Dirty Money

by Jessica Clare

  He looks concerned now, reaching out to take my arm and steer me away from the others. I jerk away from him but head in the direction he’s going, because I want answers. “Insulting? Did he say something to you?”

  “He acted like I was one of the hands. Zero respect for me or the business. Thought dowsing was a shit idea and tried to tell me how to run things.”

  Bates only rubs his chin. “I can understand having a difference of opinion, and he’s a corporate guy. Of course he doesn’t understand dowsing.” The look he gives me is a bit condescending. “And as for one of the hands . . . well, look at you, Boone.”

  My brow goes up. “The fuck you say?”

  “Listen to how you act. Talk. Simmons is used to dealing with men in a boardroom. I told him he was going to speak to Mr. Price, the head of Price Brothers Oil, and he was expecting . . .” He shrugs, a gosh-shucks look on his fucking face.

  “A suit?” I ask drily.

  “Something like that, yeah.” He chuckles. “Of course he thought you were one of the hands. You still look and act like one.”

  Do I, now? “I got a hand for you,” I tell him and shove my middle finger in his face. “You want a partnership? Take your fucking hand and shove it up your fucking ass, you cocksucker.”

  The people standing nearby gasp audibly, loud enough for me to hear. It only pisses me off, more. I’m tired of these hoity-toity assholes sticking their noses up when I’m around. I’m just as good as them. Hell, I’m fucking better because I can buy all of them. I turn and shoot them all the bird, too.

  “Boone, be reasonable,” Bates begins.

  I ignore him. I’ve had enough of his shit. I storm away, ignoring the golf course employees that trail after me like I’m going to start attacking people. It’s fucking ridiculous.

  I’ve got half a mind to buy myself a golf course and burn the motherfucker to the ground.

  ***

  Hours later

  “And then,” Clay yells out over the jukebox wailing in the corner. “When the guy pulls out his contracts and shoves ’em in Boone’s face, Boone throws ’em on the ground and pisses all over them!”

  Gage, Knox, and Seth howl with laughter. Clay pounds a fist on the table, throwing his head back and guffawing with the others.

  “Yuk it up,” I say flatly, swigging the last of my beer. I’m still in a foul mood. Something about being insulted by a dick in a suit that thinks he’s better than me? It gets to me, every time. At least Clay’s only got this morning’s story to tell—I’m still smarting over Bates and the whole golf course bullshit. That one Clay ain’t gonna pry out of me. Let them laugh at the way I put a suit into place. I’m fine with that.

  The Bates shit? I am definitely not fine with.

  “You pulled your dick out and pissed on his papers?” Gage chuckles and raises a hand for me to high-five.

  I only scowl at him. “I was angry.”

  Still am.

  “You know Big Brother here hates it when people don’t take him seriously.” Clay reaches over and tries to grab my cap, but I grab his wrist before he can touch it. That just makes our three younger brothers laugh even harder. Gage smacks the table again, and his beer spills everywhere.

  “I’m glad someone can laugh about today,” I say sourly, staring into my beer. He looks just like one of the hands. Look at you, Boone. Of course he didn’t think you were the boss. My hand tightens on the mug. “Waste of fucking time if you ask me. Land was dry, too. Not a hint of oil.”

  “Zero? That sucks,” Knox says, tossing napkins down on Gage’s spilled beer while Seth flags down a waitress. The trucker bar we’re drinking at is crowded, and all of our drinks are nearly dry. No one’s hovering over us to make sure that the Price brothers—all billionaires—get cold, fresh drinks.

  Funny how I’m okay with that here, and not out in the field. Maybe because here, we’re all anonymous wallets. Out in the business world, I should be top dog, and instead, everyone fucking acts like I’m some sort of criminal that just waltzed in. Like I don’t belong. I could buy every damn oil rig in West Texas and everyone would still turn their noses up like I’m some sort of idiot. It’s bullshit and I’m damn sick of it.

  I think of that golf course and the jackasses in their pink shirts, giving me horrified looks. Like I dared to show up on their turf.

  Their turf. I could fucking buy their turf and fucking salt it and they’d never grow another blade of grass there again. I could turn it into a fucking pig farm.

  “You’re still pissed,” Gage realizes, sobering.

  “I am.” I drain the last of my lukewarm beer and put the empty glass at the end of the table.

  “I don’t get why it’s such a big deal,” Gage says.

  “Because we’re rich. We’re good with our money. And people that should respect us treat us like we’re fucking ticks on a dog’s ass.”

  Clay just snorts. “Worse ’n that.”

  He’s not helping.

  “So we’re trash,” Gage chimes in. “So what’s the big deal? We might as well own it.” He grins and rips one sleeve off of his T-shirt, then the other. Knox hoots with laughter, clapping him on the shoulder. Clay just rolls his eyes.

  “Because it should matter. We should matter. I want respect.” I think of all the assholes in my life that did me dirty, and it burns in my gut. I’ve worked hard to get to where we’re at today, harder than most men. I want the assholes that sit down with me in boardrooms and out in the field to realize I know what I’m talking about. That I’m not just a dumb roughneck that struck it rich. That I took that money and turned it into an empire in the space of a few years. That I make more money in the time it takes for me to wipe my ass than they’ll make in a lifetime.

  Maybe that makes me an arrogant prick, but I don’t fucking care. I want people to tremble when they see me. I want those pencil-dicks in suits to quail when I arrive, not turn their noses up at me. I want them to know who’s in charge.

  “It’s all image, brother,” Seth says, returning with the waitress. She’s pretty, with brassy blonde hair and tits that are overflowing her too-tight shirt. She smiles at me but I just nudge my glass in her direction. Ain’t got time for waitresses. Those don’t get a man respect, especially not this one. We come to this bar regularly and I’ve seen her sneak into the back with more than one trucker. If she wants a good time, she ain’t getting it from me.

  “You’re one to talk,” Clay calls out to Seth, and mockingly runs his hands through his hair. “Oh, look at me, I’m Seth and I’m using product.”

  Our entire table bursts into laughter, and I even crack a smile. Seth comes around the edge of the table and puts Clay in a headlock, smirking. Clay just grabs at Seth’s shirt and tries to haul our littlest brother over his shoulder before he gets choked out.

  The waitress ignores our roughhousing and switches the beers out. She casts me one last heated look before giving up and returning to the bar.

  “I’m right, though,” Seth says to me, even though Clay’s got the flat of one hand in his face. “It’s image. S’all fuckin’ image, bro. Why do you think those dumbasses wear suits everywhere?”

  I shrug, but I’m pondering his words. He ain’t wrong. “I’m not cutting my beard.”

  “No one’s saying you gotta cut your beard, Boone,” Knox comments, taking a swig of his beer and then swapping it with Seth’s full glass. “Just, you know. Class it up.”

  I grunt. “I don’t even know how.” I am who I am, and if the world doesn’t like it, they can suck my dick.

  “Get yourself a big house.”

  “I got a house.” Well. Sorta. I got a trailer. But I also don’t have a family and I work a lot, so a house isn’t big on the priority list. But maybe Knox is right.

  “Get a bigger one. Big car. A classy lady.” Gage wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Spend some of that mo
ney you hold on to so tightly.”

  “You mean like you?” I drawl. Gage loves to live the good life. He takes his buddies on vacations, buys them cars, and has an endless cycle of new female friends in his life. Maybe he’s right, though. It ain’t me, but . . . maybe I need to change. Maybe I need to start throwing my money around if I want people to respect me instead of look at me like I’m some dumbass hillbilly.

  “Nah, my lady friends aren’t quite to the caliber you need,” Gage replies. He picks up the advertisement card at the end of our table and holds it out. “Like this one here. She looks like a classy broad.”

  I take the advertisement from him and study it. We come in here every weekend, usually after a long drive out from Odessa, and I’ve never once noticed the pamphlets they litter the ends of the tables with. This one’s bland and boring, for the most part. It’s a picture of three men and a slender, pale blonde standing at their side. Three Jacks Real Estate. San Antonio’s Premiere Living Experts. The guys in suits don’t interest me, but the woman does. She’s wearing a cream-colored suit with a tapered skirt, and it makes her legs look fucking amazing. She’s tiny, but those legs look like they go on for miles. I like a girl with long legs, so they can wrap around me when I fuck her.

  I’m a simple man.

  The rest of her’s pretty nice, if a little preppy and stiff. Her tits are decent sized, which means small enough to not be fake. Her hair’s a soft, smooth gold pulled back into a ponytail, and her face is real dainty with a pointy little chin and big eyes. She’s wearing a strand of pearls at her neck, and no other jewelry. She’s not flashy, but from top to bottom? She looks classy.

  And I wonder what she’d look like with her mouth on my dick, my hand on that ponytail of hers.

  Like I said, I’m a simple man.

  I study the picture for a while longer, then glance over at Knox. “You know these people?”

  He shakes his head and carefully switches his half-empty glass with Gage’s full one when Gage is eyeing a piece of tail by the bar. Knox is a sneaky bastard, but that’s par for the course. “Saw the flyers, that’s all. But she looks like a lady to me.”

  I gaze at the picture, scratching at my jaw. That she does. From the lines of her elegant skirted suit to the smooth fall of her hair—even to them small tits—she screams class. And while I usually don’t have time to pursue a woman—business is the only relationship I’m in—I have to admit she appeals to my animal instincts. Maybe it’s that sweet, gentle smile on her face or the perfection of her appearance. Maybe it’s those legs. Either way, I picture her in my bed, rumpled from a good round of fucking . . . and I’m interested.

  Someone like her? She’d class things up just by walking into a room. And a girl like her wouldn’t have anything to do with a guy like me. Not before I got rich, that is. “All right. I’ll take her.”

  “You mean someone like her?” Clay asks, amused.

  “No, I mean her. I like the way she looks.” I study the picture a moment longer and then tuck it into my back pocket. I’m gonna jerk off to it later, picturing that sweet, pink bow of a mouth closing over the head of my cock. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea.

  A classy woman. Yeah. One to stand at my side and look like a peach, and make all those other bastards jealous. One I can dirty up and show just what a roughneck likes between the sheets.

  I like this idea. I like it a lot.

  But Clay just laughs, and even Knox looks amused. “It ain’t a girlfriend catalog,” Clay comments. “It’s an advertisement. You don’t know nothin’ about her.”

  “I know she’s classy. That’s all I need to know.”

  “If she’s so classy, how you gonna get her to date you?” Knox raises an eyebrow at me. He takes a sip of his drink and I notice it’s full. Again. I wonder how he does that—switching glasses without anyone ever noticing. And then I wonder what else he switches when we’re not paying attention.

  “I’m rich, ain’t I? That convinces a lot of women.”

  “Not the ones worth having,” Clay adds.

  He’s got a point. I stroke my beard thoughtfully. “You said I needed a fancy house. I guess I’ll have her sell me one.”

  “What if she’s married?” Knox adds. “You still want her then?”

  I frown at them and pull the picture back out of my pocket. “Ain’t married,” I say after a moment, studying her small hands. “No ring.”

  “She’s the ad candy,” Clay points out. “Put a pretty girl in there with all the sausages in suits so guys like ol’ Boone here think they have a shot if they go in and buy a house.” He elbows me, grinning. “Works, too.”

  “You’re a dick,” I tell him, and thump the picture. “And you’re just jealous you didn’t see her first.”

  “Nah,” Clay says. “I like my women a little rough around the edges.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “So when you gonna meet Miss Classy and scope her out?”

  I eye Miss Classy in the picture, and my gaze goes down to those long legs. Might be nice to get laid before the weekend, if I can talk this sweet piece into it. I’ve never dated a classy girl before, so maybe she ain’t that type. She might be cold. Hell, she might fuck with that same starchy look on her face. That’s a depressing thought.

  Only one way to find out, though. “Guess I go house hunting tomorrow.”

  My brothers just smirk.

  Chapter Two

  Ivy

  A familiar tweed suit passes by the print room while I’m standing over the copier. I immediately abandon my task and race after him. “Oh! Jack! I didn’t realize you were in the office! Wait up!” I hate that I have to scramble after him—in heels, no less—but the bastard’s not slowing down an iota. I hobble after him on the marble floors of Three Jacks Real Estate’s swanky office, hoping I don’t fall on my ass and make a fool of myself in front of the others. When Jack doesn’t stop, I have to speed up just to catch him. “Jack!”

  He finally stops, right at the front doors of the office, and frowns at me like I’m an annoying puppy. “What is it, Ivy? I’m on my way out the door, as you can see.” He gestures at the large glass double doors like I’m an idiot. “Let’s make this fast.”

  “Of course!” I put on my fake, cheeriest realtor smile. “I was just going to say that my day is clear, and I know LaDonna had that big house on Forsyth that was scheduled to have a showing. I’ve made flyers—well, actually, they’re on the copier right now—and I can go handle things, maybe pass out a few cards—”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Is LaDonna out?”

  “Um, she’s having an emergency appendectomy, remember?” I bite my lip as he continues to look blank. “It was emailed out to everyone?”

  “Mmmhmmm?” The look on his face tells me he didn’t read it, or doesn’t care.

  “So I thought I’d pitch in and help with her listing for today? It’s a really great house and I’ve researched the neighborhood, and I can chat with some prospective buyers and—”

  His lips purse and he holds up a finger. “The house is on Forsyth?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the Twin Oaks development?”

  I nod. It’s the hottest area in the suburbs at the moment, and there’s a waiting list for properties. This one’s a little pricey but I also know it’ll fly off the market within days. It’s such a big opportunity.

  “How much is the list price?”

  There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I ignore it. I have to. I’m this far in. “It’s listed as one point one million.”

  Jack pulls out his phone and starts to type. “Street address?”

  I give it to him.

  “Great. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Oh,” I say, fighting the crushing disappointment I’m feeling. “But I can do it, really. I’ve done comps and I’ve got flyers ready and—”


  “Now, Ivy. You said it’s a million-dollar house, right? It’s been a lean month for the company and we need to make sure we land all the commissions we can.” His tone goes condescending. “And I just don’t know that you’re the right person to take on such a big task.”

  “I can absolutely do it, Jack—”

  “Now, if I wanted an ice cream cone, you’d be the first one I’d call.” He winks at me, the jerk. Winks. Like it’s a funny joke. “But for a million-dollar listing? Let’s make sure someone with a lot more experience handles it, all right? Oh, and I’ll take those flyers, too.” He gives me a I’m-the-man-around-here look. “And can you grab me a coffee while you’re in the copy room? Super. I’ll wait right here.” He winks. “Make it snappy. I’ve got an open house to handle.”

  “Right. Sure.” I force a smile to my face and turn on my heel, heading back toward the copy room to retrieve the flyers I’ve been working on all morning.

  It’s not fair. It’s so not fair. Every time something decent even comes close to landing in my lap, one of my bosses is there to snatch it away again. I’m stewing as I snatch the stack of copies from the machine and tuck them under my arm, then head to the coffeemaker. Get him a coffee while I’m at it? Like I’m his freaking secretary? But he’s also the boss, so I’m stuck. I eye the two coffeepots on the burner. One’s nothing but dregs, and the other’s a fresh pot. I grab a paper cup, tip the dregs into the cup, and then march back out the door to hand Jack the flyers about the house I know I could sell today, if I was given the chance.

  He gives me another wink as he turns to go. “Thanks for the tip, Ivy. Good work.”

  I watch him leave, my fists clenched. I’m stewing with helpless frustration. Thwarted yet again. Thanks for the tip. Like it was a freaking tip? That was my hours of hard work. That was my opportunity that he snatched away. And if I keep thinking about it, I’m going to puke with anger. So I take a deep breath, smooth a hand down the front of my suit, and calmly walk back to my desk in the back of the office, tucked near the bathrooms. A client is strolling out of the men’s room and I keep a poised smile on my face. I’m composed until I sit down and put my hands on my keyboard. Calm. Rational.