few steps to our shared property line. He rests his forearms on top of the fence and clasps his hands together, cradling his phone between his large hands. He stares into my yard, contemplating my property in the same manner I did. I watch him with matching intensity, trying to decipher his expression. His look is hardly different from when he examined his body art. What about my home is connected to his inner turmoil?

  He’s hard to read and I’m normally so good at it. Of all the things that bother me about Owen—and there are a lot—that’s the worst. I can’t tell if he is genuinely the strong but silent type or if he’s acting that way to intimidate me while belonging in a category all his own.

  His line-of-sight drifts across the unkept yard, up the side of the house, and lands on me standing in the window. My knuckles tighten on the exposed wood frame around the glass in uneasy anticipation of the reaction he’ll have to being watched. I should be worried that I’m crossing an unneighbourly line by staring at him over our shared fence, but I’m spared by the fact that he’s staring right back—into my bedroom window, no less.

  Although it’s still summer, my breath fogs the glass as I lean in towards him. It causes my vision to obscure, and I retreat, holding my breath, waiting to see what he’ll do. He stares at me for several rapid heartbeats, possibly waiting for me to make the first move, despite how out of character it is for him to react instead of act. His expression is unchanging. It’s as if watching me makes him feel no different from peering into my dilapidated yard or at the markings on his body. All three bring about defeat.

  Why is he letting me watch him like this?

  Why am I letting him do the same?

  Are we having the same thoughts? How we don’t need the daily fight. How we have enough struggles without each other on the docket.

  His phone lights in his hand and I’m brought back to reality when his pensive state morphs into the hardened scowl I recognise well. His eyes narrow into slits and he pushes off the fence with an aggressive shove, making the structure wobble in waves.

  The conversation is brief and whoever it was didn’t have good news. Owen stomps to the door, fist clenched tightly around his phone, tension radiating from his shoulder through his fingertips. When he gets to the door, he pauses with his fingers on the handle. In what appears to be a moment of inner strife, he hesitates.

  I press my palm to the glass, watching him deliberate. His chin dips before swivelling to watch through my window again. He nods once, then pulls the door open and disappears inside.

  Chapter 17

  Owen

  There are bad decisions, and then there are Princess-level bad decisions.

  “Get down!” I scream at the two figures standing on the roof.

  I don’t use the walkway to the sidewalk. I trample across my freshly laid sod that will now have boot-shaped divots because of her.

  Her hands land on her hips before she faces me. “Excuse me?” she barks with equal force. Princess stomps her way towards the edge, and I rush forward in case she falls.

  “Get down. Now.” I repeat, although I know damn-well she heard me the first time.

  She edges the roofline like a damn mountain goat, sure of each step, while I waver beneath her like a schmuck ready to break her fall. At least she’s wearing runners today rather than those bloody high heels she torments the neighbourhood with.

  The guy she’s there with says something to her that I don’t catch, causing her simultaneously to blush and sneer.

  “Have you ever known me to put up with shit like this?” Princess points a hard finger in my direction. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.” She spits the words like she found a spider in her food.

  Tommy giggles and I shout, “Language, Princess!” Tommy giggles again.

  “I’ve heard worse from my eighty-five-year-old grandma, Owen.” I ignore Tommy’s reminder of how important my role is in his life. “I don’t think she wants you telling her what to do.” Tommy tugs on my arm.

  “Don’t you have better things to do than harass your temporary neighbours on their own property?” she says.

  Of course, I have better things to do. I always have better things to do than deal with the shit Princess cooks up. But when you’re doing that other shit, and you look out your window to see untethered people walking around on a rotten roof, priorities set in. Particularly when you’re trying to teach a young man how to be safe on a worksite.

  “Get down and I’ll leave you alone.” I hate that I’m negotiating with her. I can’t leave her there, regardless of if she’s with someone who has the word “roofer” painted on the side of his truck.

  “And if I don’t?”

  Tommy puts a fist in front of his face to hide his fit of giggles.

  The time for compromise is done. This woman is going to drive me insane. Workplace safety isn’t a joke. Putting her in her place is the only way for her to understand. Then I’ll put her in another place—far, far away from here in a new house of her own.

  In three long strides I am at the base of the ladder, gripping the sides with enough force to weld the metal slides together.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” she screams.

  And that mouth on her! Shouting profanities from the rooftop in a family neighbourhood. I climb the ladder like the house is on fire and loom above her. I stop short of hauling her over my shoulder like a firefighter. The weight of both of us on a small surface area would surely drop us both through the weak surface.

  Exhaling angry puffs of air in her face, I silently but indiscreetly show my displeasure with her defiance and how serious I am about getting her off this unsafe rooftop.

  She tilts her head to meet my angry gaze and with a threatening rumble to her voice rather than the shrill pitch I would expect from an irate woman, she screams, “Get off my roof!” She says it so loud that the roofer flinches and Tommy offers a taunting oooooh from the safety of the lawn below.

  I’d love to tell her to suit herself,
but I can’t. Danger usurps pride. She might end up over my shoulder after all.

  The volume of her misguided outrage doesn’t affect me. Her stepping backwards does, though. I put my hands up in surrender to stop her retreat before she falls off the edge. Her eyes are drawn to the rawness of my latest tattoo on the inside of my left forearm. It feels like it’s about to jump off my body as my rapid pulse throbs under the sensitive skin. She’s trying to throw me; to get me to focus on something other than getting her on solid ground.

  “I’ll go if you go.” I haggle again. I don’t want to be on this crumbling roof any more than I want her here.

  She stomps her foot while screaming, “Dammit, Owen!” But my name dies on her lips with the cracking sound of her foot busting through the weakened roof.

  My ears ring with a tinny sound. Like the residual noise after turning off power equipment, everything is blocked out for a few seconds.

  I lunge forward and catch her under her flailing arms before she plunges through completely. Gripping so hard that she’ll have bruises, I lift and set her on her feet right in front of me. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is frozen open, although no air goes in and no sound comes out. The riled flush in her cheeks has already gone pale with shock. I envelop her in my arms and draw her in, away from the gaping hole. She’s rigid and trembling against my torso, and silent for a change.

  “Breathe,” I instruct her. “Come on, take a breath.”

  I hold her tight, keeping still; making sure the roof isn’t going to collapse under my feet too. Her head rests against my chest, but she doesn’t hug me in return. Her hands grip my arms and her nails dig into my skin like claws, as though they, rather than my whole body, keep her upright.