Twisted Marriage: Filthy Vows Sequel Page 6

  10

  As if to laugh at our minor success, eight hours later, we were struggling with crap. Crap that wasn’t going away, no matter how many times I held down the handle.

  “So this is the one we need?” I stared down at the round container that didn’t seem nearly big enough. It was also $24, which was alarmingly cheap.

  “Maybe?” Easton glanced at the employee to our right, who folded his arms over his orange-aproned chest with a bored sigh. “Is this what we need?”

  “As I TOLD you”—he gave us both a warning look—“it depends on the size of the blockage. We got the lightweight, auto-feeding drain cleaner like the Rigid K-30, but if it’s a root blockage then you’ll need something more powerful, like the Cobra.” He nodded toward the shelf and I searched for anything on it that resembled his words.

  “The Cobra includes a manual thermal overload protector switch,” he added, pointing at a box the size of a refrigerator, with a price tag of over sixteen hundred dollars. I shot him a look, unsure what about the two of us indicated that we had the breadth of plumbing knowledge to even get it out of the box. I pivoted away from the expensive behemoth and referred back to the one in Easton’s hand.

  “And what’s the difference between this and this?” I pointed to an identical-looking snake that was three times as much.

  “Well, that’s got the bulb augers, C and spade cutters.” He scratched at a dark bloody scab on the side of his arm and I think God sent him down just to kill off any lingering handyman fantasies I had left.

  “We literally have NO idea what you’re talking about.” Easton glanced at me for confirmation and I nodded. “We just need our toilet to flush.”

  “We tried Drano-O already,” I added helpfully.

  He looked at me as if I was an idiot. “Drano-O’s not for toilets. It contains caustic chemicals that’ll crack porcelain and soften your pipes.”

  “Oh.” I raised my eyebrows at Easton, who’d come home from Walmart with four jugs of the stuff.

  “Have you considered calling a plumber? Most people like you just call someone.”

  People like us? This guy needed to decide if we were sixteen-hundred-dollar-pump-your-own-septic-system people or call-the-plumber people. I tucked a side piece of hair under the edge of my baseball cap and fought the urge to ask for someone else.

  “All we need to know is if this is what we should buy.” Easton held up the twenty-four-dollar plumber’s snake. “Or this one.” He lifted the more expensive but still manageable option in the other hand. “Do we need the bulb agers and cutters?”

  “Bulb AUGERS,” the man corrected, hooking his thumbs in the straps of his apron. “And I’m going to say no, unless you have someone to show you how to use them.”

  “Okay, thanks!” I smiled brightly and grabbed the more expensive option out of Easton’s hand and thrust it back on the shelf. “Have a great night.”

  The man watched me warily, and if he thought I was going to pen this experience into a yelp review, he was probably right. I looped my arm through E’s and pulled him down the aisle, away from the man.

  “It just seems cheap,” E said dubiously. “And little. Maybe we should call Aaron.”

  “I don’t want to call Aaron and need something. That’s like the start of every porno. Calling up the guy next door and asking him to come over and fix something at ten o’clock at night.”

  “It’s our toilet,” Easton pointed out, pausing beside a row of power tools, as if he was going to purchase one. “No one is going to try to seduce anyone with a toilet repair. It’s the shittiest excuse in the world.”

  I rolled my eyes at the pun. “Stop.”

  “He’s my best friend. He isn’t going to think anything’s up.”

  “I’d still like to have a few weeks of distance before we’re begging him for favors.” I picked up a baby electric screwdriver that was the size of a hot glue gun. “Look how cute this is.”

  “I need you to be honest with me. Have you been stuffing tampons down there?”

  “Oh my God, can we not have this conversation in the middle of the store?” I ducked into the next aisle just in time to avoid a trio of teenage boys. Looking down at our list, I hesitated, then turned back, running into E in the process. “We need floodlights.”

  “So, you have been stuffing tampons.” He blocked my exit.

  “Stuffing?” I glared. “No. Gradual deposits spread out with plenty of flushing. And I’m weeks out from that sort of activity so this isn’t my fault at all. This is you and your man bathroom stuff.” I skirted around him and toward the lightbulb aisle.

  “Meaning what?”

  “You know. Girl poops are smaller than boy poops.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. This is a tampon issue.”

  “One that waited three weeks to pop up?” I frowned at him and pulled two boxes of floodlights off the shelf.

  “Not those. Get the bright white ones.” He pulled two almost identical boxes off the shelf and swapped them with mine.

  “So, anyway, back to my listing prospect.” I steered the conversation away from tampons and back to the topic I’d tried to broach ten minutes ago, before E had gotten distracted by a dented dishwasher that was deeply discounted to an almost unbelievable price.

  “This is the duplex in Miami Shores or the big house on Fig Road?”

  “The big house. Not Fig Road. Olive Line Trail.” I squinted at him, unsure if he’d been making a joke or was honestly unaware of the prestigious street.

  “Okay. The four-million-dollar one that the rich guy’s boyfriend referred you.” He headed toward the front of the store and I followed, tugging on his arm to slow him down.

  “Yes. I asked Chelsea to see what she knew about the sellers and it turns out the husband of the couple is“—I glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot—“a Magiano.”

  “Really? Like, the Magianos?”

  “He’s apparently estranged but he’s the oldest son in the family. Like top tier.”

  Easton paused, coming to a stop in the middle of the aisle. “How do you know he’s estranged?”

  “I—I don’t know. That’s what Chelsea said.”

  “But he could be involved?”

  “I’m not sure if it really matters one way or the other. I’m not sure if it’s any safer if he is estranged or if he’s chummy with them.”

  “He’s not with them, he is them. Why is he selling the house?”

  I glanced down the aisle. A man was rounding the corner with a large cart. “I don’t know. Same reason anyone sells a house?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t like it. And this is the one where the other realtor is screwing you on the commission, right?”

  “Yes. But it’d still be twenty thousand dollars. And a quick sale.”

  He sighed, scratching the back of his neck as he stared at the ground. “I don’t know, Elle. I’ll get Nicole’s commission this week. That’ll tide us through for a little bit. I think you should walk from it.”

  I couldn’t walk away. I couldn’t stomach the idea of watching our bank account spiral down when this commission could help to pad our accounts. I could make six mortgage payments with that commission. And maybe, possibly, the De Lucas would buy something else. Roll that money into a different property and use me as their buyer’s agent.

  E’s mouth tightened and my heart broke at the look in his eyes—a war of indecision and frustration at what he wasn’t earning. He needed this commission as badly as I did and it was killing him that he couldn’t provide it. “I’ll get more from Nicole. This trip to Los Angeles—if the deal she’s looking at is right, she’ll bring over more funds. Don’t do it, Elle. You don’t know what you could be bringing into our lives.”

  “With a real estate listing?” I gave my best attempt at a carefree laugh. “Babe, this is nothing. And he isn’t even part of the family.”

  “Then why isn’t Tim taking it? I don’t buy that bullshit e
xcuse about De Luca liking women. Tim’s scared or his boyfriend told him not to, and his boyfriend knows this guy better than any of us or Chelsea does. There’s a reason Tim is pawning this off on you, and I’m not putting you in harm’s way just because we’re tight. Fuck the money.”

  But it wasn’t just the money. It was a prestigious listing. It was a jump in the office ranks. It was proof to myself that I could handle a big client, a big property, one with multiple offers and the sort of address that got mentioned in the weekly deal announcement emails. I needed this and not just for the paycheck. I needed it for myself. Easton felt he was failing at providing for us financially—but I felt I was failing in my ability to give us a family. In lieu of a pregnancy, I needed this, needed something for me to be proud of.

  He saw it in my eyes and he shook his head, telling me no. I wrapped my arms around his side and rested my head against his chest, ignoring the poke of the lightbulbs against my chest. “It’ll be okay,” I whispered. “I promise.”

  That night, at eleven p.m. and ankle-deep in dirty sewage, we called a plumber.

  11

  If I hadn’t known to look for them, I might have missed the signs. The cameras, discreetly hidden in the trees of the driveway. The alarm punch pad that Julia De Luca operated with quick efficiency. The window sensors and motion detectors and twelve-foot wall that surrounded the entire lot. The Olive Line Trail house was a fortress with Julia De Luca as its commander.

  She was, by all accounts, a very friendly commander. Also, pushy. Which was why I was eating pancakes ten minutes into our listing appointment.

  “Milk or orange juice?” She called out the question from her spot at the fridge, and I noted it was a double door Sub-Zero. I resisted the urge to pull out my notepad and add it to the listing description.

  “Ummm… milk please.” I looked down at my plate, where a black spotted pancake stared out at me from blue china. Lots of milk.

  “I’m still mastering the pancake,” she announced, pushing the door closed with her butt as she carried a gallon of milk toward me. “Martha’s refusing to teach me out of spite.”

  “You shouldn’t be cooking. It ain’t natural.” The comment came from a woman who sat at the other end of the kitchen table and glared at Julia as if she was sharing enemy secrets. “Some people got the gift. You don’t.”

  “It’s true,” Julia said cheerfully, pouring me a full glass of milk and pushing it across the counter. “I’m horrific.”

  “I wouldn’t eat that pancake,” the woman warned, pointing an unpainted fingernail in my direction. “It’s gonna be nasty.”

  “This, by the way, is Martha. She runs the house but was, apparently, too busy to make breakfast.”

  “I don’t cook on Fridays,” Martha said, flipping the Miami Herald before her closed. “You know that so don’t pretend you don’t. If you’re intent on impressing houseguests, you should have put it on some other day and made me put on my uniform and manners.”

  “She doesn’t have a uniform.” Julia made a face at the woman, who shuffled toward her and tossed the paper on the counter. “Manners…eh.” I watched with cautious interest as the house manager elbowed past her and peered down into the pan, then sniffed in disapproval.

  “What?” Julia protested. “Too much oil? Too little?”

  Martha waved a dismissive hand in her direction and left the kitchen, heading down a hall and disappearing from view. Julia turned back to me with a sigh. “You don’t have to eat them.”

  “I’m sure they’re delicious.” I studied the lineup of syrups before me. “Does it matter which one I try first?”

  Syrups were the reason I was perched on this stool, fork in hand. This model-thin brunette—who was definitely the girl from the yacht photo—was considering buying into a syrup company and wanted an honest opinion of the product compared to its competitors. I didn’t have the heart or guts to tell her that I was keto.

  “Doesn’t matter.” She turned back to the stove and fiddled with a knob. I spread a generous amount of butter across the over-thick, over-cooked pancake and studied her from behind.

  She was beautiful. Thin and feminine, with long dark hair and a face that managed to be both mischievous and sensual, all at the same time. Easton would have been all about her, had he met her before me. I was struck with the thought that maybe he had. She had to be close to our age. “Why a syrup company?”

  “It’s a close friend of mine from college who’s starting it. She’s looking for start-up capital and I like pancakes.” She shrugged. “Seemed like an easy side investment, assuming the product passes my rigorous taste tests.”

  I smiled at her self-deprecating tone. “Where’d you go to school?”

  Julia glanced over as she lifted a ladle dripping with batter. “UM for undergrad. FIU for law school. What about you?”

  I tried not to visibly sigh in relief that she wasn’t a potential Easton ex. Not that his sea of hookups could be considered exes. “FSU.” I forcibly sectioned off a piece and dipped it into a glob of Syrup #1. “Did you meet your husband at school?”

  She grinned as she poured out three pancakes in a pan that was really only big enough for two. “Brad’s a dinosaur. I met him at the law firm I interned at. He was the old guy with the wandering hands.”

  “Still am.” A man six foot something in a suit and with a smile that could disarm a nun walked in and wrapped an arm around her. It caught me so off guard that I missed my mouth. As I managed the first bite, he pulled her tight to his chest and kissed her on the mouth, then turned to me, one brow lifting as he took in the scene.

  And that was how I first encountered Brad De Luca. Butter on my cheek, a sticky fork in hand, my mouth full of pancakes.

  “Brad De Luca.” He extended a hand and I struggled to get off the stool, a wedge of dry yet sticky food stuck somewhere in my gullet.

  I swallowed hard. “Elle North, with Blanton & Rutledge Realty.” I wiped my hands on a crumpled paper towel and shook his hand, which swallowed mine whole.

  The online photo I’d swooned over hadn’t done him justice. It hadn’t captured the power of his stare or the wave of charisma and masculinity that radiated from him. I tore my gaze away from him and somehow made it back to my chair without whimpering.

  Whimpering. Why in all holy hells would I be fighting the urge to whimper?

  “She’s testing the syrups,” Julia explained, wiping the back of one wrist across her forehead, a spatula still in hand.

  Brad glanced toward the stove. “Oh, no. You cooked these?”

  I shifted on the stool and wondered when the house tour would begin. Should I be instigating that? They seemed to have no concept that I was here to list their property.

  “Here. Taste.” Julia broke off a piece of her latest creation and I winced at the audible snap that the action made. Pancakes had never, in my experience, snapped. She held a piece toward his mouth and he stepped closer, his jaw flexing open as he took it from her. It was an intimate moment and I looked down and sawed off another wedge.

  “Wow.” He chewed slowly and rigorously. “That’s terrible.”

  The laugh burst out of me, along with a few bits of pancake. I clamped my hand over my mouth in an attempt to contain the damage and saw Julia smack his shirt with a flour-covered hand.

  “Don’t be mean. It’s not terrible!”

  “Babe.” He glanced around the massive kitchen, which she had somehow managed to cover in flour, syrup samples, and batter. “How many of them have you tried? And where’s Martha?”

  “I’ve tried some,” she defended. “And you go talk to Martha if you want her to cook. It’s Friday.”

  “Ah, right.” He moved past her and I watched as his hand trailed over her ass with easy ownership. Opening the fridge, he pulled out a bottle of water, then turned to me. “So, you’re the one who’s selling this beast?”

  I wiped my mouth and nodded in my most professional manner. “Yes, sir. It’s a prime location. Should
sell quickly.” Quite possibly the most idiotic three sentences anyone had voiced so far today.

  “Privacy is a concern for us.” He twisted off the bottle’s cap and glanced in his wife’s direction. “And security. I’d like to limit and control the number of people who have access to the house.”

  Over breakfast, Easton and I had discussed whether or not I should acknowledge or bring up his family. We had decided against it, and I struggled to keep my features bland and unsuspecting. “It’s customary with a house this size for me to be present at any showings, but I’m happy to do anything that makes you feel more comfortable. Was there anything specific you have in mind?”

  “Why don’t we give her a tour?” Julia suggested, moving to the prep sink and washing her hands. “Then she’ll see the control room.” She looked at me for agreement and I nodded, as if I knew what a control room was.

  “But first,” she gestured to my plate. “Eat up.”

  “Oh yes,” Brad intoned. “And if any of those syrups make those pancakes even remotely edible, I’ll write a blank check right now because that’s bottled magic.”

  She flung a pancake toward him and he swung the water bottle at the incoming missile. The two connected, and there was a sharp crack as the stiff cake hit the front of a cabinet.

  “Go ahead,” Julia urged, flashing a breezy smile in my direction. “Try the bacon-flavored one next.”

  * * *

  The house was gorgeous. Everything I could have ever wanted in a listing. Vaulted ceilings. Lots of light. Updated bathrooms. A spacious and flowing floor plan. And… a few extras I didn’t expect. Deadbolts on bedroom doors. Wired sensors in every window. A panic room with a cluster of monitors that showcased every square inch of the property. I stood at the entrance to the tight space and stared at its interior. There was a wall of guns and ammunition. Three different phones. Nine video screens attached to a laptop. A first-aid kit the size of a mini-fridge.