I step up onto the same sidewalk that I used to hopscotch down for hours, using chalk that I’d gotten from anywhere I could. I don’t know why I was such a hopscotch nut. All of my friends outgrew the game by third grade, but I’d stay out until the streetlights came on and Mama would holler out at me from the kitchen that it was time to come inside for dinner. There’s nothing drawn on it now, but to me, I can still see the ghostly outlines in pink, yellow, blue, and green and feel the bounce of my ponytail as I hopped along.
I shake my head—that girl hasn’t been around for over a decade—and cross the yard. It needs some maintenance. The sign on the house is dusty, and clearly, the place has been up for sale for a while. Stepping closer, I can start to see why. While the rails on the porch have a relatively fresh coat of paint, the floorboards themselves are listing a little. I remember sometimes, right at the end before Mama and I moved, sneaking out to avoid the sounds coming from her bedroom as she and her latest boyfriend did things I didn’t quite understand at the time. This was during the bad years, after Dad left, and Mama . . . well, she needed men like some people need water.
So I used to sneak out, sometimes to sleep in the treehouse I had in the backyard, sometimes just to walk around and smell the night air. I remember that the board just to the left of the window used to always squeak, no matter how hard we’d nail it down. Now, though, there’s no way I’d trust myself to the porch. Half of the boards look dry rotted, and the whole thing is listing slightly to the back. Knowing my luck, if I take one step on that thing, I’d fall right through and end up with a splinter the size of a ballpoint pen in my ass.
I walk around the side, down the dirt driveway to the parking area in the back, what people in this area call a ‘dooryard’. The garage is gone, just a concrete slab now, but other than that, little’s changed. I can almost see Mama standing in the sagging screen door, calling my name. My eyes start to prickle with tears. I can almost feel a whisper of her there, but she’s not. She’s been gone for a couple of years now. While Dad and I are on polite terms, his life’s not around here anymore. He probably hasn’t been back here in twenty years.
But this . . . this is where I see Mama. It’s in the buzz of the cicadas, the humidity, and the sunsets where the air hangs thick like sap around you. A place where your skin glistens five minutes after you dry off from the warmth, and every meal is accompanied by a glass of iced tea or lemonade just to get that cool kiss before diving into something spicy and most likely fried.
I check the back door. It’s locked, of course, but the windows are just high enough that I can look around. The kitchen looks a mess, but the trained evaluator in me sees that it’s surface mess.
Going around, I see the same thing repeated time after time. Most of the damage in the house is superficial, although there’s some that’s due to age. When I get to the corner room, where my old bedroom used to be, I know. This is my next project, the first one from find to finish, all mine.
I’ll talk it over with Oliver, of course, mainly because I’ll need the time to do all of this, but that’s okay. I’m going to make this house all the things I wanted as a little girl. There were so many things that Mama said she’d fix but never did. The reason we could never fix anything was the same. “We don’t have the money right now, honey,” Mama would say, and while it was true, she spent more than enough money chasing after her boyfriends, usually on clothes to attract them or some other man.
But this house . . . I know what I need to do. Going around front, I take a few pictures of the property, then make sure I get the number on the For Sale sign down before I get in my car. I start up my engine and give 614 Douglas another look before pulling away. I’ve got one more house to look at for Oliver, and then I need to get home.
I’ve got research to do, and shopping for shoes online can wait.
Caleb
“My name is Sue! HOW DO YOU DO?” my radio blares as I pull up in front of Mindy’s Place. Finally, after a few years of its being open, a lot of the people around town aren’t calling it the Flaming Dragon building anymore, but the old nickname still sticks around.
Shutting off my truck’s engine, I look inside, trying to decide whether I want to sit down and enjoy the atmosphere or if I want to grab ‘n’ go. It’s not that I don’t like the cafe, but at seven thirty in the morning, I’m in no mood to put up with pretentious bullshit, and sometimes, the local bankers like to turn Mindy’s Place into Mini Wall Street. My jeans and work boots do not fit in with that crowd.
But they seem to still be asleep, and I remember that banks don’t open until I’m already working today. I yawn, rubbing my eyes and feeling the intense need for caffeine. Getting out, I check my watch and decide I’ve got a few minutes to actually enjoy the cafe. Maybe I’ve even got time to enjoy a bagel. Not much more. I’ve got three jobs today, and unless I want to be roofing a garage by starlight, I need to get a move on.
Walking in, I see Mindy behind the counter, grinning a smile that’s way too bright for this time in the morning. She must be sipping some of her own goods. I give her a wave as I walk up. “Hey, Beautiful, does your husband know you’re here to see me every day?”
Mindy laughs. She and I have done this dance for at least the past year and a half, since I started helping out Oliver. “Pretty sure he knows you come in here to see me. In fact, he said if you stare at my ass anymore, he’s gonna kick yours so hard you’ll have a second crack. Steele lines it up . . . it’s good!” she jokes, making a field goal sign with her arms.
I laugh. It’s what I love about Mindy. Successful business owner, sure. But she’s still approachable, and she knows I’m just messing around. Oliver does too, but I still gotta get my jabs in. “Any day he wants to try, but don’t be sad when you have to take care of his broken body. I float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, and kick like a mule.”
Mindy shivers and starts giving a phantom massage while gyrating her hips. “Do your worst, Caleb. I’ll take care of my man’s body anyway, anyhow, anytime.”
I cringe and give up, laughing. “Ok, you win . . . I don’t want a mental image of that. Ever. Can I get the usual?”
Mindy rolls her eyes. “For here or to go?”
“I have time to drink it here, but pack it to go anyway. And can you throw in a bagel with cream cheese? Gonna need the energy today.”
“One of those days, huh?” Mindy asks, and I nod. She reaches down and pulls out ‘my’ cup, a fifty-ounce insulated cup with a built-in straw. Mindy twirls it on her finger and sets it down. “One Caleb-sized full-caff, sweet as my sister, roughly the thickness of motor oil coming right up.”
I wander over to the far side of the counter and take a seat. It’s my favorite. From here, I can watch everyone coming in and out of the door and still get to talk with the staff.
There’s a rattle from the back, and I see Oli coming up the stairs from the basement kitchen. After a quick kiss on Mindy’s cheek, he walks over, a mock scowl on his face.
“You here harassing my wife again?”
“Just for a minute. Gotta get my daily fix before heading out today.”
He nods, taking the seat next to me. “Got anything interesting today?”
“Three jobs. The first two aren’t much. Mrs. Henderson needs a bush yanked out of her yard—and no comments from you, Mindy. I realize I set myself up as soon as I said it!” I add offhandedly, getting a laugh from them both. “Then I’ll do some painting for the Portnoys, and then the afternoon’s going to be patching Kelly Roberts’s garage roof.”
Oliver nods. “You got time to go over a couple of things really quickly upstairs?”
“Yeah, of course, anything for you. You know that.” The assistant who’s been watching my coffee brings over my huge cup and bagel, which I pick up and make a quick sandwich of. I raise my cup to Mindy. “Thanks, Mindy!”
“Anytime, Number Three!” Mindy calls, and I have to laugh. It’s a joke between the two of us. Oliver, of course, is Number
One. I’m not even sure who Number Two is. But I’m Number Three on her list of guys. I’m good with that.
Following Oliver upstairs, I take a quick sip of my coffee, which they iced down just like I like in the summertime. I like hot coffee like any good handyman, but right now, it’s damn near ninety degrees by ten in the morning, and I can use anything to cool me off.
Closing the door to save the cool air and give us some privacy, Oliver walks around to the other side, grabbing a stack of folders. “So I was thinking—” he begins, but stops. “Caleb, how backed out are you on your handyman stuff?”
“Right now?” I ask, pulling out my phone and checking my schedule. “If you’re talking Monday to Friday, I’m booked through to next Thursday. If it’s an emergency, I can bump people around, work on weekends. Why, what’s up?”
“Nothing that’s an emergency, but we just closed a few deals and I want to get them into rental shape before the summer’s out,” he said. “At least three of them are in the University District, and you know that with the school year coming up . . .”
“You want them looking good for all the new tenants before classes start,” I finish for him. “What’re you looking at?”
“Two houses—nothing big—but also a sixplex that’ll need a good amount of sprucing up,” Oliver said. “I’m sure I could hire other people to go over them, but I trust you to do the job right and not fuck me over on hours either.”
I nod, grateful for the straight talk. Oli’s right, a lot of handymen and contractors around here charge guys like Oliver based not on how much the job’s worth, but how much they think they can get away with. Not my style.
Oliver continues. “So what I was thinking, if you can, start the work on the sixplex as soon as possible, mainly just clearing the smell at first. You know how college kids are. Then move on from there. You’re doing a roofing job today, so you’ve got a lot of the materials still, I take it?”
“Of course. What else?”
We go over the plans, and I’m glad to see that Oliver’s right. Other than maybe jumping on the defunking of the sixplex, nothing is an immediate job.
“I think I can get this cleared out soon,” I tell him and raise an eyebrow as he picks up another folder. “You must want to buy me a new truck.”
“Not quite,” Oliver says with a smirk. “This next one, we haven’t made an offer on yet. I wanted to see if you can add a gable to the front to make it symmetrical. That one might need a drive-by and to check the codes.”
“I can take a look on Sat—” I start, but before I can finish, the office door bangs open and Cassie comes in. Seeing her come into the office with her boundless energy lifts my mood. I never really admitted it before, but she’s stunning.
She isn’t dressed for success like she normally is, just in a t-shirt and jeans. What makes her stunning, though, is the light in her eyes, the fierce look of determination that I’ve seen before. When she’s like this, the higher the Cassie volume is, the prettier she gets. And right now, she’s cranked up all the way.
I’m looking at a five-foot-one hurricane of energy, moving so fiercely that I’m surprised her hair isn’t flying out in all directions, her face lit up with a smile that could power Washington if it stretched just an inch wider.
“I found it!” she declares, jabbing a fist in the air. “I found the one!”
“The one what?” Oliver asks, amusement in his voice as I sit there, still too flabbergasted to talk. “And good morning, by the way.”
“Yeah, yeah, good morning, guys,” Cassie says before her sparkling eyes light up again. “I found my first project!”
Cassie
Slurping, I spoon the last of my Corn Pops into my mouth. I blink, wishing I had my morning coffee already, but I can’t make coffee to save my damn life. At least, not compared to what Mindy makes, and it’s like being exposed to real beef after eating nothing but tofu all your life—there just ain’t no going back. I’ve tried bribing her to learn her secret, but she’s not talking. So I only drink home brew if I’m in a pinch.
I was up all night last night looking at the property information on 614 Douglas, using all the websites I’ve got at my disposal for research. I did comparatives on the neighborhood, got in contact with the owner and got title information, pictures of the inside, and more.
By the time I lay down at four in the morning, I knew my initial feelings were right. The house is definitely going to be my first project. I just have to convince Oliver.
I still didn’t get much sleep. The problem was, the numbers just weren’t golden. It isn’t a shoe-in, as the comps really show that the profit margin is tight, at best, but I know I can do it. And more importantly, I need to do it. The house deserves it after surviving my wild youth. It’s the home of some of my best memories, and it was the house that waited patiently while Mama and I kept promising to bring it back to its former glory . . . and we never delivered. I tossed and turned all night, mentally prepping my speech to get Oli to agree.
But I’ve only been working for Oliver for less than a year. Sure, I got the McCormick property off his back, but taking one albatross off only to put another one on isn’t in his plans at all. But I’ve got faith. Still, I was so frenetic with energy, I had to resort to my trusty Mr. Rabbit because post-orgasm sleep is the best sleep. Even after the quickie session, though, I barely did much more than doze.
I get in my car and drive to the Flaming Dragon building, walking in the front door to see Mindy smiling and joking with the morning customers. The professional crowd is just starting to come in, and for the first time, I feel a bit out of place in the same jeans I wore yesterday. I was just so addled when my alarm went off that I was barely able to brush my teeth and pull on fresh undies and a decent t-shirt.
“Hey, Sexy Star,” Mindy greets me, her normal big smile helping a little. She gives everyone in her ‘family’ nicknames, and I’m Sexy Star. I appreciate the gesture, really. “No offense, but you look like wired hell.”
“Thanks,” I reply, feeling a shot of adrenaline as I remember why I’m here. “I’ve been up all night, so could I get a triple ‘spresso with a shot of whatever you got that’ll have me perky?”
“On it,” Mindy says, grinning and heading over to the machine. “What had you up all night? New man?”
“Ha!” I say with a laugh. “No, I found something better. I found my first project. I need to talk with Oliver about it.”
Mindy stops and gives me a warm look. “Good for you! If that’s the case, I’ll throw in some extra perkiness.”
I slam my triple espresso, trying to build on the excitement and momentum that Mindy’s words light inside me. Licking the last drops of dark, sweet liquid out of the glass, I take a deep breath and steel myself. “Okay, I’m off.”
“Drop it like it’s hot,” Mindy says in farewell, and I chuckle, popping my hip into the door upstairs in reply. With every step up to the second floor, I can feel the excitement build in me, and by the time I reach the first landing, I’m almost running up the stairs. I hit the door, my prepared speech flying out the window as soon as I burst in, seeing Oliver at his desk.
“I found it!” I yell, fist pumping like a madwoman from the Jersey shore. “I found the one!”
“The one what?” Oliver asks, smirking. “And good morning, by the way.”
“Yeah, yeah, good morning, guys,” I reply, realizing that Caleb’s there too. “I found my first project!”
“Your first project? Surely, some guy didn’t ask you to marry him since I saw you last?” Caleb jokes. “How much of a loser did he have to be that not only did he ask you, but you’re calling him a project too?”
I stick out my tongue, blowing Caleb a raspberry. He’s as handsome as ever, looking dressed for work, obviously, in his boots and t-shirt, with what looks like a nearly a pony keg of something in front of him on the desk, his personal drink holder that he takes coffee to work sites in. “No, smart ass. As if I want to get locked down into s
andwich making for some dad bod who only surfs the couch. The house . . . I found THE HOUSE.”
It’s pretty clear by the tone of voice I used that I’m saying it all in capital letters, and Oliver’s eyebrows lift by a good half inch even as he leans back in his chair. “What house? Whatcha got?”
I take a deep breath and walk around Oliver’s desk, opening up my bag to hand him a flash card and some of the stuff I printed out last night. “It’s all on the sheet, but here’s the basics. It’s a three-bedroom converted farmhouse on a quiet street, two and a half baths. It could become a four-bedroom, but one of the rooms has been used as a home office and walk-in closet. It’s on a full acre of land, and there’s a huge tree out front begging to have a tire swing on it, and a front porch. It’s not quite a starter home. It’s a step up from that, but it’s the sort of home a young couple could raise a family in for the next twenty or thirty years if they wanted.”
Caleb whistles softly. “Sounds idyllic. What’s wrong with it?”
I glare at him. Way to cockblock me there, buddy. I’m so going to take it out on you if I get the chance. “Shush, I’m trying to create a mood here.” I look back at Oli, who’s giving me the same look, and I know I’ve got to get it together. I try to remember what the hell I was going to say with my speech and take a moment, opening my laptop and pulling up the pictures. “Here’s the house. I know it’s going to need some work—”
Oliver snorts as he scrolls through the shots. “Yeah, that’s not the house you just described. Other than the obvious, what’s it need?”
“It’s a For Sale by Owner. I talked with the owner last night, and he was really helpful. He emailed me an inspection he got when he moved out. First things first, the porch will have to be totally replaced. Apparently, the guy tried to use trailer jacks on it and screwed up. The interior needs to be cosmetically gutted. The paint’s at least eight years old, the kitchen lino over a decade.”
Dirty Talk Page 49
