Twisted Marriage: Filthy Vows Sequel Page 3

  * * *

  By the time Wayland and I made it around the lake and back down the tree-lined hill, Aaron’s truck bed was completely filled, a bungee cord net stretched across the top. Wayland sniffed at his front tire, then lifted his leg, watching me with quiet detachment as no urine came out. He had run out of juice before we even made it to the lake, which hadn’t stopped him from attempting to mark every interesting bush, mailbox, mound of dirt or stick we passed.

  I pulled the leash and walked along the front sidewalk, noticing the fresh repair Aaron had made to the gutter downspout—a fix I’d bugged Easton about for weeks, then given up on. There had definitely been some benefits to having Aaron as a guest. The roof leak—fixed. The shower control that had been installed upside down, allowing only either scalding hot or freezing cold water—fixed. The shredded back screen door panel—replaced, though that had been a fairly useless repair and one that Wayland had torn back through with joyous excitement, as if we’d given him a new toy.

  As wonderful as Easton was, handy was not an adjective I’d use for him. His parents had been the sort to call a repairman rather than figure out something themselves, and we had a stack of receipts that proved his loyal adherence to that method.

  I hadn’t exactly helped. In our first year of marriage, I became adept at picking up the phone, my credit card cheerfully in hand. Once he was dropped from the Marlins and our finances grew tight, I stopped making calls and we started to ignore issues. That had been a broken plan that had been saved by the last month of having Aaron as a houseguest. Suddenly dead light switches were working, my ice maker was back in business, and the noisy rattle of the bathroom vent was a quiet purr.

  “You look pissed.” Easton raised a brow as I entered the kitchen. “Was it the ducks? Did they point and laugh at your shoes? I swear to God…”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be a douche.”

  “What’s going on with your shoes?” Aaron tilted back the chair he was sitting in, trying to see me from his place at the kitchen table.

  “Dude, they’re the ugliest things I’ve ever seen.” He took the leash from me and unclipped Wayland. The dog bounded through the hall and toward his water dish. “I swear, a dozen fashion designers got together and figured out the perfect way to kill an erection.”

  “Hey—they’re comfortable.” Making my way over to a chair, I leaned over and unlaced my new tennis shoes that Easton had branded, upon first glance, as grandma shoes.

  Granted, they did have a big velcro band across the top that vaguely resembled my grandma’s orthopedic walkers. But everyone was wearing these right now! And they were super light. The colors were a bit loud, a clash of neon pink and lime yellow.

  But they felt like walking on clouds, and I liked to push E’s buttons by wearing them.

  “They do look comfortable,” Aaron said, always willing to play Switzerland.

  “Sure,” Easton agreed. “Comfortable and ugly.”

  I tried to peel off the first shoe, which had an odd inner sock that got stuck on my heel. I tugged harder. “Do you want me to work on your shoulders or not? Because I’m going to need a lot more sucking up before my magic fingers do any heavy lifting.”

  “I love the shoes,” Aaron offered. “Do they come in size 13? Especially that color. I love that color.”

  “And… Aaron wins.” I used my still-shoed foot to pull the closest chair in front of me. “Take a seat and give me that sore neck.”

  “Total bullshit,” Easton commented, leaning against the counter as he watched Aaron straddle the chair, facing away from me. “I’m the one who has to live with those things.” I pulled the other shoe off and flung it at him.

  Aaron pulled his baseball cap off and rested it on his lap, tilting his head back as I ran my forefingers down the levator scapulae muscle in his neck. It was tight. Really tight. I thought of everything he’d been through and realized this was his second move in a month. Talk about upheaval. I found a trigger point and pressed on it. “How long do you think you’ll stay at Chelsea’s?”

  “No clue.” He dropped this head forward, obeying the gentle manipulation I gave. “I guess I’ll see how it goes. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll grab one of those furnished units they have on 42nd.”

  I met Easton’s eyes and made a face. The 42nd Street lofts were located between a closed Kmart and a gas station that specialized in homeless beggars. I pictured E helping him move that truckload in and wondered how they would get it all inside without the panhandlers helping themselves to the contents.

  “It’ll work out.” I moved higher, kneading a tension knot at the base of his hair. “Chelsea’s pretty easy to live with. Plus, you’ll be in the guest house, right?”

  “I guess. We didn’t discuss the logistics—she just said I wouldn’t be a bother.”

  “That guest house is sweet.” Easton opened the fridge door and grabbed another bottle of water, tossing it in the direction of Aaron before getting his second. “It wouldn’t be a bad place to bring a girl.”

  “Yeah, that’s not exactly the plan right now.” He groaned as the muscles crunched, the knot breaking. “I plan to lie low and lick my wounds.”

  His tongue flicked hot and thick across my nipple before his mouth crushed over the spot, gentle yet needy.

  I focused on a freckle on his left trap and fought the blush that worked its way up my neck. If E was watching me right now, he’d know. He’d know in an instant that my mind was wandering, my stomach was twisting, my need growing.

  I rolled my own neck and tried to think about something else. Big saggy old lady nipples. Rotten pimento cheese. The smell of Easton’s locker room after a practice.

  “What’s the market like in Glenvar Heights right now?”

  I almost missed Aaron’s question, my attention skittering between the sexy memories and the nasty images I was trying to counter them with.

  “Uh…” I moved to the other side of his neck. “What are you thinking about? A house or one of those townhomes by the mall?”

  “I don’t know. Something less than two-fifty, if I can help it.”

  “I’m assuming you want something you could fix up?”

  “Preferably.”

  “I’ll pull listings and send them to you this afternoon. But honestly, I’m not sure you should be buying anything right now.” As much as we needed the commission, Aaron needed to take a beat and see how he handled running his company without Becca’s help, and how the chips fell into place after this divorce. “If you could live with Chelsea for a year and save your money—I’d rather put you in something better, that will appreciate more.”

  “I’m taking Elle’s side on this one.” Easton navigated around the edge of the counter and to the back door. Opening up the slider, he called Wayland’s name. “Damn dog,” he muttered. “He’s in your bougainvillea bush.”

  I groaned and let out my own shriek of Wayland’s name. Before me, Aaron winced at the sound. “Sorry.” I kneaded along the upper border of his shoulder blade.

  “Keep doing that and you can make me deaf.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head to one side. “God, Elle. Your husband know how lucky he is?”

  Easton met my eyes and gave me a wink. “I do. Now get up. It’s my turn.”

  5

  Four days later, I sipped cheap champagne in a sea of my peers.

  “Dr.Witter is the best.” The woman jumped in place, her magnificent cleavage bouncing in an impressively realistic fashion, and the surrounding cluster of Realtors cooed in approval. “But you’ve got to get in his books early. I had to wait nine months for these babies.”

  I took a sip of my champagne and eased around the group, fighting the urge to stare at the woman, who was turning sideways in an attempt to show her lack of facelift scars. Pushing sixty, she had the breasts—and face—of a thirty-year-old. I glanced down at my own chest briefly, then dismissed any thoughts of enhancement.

  My breasts were one thing I’d always been happy wit
h. Big enough to fill out a bathing suit, but small enough to avoid back pain. Back in Ocala, they’d earned me a spot on the homecoming court. At Florida State, plenty of admiring looks poolside. In Miami… I walked past a well-timed cluster of tan double-d-sized agents pecking at the open house’s lunch buffet.

  In Miami, I was considered flat. I tried to resist the urge to compare myself with the naturally endowed Cubans, or the cosmetically enhanced bikini models, but my bras had grown more padded, more push-up, and I’d moved my thinking from an after-baby reconstruction to an after-baby reconstruction with size upgrade.

  Assuming I ever had a baby.

  “God, this place is a disaster.” Tim Rowland appeared beside me, his own champagne flute tight against his Vineyards Vine-clad chest. He peered down at the listing flyer. “Five bedrooms and only two baths? No wonder they’re bribing us with alcohol and lunch.”

  “I can deal with the two bathrooms.” I nodded toward the living room. “It’s the decor that’s going to kill this. They need to move out all the furniture, paint the place, then re-list.”

  “Honey, old people in Miami love this shit.” He set down his drink and picked a gold monkey off a nearby console table, examining it. “I bet this thing cost a fortune.”

  Maybe he was right. I tried to look at the house through different eyes, but I couldn’t find a single thing that appealed to me. All the furniture was pastel. Everything. Lamps, sofas, rugs, art, pillows, and curtains. What wasn’t pastel was gold. Gold light switches. Gold kitchen fixtures, lights, doorknobs, and appliances. Where had they found a pink and gold fridge? I could have possibly dealt with the palette if it had been offset with white, but they’d chosen black as the staple color. Black painted concrete floors. Black marble countertops. Black wood accents on the furniture. It was Miami Vice dipped in noir.

  “At least the view is nice.” I looked through the sea of realtors and out at the Intracoastal.

  “True,” he drawled, setting down the monkey. “If you like staring across at someone else’s backyard.”

  “Well, we can’t all live beachfront.” I poked him playfully in the side. “The beggars can’t be choosy.”

  Tim dismissed the dig with a careful sweep of his freshly highlighted hair. “I work for that view every night. Don’t you forget it.”

  “Please.” I held up a hand. “I really, really don’t want the details.”

  Tim picked his champagne back up and winked at me. When I’d first met him, I’d assumed that the Porsche Carrera and Patek Philippe watch were family money. And they were, but not his. He was three years into a relationship with Fredrick Mount, III. To an outsider, he was a boy toy of the handsome and older shipping heir. But I’d spent enough time around them to realize they had a deep friendship and were truly in love, despite the thirty-year age gap. And Fred took Tim’s real estate career seriously, supporting him both financially and emotionally as Tim worked his bubble butt off to grow his business.

  It had been a slow growth, like mine. We were both desperately clawing for a piece of the market and an ounce of respect. And we were both fighting stereotypes. Me, that any of my eventual success (oh, please let it happen!) would be attributed to my looks. Him, from business fed by (or bought by) his sugar daddy.

  We didn’t care. We wanted this career. My motivations were almost strictly financial, his deep-seated in earning his father’s respect. I looked around the room. We weren’t special. There were hungry eyes everywhere, all with different stimuli behind them.

  He tapped at the front of the flyer, where they’d hidden the price in 14-point font. “Look at this. Three million is way too high. At that price point, I’d be on the ocean or on OLT. And speaking of which…” He glanced around furtively, then pulled at my elbow, drawing me away from the crowd. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  Our options for privacy were limited in the crowded home. By the time he’d led me through the sunroom and out onto the side deck, my curiosity had swelled. Closing the screen door behind us, he moved to the railing. “I have a lead for us.”

  For us? I straightened in my coral wedge heels. I’d never worked a listing with Tim before, but his leads came straight from Fred’s Rolodex, which was literally dipped in solid gold.

  “It’s an Olive Line Trail listing. They haven’t started interviewing brokers yet—aren’t even sure they want to list it yet. I already prepared a CMA, but this client…” He huffed out a breath. “Let’s just say my chiseled looks are wasted on him. While you…” He gestured down the length of my body, then shrugged, as if everything was clear.

  “He likes women,” I clarified.

  “According to Fred, he loves women. But he knew him back when he was single. He’s married now. Still… I want to put my best foot forward. And that foot looks better in four-inch stilettos versus Ferragamos. Got me?”

  I gave a slow nod, processing the information. Olive Line Trail homes were a rarity. They were never available, and most had been squatted on by wealthy Miami families for the last three decades. It’d be a quick sale, one with multiple offers and a six-figure listing commission. He’d been wise to take our conversation outside. If any of the realtors knew of the potential, we’d be clawing through them just to reach the ivy-lined gate.

  “What did the CMA come in at?”

  “Three-point six million. But there hasn’t been an OLT sale in three years, so that’s using other comps in the area. You know what that street name is worth. I think it’ll fetch closer to four.”

  Yep. If Olive Line Trail was a zip code, it was in the 90210 prestige range. I studied his perfectly enhanced features and tried to understand what he was offering me. A co-listing seemed like too much, given that all he needed was a pretty face to accompany his market analysis. “Okay… so you want me to go with you on the listing presentation?”

  “No, I want you to handle the listing. Start to finish. Make the introductory call, secure the listing, and maintain it.”

  I frowned. “You don’t want to co-list it?” That didn’t make any sense. Not when our future at Blanton & Rutledge lived and died with our sales stats. Our positions on the board determined everything from our parking spaces (or lack of) to our up rotation. He needed a four-million-dollar bump as badly as I did.

  “I want to refer it to you.” He pitched back the glass of champagne and then placed it on the deck railing. “For a seventy percent referral fee.”

  The halo floating above his head dimmed by half. A seventy percent referral fee was unheard of. Twenty-five percent was standard. Then again, no agent in their right mind would refer a listing on OLT. Not that we even had the listing. Right now, all we had was a lead. A lead that we believed to be secret, but who knew. Maybe this seller was blabbing his intentions all over town. Maybe we were one of a dozen realtors with a market analysis in hand, already mentally depositing their commission checks.

  A four million dollar sale at a three percent listing commission. $120,000. I struggled to do the math on my cut of that. Giving seventy percent to Tim would cut it down to thirty-five thousand dollars, give or take. Our brokerage would take another thirty percent, but I’d still get at least twenty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand dollars in our bank account and a four million dollar jump in my sales tally for the year.

  I couldn’t turn it down. I also didn’t understand why Tim was giving it to me. We could have co-listed it with a 70/30 split and he could have still gotten the sales stat bump. I verbalized the observation and he gave a short but firm shake of the head. “It’s yours. Honestly. I don’t need my name on it.”

  “Why?”

  He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Love, it’s an Olive Line listing. Stop overthinking this and say ‘thank you Tim, I love you dearly’.”

  I looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you, Tim. I love you dearly if we get the listing.”

  “If you get the listing,” he corrected me. “Which you will. Just flash that beautiful smile and don’t piss off the wi
fe. Piece of cake.”

  “Will you get me the introduction from Fred?” I kept my voice low as he herded us inside, his thin arm still tight around my shoulders. He smelled like peaches and ocean, an odd but delicious combination.

  “Fred already gave them your number. He said they’ll call you this week.”

  I stopped just inside the door, the voices of the crowd magnified by the vaulted ceiling and concrete floor. “How did you know I’d say yes?”

  “Because you’re like me,” he said, not unkindly. “Frantic and desperate.”

  6

  “Frantic and desperate.” I tore a piece of paper towel off the roll and laid it out on the counter. “That’s what he called me. And he said it nicely, as if he wasn’t insulting me to my face.”

  “Truthfully, we are a little desperate.” Easton crouched beside the fridge, pulling Coke cans out of the case and adding them to the door. “And I don’t know if frantic is the right word, but it’s not too far off.”

  “When’s your next call with Nicole?” I pulled a stack of graham crackers out of the box and broke each one in half, laying the squares out on the paper towel.

  “Monday. And it’s getting to the point where I need to be a dick.”

  “I don’t get it. She’s got the money, right? This isn’t a case of her being broke and not wanting to tell you?”

  “Her agent confirmed that they closed the Nike endorsement deal. That was seventy million, with fifteen at signing. Even if she was destitute before, she’d have that.”

  “Good point.” I stuffed a marshmallow in my mouth, then put another on top of the graham cracker.

  “What do you know about the Olive Line sellers?”

  I chewed for a minute, getting enough of it down to speak clearly. “He’s an attorney who handled Fred’s divorce a few years ago. He married another attorney, so they’re probably going to be complete bitches over the listing contract.”

  He straightened and shut the fridge door, the empty Coke case in hand. Moving to the trash, he started to stuff it in.