Sexy Bachelor

by Maggie Monroe

  “Did you get in touch with the broker?”

  “Yes. Ruth is on her way to South Padre now.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be waiting.”

  I typed out my email to Paul and hit send.

  A few minutes later I closed the condominium door behind me, spun the combination on the lock, and jogged down the stairs. If it wasn’t so damn hot I would pull the top back on my car, but this was an AC day—a scorcher even by Texas standards. I cranked the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. I wanted to run by the trailer park before lunch.

  ***

  I slammed the car door behind me and stepped onto the gravel. This was one rundown trailer park, but I smiled knowing I was standing on a goldmine.

  Half the campers were rusted from years of salty winds. Weeds struggled to grow through the sand. The picnic tables under the pavilion had more splinters than smooth spots. It looked like there used to be a swing set next to the charcoal grills, but all that was left was a cracked yellow slide. It was a dump.

  This little tract of land was at the opposite end of the island from where the Escape stood. It was littered with trailers, campers, and dissembled Jeeps. Beach towels blew on a clothesline rigged between two boats. I walked toward the dunes.

  I could see it. This was going to be the Texas beach resort destination. It wouldn’t be like the others on the island, shuttling college kids in and out through a revolving door. It would have year-round high occupancy numbers. A spa. A five-star restaurant. I would develop it and after a year of being the premiere vacation spot I would sell it at the top of the market. Yes, this was going to be the fucking deal of a lifetime.

  I heard a throat clear behind me.

  “Ehhem.”

  I turned to see a girl trying to tie brunette locks back into place. The wind was fierce at this end of the island. She stopped fidgeting with her hair clip and sunglasses.

  “I’m looking for Frank Royce. Do you know where he lives?” She pulled on the shoulder strap of her bag as if it gave her extra support. “I’ve knocked on at least ten doors.”

  She was wearing heels that were slowly starting to sink into the sand. She wobbled slightly and I lunged forward to help her before she lost her balance, but she waved me off.

  “Do you know him?” she asked.

  “Can’t say that I do.” I smiled.

  She didn’t fit in here. There was an airiness about her that contradicted the worn out buildings surrounding us. Her smile was bright, and I couldn’t help but notice her full lips. My eyes traveled to her breasts. Perfect, perky voluptuous tits. Damn.

  “Do you live here? Maybe I could ask you a few questions instead.”

  I shook my head. “No. Not me.” Did she seriously mistake me for a resident? I was wearing a two thousand-dollar suit.

  She looked disappointed. “Are you visiting someone maybe?”

  “No, I don’t know anyone here.” I kept my answers short.

  “Well, I guess I need to find Mr. Royce then. All these trailers look the same.”

  I surveyed the trailer park. She was right. There wasn’t much to distinguish one from the other. “I’m headed back to my car over there. Why don’t I walk with you until you find Mr. Royce?”

  “That’s all right. I can find him.” She adjusted her shoes in the sand again.

  I shrugged. “Good luck, then.”

  I walked past her, descending from the dunes. I had seen enough to know I had to make this deal work. I didn’t know who else was bidding today, but I wanted this tract.

  Opportunities like this seldom landed in my lap. The land had fallen out of probate after the owner died. He left it to his niece and nephew, but they had no interest in managing a trailer park. Lucky for me, they were ready to cash in their inheritance.

  “Wait,” she called. “Do you know anything about the development of this land?”

  I turned to face her. She was struggling with her hair again. It was hard to ignore how pretty she was. A natural beauty that sort of glowed around her. But I didn’t have time for distractions. I had to get the contract signed.

  “Are you a reporter or are you with the group out of Houston?” I asked, but it was more of an accusation.

  “I don’t know the group from Houston. I’m Alyson Covington. I write for the News & Report. The online edition,” she added.

  “Ahh. That explains a lot.” I was slightly relieved she wasn’t part of the competition. I’d rather keep my interest under the radar. But a reporter was nearly as bad.

  “Such as?” She pushed.

  “Such as why a pretty girl like you would be hanging out in a place like this.” I smirked.

  Her lips flattened into a line of disapproval. “You have something against trailer parks?”

  I stepped forward. “Did I say that?”

  “It was implied.”

  I chuckled. “Sounds like you practice interpretative journalism, Miss Covington.”

  “Interpretative? Wow. Sounds like you just like to label people.” She wobbled on her heels.

  I laughed. She was surprisingly quick with the retort.

  “Good luck finding your story.” I continued toward my car. I tossed my keys in the air.

  She trailed behind a few paces, trying to keep up in her heels. “And you aren’t going to tell me who you are? Which company do you work for? You must be a part of the development deal. Wouldn’t you like to comment?”

  “There you go again interpreting.” I used the remote to unlock the door.

  She kicked her hip to the side. Damn, she had a perfect hourglass shape. “You’re driving a sports car in a trailer park, wearing nice clothes. A suit. You don’t know anyone here, and you’re not visiting. This piece of land is in the midst of a bidding war. I don’t think it’s a stretch to assume you might be a part of that.”

  I opened the car door. “Looks like you might be on to something. Very Nancy Drew of you.”

  “Would you like to make a statement on the land development? Do you know how many families are going to be displaced because of this?” She continued her interrogation.

  I rolled down the window. “I never said I was a part of your story, Miss Covington.”

  She huffed. “I’m not that green.”

  “How green would you say you are?” I shoved the key in the ignition. “You know on a scale of zero to ten. Maybe a two?” I pressed the center of my sunglasses between my eyes. I could rake her over more easily with my eyes shielded. I stared at her tits and legs.

  My question seemed to irritate her more. “I graduated in May from Radford University at the top of my class. I have plenty of experience as a reporter.”

  I nodded, impressed with her credentials. “Good school. And you ended up down here? Sorry about that. Maybe I’d elevate you to a level three then.” I cranked the radio to drown out the rest of her questions. “Nice meeting you, Miss Covington. Good luck with your story.” I put the car in drive.

  “Wait. What’s your name?” She walked next to me as I circled an open spot to turn around.

  I pretended not to hear her and pulled out of the gravel lot. She grew smaller in the mirror. Her face furrowed in frustration. Her hair still unmanageable.

  One of my policies was never talk to the press. It was a damn shame though, because that member of the press was possibly the most gorgeous reporter I had ever met.

  Chapter Two

  Alyson

  This was fucking awesome. I was standing in a trailer park, bits of dust and sand clouding the air around me. The only lead I had, had driven away. That guy was a part of this. Sexy smile or not, I knew he had some sort of angle.

  I had met his type before. Smug. Arrogant. Rich. Athletic as hell. Bad. Very bad.

  As much as I didn’t want to admit it, he had the most arresting blue eyes I had seen. They sparkled in the sunlight. Enough to make me lose my balance. Everything about him made me dizzy, but he didn’t need to know that. He was gorgeous, but I had a job to do. I had t
o wipe the tall dark and handsome image from my head.

  I turned to face the cluster of campers in front of me. Frank Royce was somewhere in this maze.

  I felt a trickle of perspiration roll down my neck as I knocked on the next door. I had already canvassed one row of homes.

  There was a pink stroller parked next to the stairs along with a set of plastic sand buckets and shovels.

  A woman cracked the door. “Yes?” She was wearing a white T-shirt with the Pancake Palace logo scrawled across the front. Her light brown eyes matched her hair.

  “Hi. I’m looking for Frank Royce. Does he live here?”

  “Frank’s next door.” She pointed to the trailer one over. A little girl, probably five years old peeked between her mother’s legs.

  “Hi.” I waved.

  She started to giggle.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ve knocked on all these doors,” I explained.

  “No problem. Hey, are you that reporter he’s been talking about?”

  “I guess so.” I realized Frank could have talked to multiple reporters.

  “Well, I’d like to say that whoever the assholes are,” she stopped and covered her daughter’s ears with her palms. “The ones tearing this place down should be ashamed of themselves for what they’re doing. Where are we supposed to go?”

  I pulled my reporter’s pad from my bag. “Would it be ok if I asked you a few questions about the development?”

  “Sure. Let me get Jennilee settled with a snack. Hold on.”

  I waited in the front yard of the camper. I didn’t know how long I could stand being outside in the sun, but it wasn’t as if I could invite myself in.

  A few minutes later the mom stepped outside. “She’s set up watching a Mickey Mouse show. We have exactly twenty minutes.”

  I smiled. “She’s cute. She reminds me of my niece.” I pushed down the knot that formed whenever I thought about my sister and Cami.

  “Yeah, but a handful. I don’t even want to think what moving is going to do to her.”

  She cranked the handle on a beach umbrella and propped up two chairs. I slid into the seat next to her, grateful for the slivers of shade.

  “I’m Bridget Hawkins.” She reached a hand toward me.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Alyson Covington with the News & Report. How long have you and Jennilee been here?” I asked.

  “Since she was born. My parents left me this place. It was our summer vacation spot when I was a kid, but I live here year-round now with Jennilee. It’s not much, but it works for us.”

  I noticed her left hand was bare. “Is it only you two?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, her father has never been in the picture. He left as soon as he found out I was pregnant. I had to drop out of college to support us. If it wasn’t for this place I don’t know how we’d have a roof over our heads.”

  I scribbled the quote on my notepad while she continued to talk. There were portions of her story that were familiar to me. It was an eerie familiar. I forced myself to focus on Bridget. This wasn’t about Kendal. Not this time.

  “All I have to pay is the rent for the land and a few utilities. It’s a good deal for me. I work at the Pancake Palace. It’s all I can afford. I should have known something this good could never last.”

  “What is your plan when the development starts?” I prodded.

  She pulled on the side of the chair, tugging at a piece of vinyl that had come loose. “Is it a done deal? Do you know for sure it’s going to be sold?”

  I shook my head. “I only know that the land is for sale for the first time in eighty years. There are multiple bidders who have been invited to participate in a closed auction. It hasn’t sold yet, but it looks like there are plenty of interested parties.”

  “Bastards,” she muttered.

  I couldn’t blame her for being pissed. I had to sound neutral though I masked my emotion and support for her situation.

  “Do you know where you and Jennilee will move?” The question wasn’t for the story. I wanted to know where she would go with her curly-headed daughter.

  “I’ll figure something out. I always do. But she’s supposed to start school in Port Isabel in the fall, and I don’t want that to change. Her life shouldn’t be uprooted because of greed. That’s what this is you know? Greed.”

  It wasn’t my place to comment on the story. I was here to find the facts, or in this case present the human interest side of facts. I doubted Shawn’s story would make a bit of difference to the family selling the land. I rose, feeling the beads of sweat sticking behind my knees.

  “Thank you for answering my questions. I might be back before this is all over.” I smiled weakly. “Would it be ok if I stopped by again?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  The camper door opened and Jennilee poked her head outside. “Mama, I’m still hungry.”

  Bridget turned toward her daughter. “Well, let’s get something else for you to eat.”

  I watched as she shuttled her inside and wondered what would happen to them when the construction crew rolled in here to level this place.

  I bet the developer never thought about people like Bridget. People who worked hard just to put a roof over their child’s head. People who had made memories in this campground. First steps. First loves. It was all going to be plowed under.

  Frank Royce was waiting for me on his front stoop. He was wearing a pair of leather boots, dark denim jeans and a plaid shirt that looked like if it went through the washing machine one more time it would lose the last traces of color.

  “I’ve been waiting for a reporter to get down here for two weeks. Two weeks.” He spit into a cup from the side of his mouth. His lower lip protruded with a heaping wad of tobacco.

  “Hi, Mr. Royce. Nice to meet you. We spoke on the phone a few days ago. I’m Alyson.”

  “Come on in. It’s too hot to sit outside.” He held the screen door for me.

  I was relieved this interview would be inside. I was all for roughing the elements to get a story, but I was willing to try that on a cooler day.

  Inside I could hear the air conditioner humming, and I stepped closer to feel the cold air blow from the ceiling vents. Frank’s camper was neat and sparse. A pot of coffee was the only thing on the kitchen counter.

  He scratched the patch of silver hair above his ears. “Why don’t you sit?”

  “Thank you.” I sat in the chair closest to the vent. “I appreciate that you want to discuss the land development of Conch Cove—”

  “They are crooked crooks. A bunch of money hungry, unscrupulous, nasty, lying, selfish—”

  It was my turn to interrupt him. I couldn’t report slanderous comments in a story. “Mr. Royce, I was hoping you could tell me a little bit about how long you’ve lived here.”

  He waved his hand in the air. “No one wants to hear about that. What they need to know is about underhanded business deals happening in their own back yards.”

  “I think our readers would like to hear your story.” I could tell this interview was going to be a struggle. “How did you organize the anti-development rally?”

  “What they need to know is this island is being destroyed. Pretty soon the only piece of sand that’s going to be left is from what the wind blows in here. They’re tearing down the whole place.” His cheeks turned a deep crimson color. “This land is nothing like what it used to be.”

  I tried to smile. “How many people would you say are a part of your organization?” I clicked the tip of my pen, waiting for his response.

  He touched the plastic cup to his lips and I tried not to make a face when I heard him spit.

  “I don’t keep track. Whoever is mad as hell like I am can join us.”

  “But, Mr. Royce, you said you were going to organize a march through the island all the way to City Hall. Surely you have some idea if people are going to show up.”

  “The problem here is greed. The filthy rich are doing what they always do.”
>
  I sighed. Frank rambled on about the atrocities of big business, never stopping to actually answer my questions.

  After thirty minutes of listening to him explain how corrupt the developers were, I made an excuse of needing to return to the office to meet my deadline. There was a tiny bit of truth there.

  I sat in my car, letting the air blow directly on my face. I was never going to get used to this kind of heat. I fished my phone out of my bag and called the office.

  “Hey, Marci. Is Christine in?”

  The News & Report receptionist patched me through without responding.

  “Christine,” my editor answered quickly.

  “It’s Alyson. The development story isn’t really panning out. Mr. Royce is a cranky lunatic. We can’t use him. There’s no set date for a rally or march to City Hall.”

  She huffed, “Then find another angle. Your deadline is coming up.”

  I chewed on my lip. “I don’t know if there is a story here. I don’t know who the developers are yet. Maybe I should wait until the deal goes through, and then I could write about that.”

  “You are the reporter. Find out who is making the bids. Talk to some of the developers. We need both sides of this. Go get the story. That’s your job. It’s why I hired you.”

  “Right. Ok, I’m on it.”

  “Good. Don’t come back in the office until you have something. Your deadline is five. Today,” she reminded me.

  “Got it. Don’t worry, Christine. I’ll bring in something we can use.”

  I hung up and looked at the phone in my hand. Instead of getting guidance, the conversation bordered on a lecture from my new boss. She wasn’t the warm and fuzzy mentor type.

  It wasn’t anything like working for the Radford Daily. There we supported each other. Helped each other find sources. We even brainstormed story ideas. Granted, we did eat too much pizza. At the Record it was a fend-for-yourself kind of newsroom.

  Frank Royce was supposed to be the ringleader for the anti-development supporters. I didn’t have a single quote from him I could use that wouldn’t put the story at risk. I could incorporate Bridget’s story, but she didn’t have the background or the leadership information I needed to explain the two positions. Her struggle would make a great feature down the road, but right now I needed facts. I needed something newsworthy.