“Thanks, but no thanks.” I resist the urge to walk faster, which will just make the limp more pronounced, and I hate feeling like I’m flailing and staggering down the sidewalk. I’ve worked hard to pass for someone who hasn’t spent his whole life as a disabled person, to get strangers to take me seriously in business and personal life, and I don’t want to feel those nasty inferior feelings that plague me when I least expect them.
The woman looks at me incredulously, still following at my side. “Seriously? A hot piece like me offers to party with you, absolutely free of charge, and you’re actually turning me down? Is my breath bad? Do I have something in my teeth? Are you not into girls with short hair? You like those exotic, big-assed types, don’t you?”
I sigh, a snake of irritation wiggling up my spine. This chick’s plotting out our happily ever after in the tone of her voice and the authority in her gaze. Just because a woman is hot, it doesn’t necessarily follow that she’s desirable. “What if I tell you I’m gay? Will that end this conversation?”
She sizes me up, then shakes her head. “Nah, you’re definitely not gay. I can always tell.”
Shit. I really hoped that line would work, but her instincts are too good.
“So what’s your deal?” she continues, click-clacking along next to me in her stiletto heels. In my heightened state of anxiety and annoyance, the cement echoes could be enough to drive me insane. “Are you part of that cult-like thing? The order of the new celibates?”
“Yes, that’s it,” I snap at her. “I’ve gifted my dick to God as a religious sacrifice. Okay? Now, will you please leave me alone?”
She raises her eyebrows and backs off. “All right, all right, there’s no need to be a prick about it. Jesus, I’m sorry I said you were good looking and I wanted to fuck you. I can’t imagine how you would recover from an insult like that. Thanks for the self-esteem boost, asshole. I hope you die in a fire.” She gives me the finger and crosses the street, already looking for another man to accost.
I sigh again, as relief flows over me, soothing every cell firing with anxiety.
If Nixon saw me turn down hot and free pussy, he’d never let me hear the end of it even though his happy marriage makes the stuff of Vegas legends. He and Aunt Marcella just celebrated twenty years together. He still looks at her like she hung the moon. Maybe someday I’ll look at a woman like that. But not until after I dominate the Vegas real estate scene and not a cheap piece of ass.
Nix and the rest of my family have managed to make a tremendous amount of money. Nixon owns a casino called The Armónico, one of the most profitable attractions in Las Vegas. He’s practically royalty in this town.
When the 2020s slid into the 2030s, a breakthrough in nanotechnology and brain implants were born, and my brother was able to send me to Switzerland and Japan to see specialists and receive the finest medical treatment money can buy. Thanks to a series of surgeries, some fairly innovative medications, and a whole lot of physical therapy, I can pass for someone who’s never had cerebral palsy. All that’s left is a slight limp, which becomes more noticeable when I’m rushing or anxious.
And right now, I’m both of those things.
I move a little faster, trying not to hobble.
Back when I had bouts of dependence on my wheelchair, I used to look at the beautiful, fascinating, vivacious women my brothers would hook up with, and I’d get jealous. Women like that never even looked at me twice, and why would they? I didn’t have the physical presence and cool swagger that Nixon and the others had. I couldn’t stand rakishly in a corner at a swanky party, wearing a perfectly-tailored tuxedo and suavely sipping a martini like James Bond.
Hell, I couldn’t even dress myself without help, and trying to eat without spilling anything was an adventure due to the palsy’s effects on my muscles and coordination. I dreamed of sidling up to lovely ladies, making them laugh, seducing them…
Fucking them into oblivion until they became addicted to me. I used to fantasize about my male prowess. But before the treatments, my prowess was just a pretty lie all wrapped up in a bow that my mind told itself to escape the harsh glare of reality. And then, everything changed.
Now, I’m the one who can have any woman he wants, and my older brothers are all married with families. They envy me.
Only one challenge came from the birth of the new and improved Lincoln Caldwell. I look at every sweet female differently too. No matter how stunning they are or how much they seem to want to date me, I can’t appreciate their physical beauty anymore. All I can see are people who are so ugly inside that they didn’t want anything to do with me before, and now that I fit their ideal of being attractive, they smile and giggle at my jokes and make double-entendres designed to get me into bed.
Fake. As. Shit.
Frankly, it disgusts me. And instead of making me forget how I used to be, their behavior toward me just reminds me over and over. I’ve rejected so many of them I got a reputation for being cold and rude, and I didn’t discourage it. The only tail I indulge in now is tail that leaves in the morning and never asks for seconds. This is a repeat free zone.
And if I don’t get to live that perfect white picket fence existence like my four brothers, that’s fine by me. Work is my mistress. She can be my wife too.
Once I could function on my own, Nixon helped set me up as a real estate agent. Since I was six years old, talking to Marcella about things during therapy, I announced I’d be the highest earning agent Las Vegas had ever seen. And at only twenty-four, I’m almost there.
Throughout the process, I discovered that I’m extremely good at it – with my family connections, I was able to attract wealthy clients and match them with the perfect homes. There’s something satisfying to me about seeing the potential in homes that are for sale and helping to turn that potential into a reality, just as Nixon saw my potential and never gave up on helping me reach it.
Within a short time, I became known as one of the city’s most prominent real estate professionals. Still, my goal is to become the most prominent, and I’ve got a solid plan to make that happen.
There’s a new show on the Bravo network called Million Dollar Listings – Las Vegas. I have a gorgeous home on the market that would be ideal for it, and I was able to connect with one of the program’s producers. If I can make sure the house is staged perfectly – and I mean perfectly – then I’ll be on an episode, and my business will skyrocket. Maybe they’ll even offer me a deal for repeat episodes.
Deal done.
I can become the go-to person for any wealthy person who wants to buy property in Vegas. I’ll be the best in my chosen field, just like Nixon. I’ll be able to show him and Aunt Cella I can truly and finally look out for myself, after all the years they spent taking care of me. I’ll be more than self-sufficient…I’ll be a king in my own right.
The staging part has me on edge. None of the local staging companies float my boat. They don’t have my attention to detail. My gusto for the business. My almost herculean strength to propel myself to the top.
I reach the high-rise condo of my life-long friend Jonathan Doehner and knock on the door. A button calls to me, but I feel like knocking communicates my urgency more clearly while allowing me to pound out my irritation with the incident with the happy hooker at the same time.
I’m all about multi-tasking. In my business, it’s crucial. A minute later, the door opens, and Jon pokes his head out, chin covered in thick stubble, brown hair an unkempt nest of cowlicks going in every direction.
“‘Sup, bro?” he asks. Based on how red his eyes are – and the green, pungent smell that wafts out of the apartment – I’m guessing he’s been smoking pot and staring at his computer screen for hours.
“I haven’t heard from her,” I say immediately, my voice tinged with impatience. “Please don’t tell me you’ve led me astray on the most important deal of my life.”
He puts up a hand to pacify me and opens the door wider, gesturing for me to enter. “Hey
, chill out, Broseph Stalin. Come on in. Take a hit, it’ll calm your tight ass down.”
I step in, and the smell grows even stronger, a rainforest haze that makes my eyes water. Clouds of purplish smoke hang in the air. A spongy mound of freshly-ground marijuana sits on the desk next to his laptop, as well as a grinder and several pouches of the cigarillos he uses for blunts.
“Want to smoke a bowl?” He gestures to the cacophony of pot paraphernalia. “It’s perfect for what ails you. I promise.”
I roll my eyes, taking a seat on the couch. “You know I never touch that stuff.”
He lifts a shoulder and lets it drop while his eyes twinkle as much as glassy ones can. Making a choking motion with both hands, he rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but I keep offering, hoping you’ll give it a try and finally loosen the hell up a little. It’s like you’ve got your tie wrapped around your neck and a two by four up your ass.”
Most people would be confused about my friendship with Jon since we come from such different backgrounds. But honestly, I think that’s the reason I get along with him so well. Stepping into his casual, easygoing, low-stress world gives me a much-needed vacation from the high-stakes life I grew up in with my brothers. Hanging out with him gives me perspective, reminds me not to take everything so seriously.
He’s like a human vacation.
“Before we jump into it,” he says, lighting a blunt and taking a puff, “pardon my rudeness, but I just need to check the site real quick.” He plops down in his desk chair and logs onto a website called photobombardiers.com, scrolling through the rows of photos until he finds just the one he wants.
Oddly, this site is the source of most of Jon’s income, not to mention the hobby that seems to consume his every waking moment these days. I guess it’s a good thing that a pothead can make a good living working mostly from home.
It’s a popular online contest where people photobomb TV celebrities. They’re awarded points based on the prominence of the celebrity, the level of difficulty, and the overall humor of the picture, and then they can exchange those points for money and prizes. It’s been around for about a year, and it’s gotten a lot of publicity and drawn in huge corporate sponsors. In fact, in some ways, it seems like the damn thing’s becoming the new “fantasy football” from when I was a kid.
Jon’s always been big on moneymaking fads, but with this latest venture, he’s taken that to a whole new level. It’s almost all he talks about, and when he’s not glued to the computer screen, he’s crashing parties where celebs are rumored to make appearances and shoving his way into the backgrounds of people’s pictures as often as possible.
He chose the screen name “John Doe,” even though I warned him about stupidity laced with overuse. Not to mention the moniker is generally associated with dead people, historically unsuccessful in pursuing their chosen endeavors. He laughed and told me to fuck right off.
“Oh, you have got to be shitting me.” His normally chill voice gains two octaves as he examines one of the photos on the site. “Who the hell is this JSI dweeb, and how in the hell does he keep one-upping me? He’s on my last nerve. I may need to smoke some more to calm myself down. Dammit!”
I glance over his shoulder. On the screen, there’s a picture of that old dancing comedy chick who used to have a talk show that my aunt used to watch. Ellen DeGeneres. She’s at a party, posing happily with a gap-toothed female fan. Behind them, someone wears a paper mask of Anne Heche and flips Ellen the bird. I chuckle in spite of myself – even I have to admit that’s pretty funny. But Ellen’s nearly eighty now, and she can’t be worth that many points anymore. At least not like back in her talk show heyday.
“Don’t you dare laugh at that,” Jon hisses the warning, taking another hit from the blunt to calm himself. “This asswipe constantly makes my life miserable. No matter who I photobomb or how funny I make it, I scroll down, and there he is with bigger celebs, getting more points than I am. And always in masks. I mean, masks? What kind of corny gimmick is that supposed to be? That’s not funny. Any idiot can wear a damn mask. Here, take a look, here’s another one…”
Jon scrolls to another picture. The Rock is taking a photo in a restaurant with a guy in an ugly sweater, and behind them, someone wears a silly rubber mask of former president Richard Nixon and holds a novelty cigar the size of a tree branch.
“Now, I ask you, is that funny?” Jon demands.
I shrug. “Well, I don’t think so, but to be fair, I’ve never really found ex-presidents that funny. Since that one is named after my favorite brother, I plead the fifth.”
“Fair point.” He takes a final puff from the blunt, stubs it out, and takes a cleansing breath, turning away from the screen. “All right. So, what seems to be the trouble, Little Bro Peep?”
I usually find his brother from another mother puns amusing, but this time I’m not in the mood. “I told you I needed an impeccable home stager to get me onto MDL-LV.” I give him a hard look. “Impeccable, Jon. That was the word I used, specifically. Not ‘good,’ not ‘adequate,’ not ‘suitable.’ I said ‘impeccable’ because, in this situation, nothing else would be acceptable.”
“Yeah, yeah, and I found you one, didn’t I? That lady, what’s her name…Courtney? No…Chloe, that’s it. Sanderson. Everything online said she’s the best new home stager in the country. Nothing but glowing reviews. A real up-and-comer. Much like yourself.”
“Then why the hell haven’t I heard from her?” I try to keep my voice calm, but the frustration seeps through anyway. “It’s been almost a week since I hired her, and still no word.”
He stares right through me. “Have you tried calling her?”
“She is supposed to call me and tell me she’s finished,” I growl through clenched teeth. “It’s called professionalism.”
“Well, maybe she’s not finished yet. Maybe she’s putting extra time and effort into this project because it’s so important. Would that really be so bad?”
Jon throws his hands up in a mock surrender while a thousand insults fire through my brain waiting to be hurled at the unprofessional bitch. My career’s on the line here.
“She should be giving me updates, sending me photos of her progress. What if I don’t like what she’s doing, and there’s no time to change it once she’s finished?”
“Try to exhibit some calmness, Bro-Tell-It-On-The-Mountain. You hired her because she’s the best. So hang back, be patient, and let her be the best.” His words are an attempt to reassure me, I know, but instead, it ratchets up my irritation.
My heart does a stuttering stop. “And where’s she from? South Carolina or something like that?”
Jon re-lights the blunt, and I wonder again how someone can possibly smoke as much as he does without passing out. I start to feel high from secondhand smoke. “South Dakota, I think.”
“Right. South Dakota. Why the hell didn’t I hire someone from a real place, like New York or LA? This home is supposed to look like the height of wealth, luxury, and style, just waiting for a multimillionaire to move in and make it his castle…and she’ll probably decorate it to look like a Cracker Barrel off the interstate, with wooden rocking chairs and maybe a taxidermy moose head. I never should have let you talk me into this.”
He sighs as the exasperated air leaves his smoke-filled lungs. “Look, maybe you could have hired some big-time ‘home stager to the stars,’ but you want to get on MDL-LV. Fine. From what I’ve heard, the only person in the world who wants that as much as you do is this Chloe person, and she knows you’re her ticket. So you know she’s going to bust her ass on this thing, use all her tricks and skills, and give it her full and undivided attention. She’s not going to half-ass it or screw you on it because she’s too busy decorating a mansion for Blue Ivy or whatever. Believe me, you made the right decision.”
As the smoke begins to clear, I flare my nostrils. The blowback fogs my head. “Then why doesn’t she call?”
Jon lets out a frustrated grunt. “Okay, you’re my frie
nd, and I want to be there for you, but if you’re just going to start repeating yourself, I’ll need you to leave. I’ve got work to do.”
“Work? This is what you call work? Showing up at a party uninvited so you can ruin the selfie someone’s trying to take with some ancient talk show host?”
He shrugs. “It pays the bills.”
When I leave and close the door behind me, I can hear him wheezing pot smoke and mumbling to himself: “JSI, fucking JSI…probably stands for Just Some Imbecile, or Jerk Sucks Ass…no, wait, that’s an A, not an I…damn…”
As I walk down his hallway toward the elevator, my smartwatch buzzes. I yank back my sleeve and check the caller ID screen.
It’s her.
Chapter Three
Chloe
I walk around the furnished home, examining every detail. Nothing escapes my notice. My heart does a little jump for joy at what I’ve created with a little help from Jamie.
Perfection.
It’s not just the items, or even necessarily their placement. It’s the way everything feels – natural, welcoming, lived-in. Even when they’ve been staged, most homes look like TV sets, the objects, and furniture as lifeless and sterile as props handled by actors. My heart sings, just like it always does when I’ve knocked it out of the park.
Inside this little mansion, everything my eye falls on seems to tell a story, and that’s exactly what I want…to capture the imagination of a family looking at this place, to make them feel like their own happy story sits right here, waiting for them to star in the movie of their family’s creation.
Hopefully, this home will lead me to my happy story of being on MDL-LV. I puff out my chest and square my shoulders. Just for shits and giggles, I put my hands on my hips in Wonder Woman pose. I feel powerful. Unstoppable.
I know this home will convince Lincoln Caldwell that such a story is possible since he’s on his way here now. And in a few minutes, I’ll finally know what all the fuss is about. Seems the guy has a cloud of admiration floating over his head.
On The House (Caldwell Brothers Book 7) Page 2
