Dirty Money

by Jessica Clare

  The moment the client disappears? I bury my face in my hands.

  “Uh-oh,” Farah says from her desk across the way. “What happened? You were on cloud nine ten minutes ago! Did something happen to LaDonna?”

  I take a deep breath and lift my head to look over at my friend. “Jack happened.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Dumb Jack, Jack Jack, or Winky Jack?”

  “Winky Jack,” I say miserably. “He stole that open house from me and said he’d handle it. What could I do?”

  “Tell him no?” Farah raises one dark brow at me. “Tell him to do his own work instead of stealing yours?”

  “He’s the boss,” I tell Farah with a sigh. “I like being employed.”

  “I don’t see how,” she says drily, pulling out a stack of folders on her desk and flipping through them. “They don’t leave you enough clients to make a living.”

  “Oh, they do,” I say glumly, and cross my arms, staring at my laptop. The screen still has a dozen comp listings pulled up from this morning’s work, all gone to waste. “They leave me all the clients with bad credit and no money. You need to buy a house with nothing down and a spending limit of fifty grand? Go talk to Ivy.”

  She snorts.

  That’s all she can do, because we both know I’m not wrong. Farah’s been with Three Jacks for ten years—no clue why she stays. Me, I’ve been here for one, and a lot of the time I feel lucky to have that one. They hired me, fresh off the streets after I got my realtor license, and I didn’t have a lick of experience to my name. I was working at an ice cream shop prior to Three Jacks . . . something that the bosses like to remind me about all the time.

  Three Jacks is a boys’ club. I knew it was when I got hired. It’s run by Jack Farrington (Dumb Jack), who’s older than the hills and has a silver spoon in his mouth; Jack Jackson, who’s a snake oil salesman if there ever was one; and Jack Richards (Winky Jack) who thinks women aren’t born with two brain cells to rub together and he’ll have to rescue us from ourselves. They’re nice enough, as far as bosses go, I suppose. After all, they did give me a job. I make half of a percent on any house I sell. That means on a regular three percent agency commission, they get the other two point five percent and I get what’s left after expenses. If I sell a house that’s a hundred grand? I get five hundred dollars and the company walks away with the other twenty-five hundred.

  Jack (Dumb Jack) told me that I could “promote” my commission amount once I’ve earned two million in sales for the company. Given that the only clients I get handed to me are dirt poor or can’t land a mortgage? It’s been an exercise in frustration, but I’m determined not to give up.

  Ivy Smithfield is going to get a better life for herself and her sister, even if she has to climb uphill both ways, I vow. I may not have the experience or the pedigree, but I’ve got determination.

  With that mental pep talk, I feel a little better. I’m going to do this. So I’m still seven hundred K away from getting that pay increase? It’s doable. I just need to hustle and hustle hard. I’ve got this. I do.

  “I’ll just have to find some new leads,” I announce to Farah. “It’s a minor setback, but it’s not a deal-breaker.”

  “Whatever,” Farah says, giving me side-eye. “You know it’s okay to be pissed, right?”

  “I’m not pissed,” I reply, pulling up local housing forums to scan them for potential clients, just like I do every day. My mama always said “Fake it until you make it,” and I’m getting to be a real pro at faking it. Sometimes I even almost believe myself. “Minor setback. I’ll just have to work on some other leads.”

  “Mmhmm.” She curls her lip. “Least they put you on the flyer. Dumb Jack told me I was too ‘Mexican’ looking.”

  I glance over at her. “I thought you were Persian?”

  “I am.”

  I wince. Well, he’s called Dumb Jack for a reason. “Ouch. Besides, you know they only put me on the flyer because they had to have a girl on there.”

  “Oh, I know. Said they didn’t want to appear sexist.” She puts her fingers in the air and makes a set of quotes. “Appear. I mean, they are sexist, they just don’t want to look it.”

  I smile wanly at her. They may be sexist, but they’re also the bosses and I can’t do much about it. To make things worse, Winky Jack also handles the human resources for the company, so it’s not like I can go complain about his buddies. Or himself.

  I just need to work harder. Once I’ve climbed a few rungs in the ladder, I’ll make good money and I’ll have so many clients I won’t be stuck here in the office, twiddling my thumbs. And if at that point I’m still not making good money? I’ll at least have enough experience under my belt to go somewhere else . . . or hang my own shingle and get the full three percent commission. It’s a nice dream.

  It also won’t become a reality unless I hustle.

  I look over at the picture on the corner of my desk. It’s recent, a picture of my little sister Wynonna in her cap and gown at graduation. My arms are around her and our faces are pressed close together. She’s so happy, so excited to take on the world. So eager to get out there.

  It’s for her that I’m doing all this.

  So I pull up the forums, put my hands on the keyboard, and go back to work trying to drum up clients online.

  ***

  It’s getting late in the day when I get a call from my sister on my brand-new iPhone. I had to get it because my flip phone and printed maps were making some of the clients look at me funny. Problem is, I can’t figure out how the whole “smart” phone works, and so I swipe the wrong buttons and end up missing the call. Farah just snorts and rolls her eyes, like I’m the world’s biggest goober.

  Maybe I am, but I could never afford a smartphone until now. Actually, I still can’t, but I’m forking out extra money so I look legit to my clients. Plus, okay, the mapping application is pretty awesome.

  A text comes in a moment later, shaking my phone.

  Wynonna: U there, Reba?

  Ivy: I am. And remember, I’m Ivy now!!

  Wynonna: O god, whatever.

  Wynonna: I don’t have time for this crap.

  Well, she’d better make time. Ivy’s my real name now; I had it changed legally. Reba sounded like a redneck cliché, and when my teacher at my realtor classes suggested that I go by a less “polarizingly Southern” name, I jumped at the chance. I’ve been Ivy to everyone else for the last two years, but to my sister, I guess I’ll always be Reba Lee Smithfield.

  Wynonna: I have a flat. Gonna B late getting home.

  Ivy: Are you ok?

  Wynonna: Rim’s bent I think. We got the money for that?

  I wince. We don’t. We don’t even have the money for the insurance for Wynonna’s little 1992 Civic, but I’m trying to make it work. I type slowly, since my fingers feel too big and clumsy for the tiny smartphone screen.

  Ivy: I’ll figure it out. Are you pulled over somewhere safe?

  Wynonna: I’m fine. A friend is coming to pick me up, but the car’s on the side of the highway. You want me to wait for a tow truck?

  Ivy: No, those cost too much. I’ll leave work and see if I can change the spare for you. Maybe it’s not as bad as we think.

  Wynonna: Ok! Just text me when u get there. I’m sorry :(

  Ivy: Don’t be sorry! The tires were old. We knew they would go soon. I’ll handle it.

  Wynonna: K! Don’t work 2 late! Friend is taking me 2 a used bookstore so I can see if any of my college texts are there. Maybe I can get them cheap.

  Ivy: Smart thinking!! XO

  Wynonna: XO to u 2

  I put the phone down and resist the urge to bury my head in my hands. Car repairs—the last thing I can think about right now. Wynonna needs her car to go to college, and I need to finish scraping together some money for her tuition. If it’s just a flat tire,
we can eat ramen for a week or two and scrape by. If it’s more than that . . . well, I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. I’m just glad my little sister wasn’t hurt.

  Of course, this means I really need to get some leads. Shoot. I might take a clipboard to the mall and pretend to do a survey, all so I can pass out some cards. It’s desperate, but heck, I am desperate at this point, and the Jacks keep stealing all my good leads. After that, I might stop by the library and the gym and pin a few cards to corkboards. Something will pay off eventually, if I just put enough work into it.

  Well, no time like the present to get started.

  I gather my things, stuffing my folders and then my laptop into my shoulder bag. No rest for the wicked, and I’m going to put in a long night tonight trying to drum up leads. I might even try Facebook ads and Craigslist, if that’s what it takes. All I need to do is sell one house in the next thirty days and I can pay for Wynonna’s tuition. If I get someone in escrow, I can ask for an advance until payday. I have options. I just need to get someone in the door. I’m sure I can seal the deal if that happens.

  I rush out the back of the office and into the lobby—only to see Winky Jack heading back in. He’s got a coffee in hand and his sunglasses on. I smile at him as I pass by.

  He stops and points at me. “Ivy!”

  I halt, but inwardly I’m torn between snarling at him and just wishing I could race out the door. Instead, I keep a warm smile on my face and try to pretend that someone just stuck gum to the back of his expensive suit. “Hi, Jack, how did the open house go?”

  “Fantastic. Got one or two couples that are very interested.” One of his cheeks twitches, and I realize he’s probably winking at me from behind his sunglasses. Eesh. “It was a great lead. Thanks for sending it in my direction.”

  But I didn’t, I want to snap. You stole it. “Of course.”

  He sips his coffee, ignoring the fact that I was trying to leave. “You said you had some comps, right? Mind emailing me those?”

  “Sure.” I gesture at the door. It’s getting harder to smile by the second, but somehow I manage. “Listen, I have to go—”

  At that moment, a man pushes open the glass double doors and walks into the lobby. He’s wearing a dirty trucker cap, an equally dirty T-shirt, jeans, and work boots. He’s got an enormous, bushy beard covering most of his face and glances around the building, thick brows drawn down as if he disapproves of everything he sees.

  The receptionist gives him a blank look, and then her lips twitch with a smirk. She glances over at me and Jack as if to say can you believe this guy, then over at the client. “Can I help you, sir?”

  He saunters forward with a cocky swagger, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Wanted to talk to someone about a house.” He’s got a thick Texas accent that tells me he’s from a small town and not a big city. They drawl more out east and west. I know, because it took me thirteen CDs of self-guided voice coaching to try to ditch my own accent.

  The receptionist looks over at me and Jack.

  Jack takes another sip of his coffee. “Looks like this one’s yours, Ivy.”

  I’m torn. On one hand, I need sales. On the other hand, this guy doesn’t look like he has two nickels to rub together. That’s why he’s “mine.” Jack can’t be bothered unless it’s a million-dollar sale. I smother the stab of resentment I feel. “I do need to go . . .”

  But Jack’s already turning and walking away. That . . . jerk. Grr. It’s not the client’s fault for having bad timing, though. It’d be rude for me to take my frustrations out on him. So I look over at the man with the beard and give him a smile, offering my hand. All right then, I said I wanted a sale, and fate is providing. “Hi there. I’m Ivy Smithfield . . .”

  And my voice dies off, because he’s leaning against the receptionist’s counter, dripping red dirt from his hat and shirt, and devouring me with his eyes. I’ve heard that expression before but I’ve never experienced it. I’ve never felt like anyone was pulling my clothing from my body with their freaking gaze and eye-fucking me . . .

  Until now.

  Good . . . goodness. I’m flustered and don’t know what to think.

  Chapter Three

  Boone

  This was a fantastic idea. For once, my brothers were smart and led me in the right direction. And even though I feel a bit like an asshole for coming into this fancy office with its shiny floors and glass everywhere I look. The receptionist looks at me like I’m scum, but it’s all worth it the moment she turns and I see her.

  The woman from the flyer.

  She’s more perfect in person than she is in the picture. Her long, blonde hair seems brighter, her smile more sincere. Up close, her skin seems translucent and flawless, and her mouth is a soft pink bow that is just begging to do filthy things to a man’s cock. Her eyes are a vivid greenish-brown that I can’t stop staring at. She’s wearing the same suit and skirt she did in the photos, right down to the shoes, and her tits look just as fucking amazing in it as they did in the photo.

  As she extends her hand to me, I see perfect fingers tipped with a pale peach manicure. Her hand is soft as she slips it into mine, but her grip is firm. “I’m Ivy Smithfield,” she says, and her voice is soft, slow, and sweet. Fuck, it’s giving me a hard-on just to hear her voice.

  I’m glad I did this, because I want her. I want her in my bed, right now, her long legs wrapped around my hips as I pound into her. She can even wear those beige heels of hers. I’ll let her put ’em on my shoulders while I fuck her. She can tell me dirty things in that smoky little voice of hers until I bust my nut.

  Yeah, I like the sound of that, too.

  Her cheeks are flushing with color and she gives my hand a little shake. “And you are . . . ?”

  Right. Guess I’m too busy mentally boning her to do introductions proper. “Fucking happy to see you.”

  Her entire face flames red. That’s fucking adorable. “I see.” She tries to pull her hand out of my grip.

  I hold on tight to it, because she’s mine now. She didn’t laugh at me when I came in, like the receptionist. She didn’t look at me like I was fucking dirt for daring to step into her world. She came and gave me her hand, just like I was a client that mattered. She’s classy, just like I thought.

  And she’s sexy as fuck.

  She’s mine. All mine. Anyone that looks at her sideways is gonna get a fist in their mouth.

  I’m still eyeing her when she gives her hand a little jerk, and the flushed look on her face gives way to mild panic. I don’t want to scare her—I want her in my bed. So I let her hand go. “Sorry. Name’s Price. Boone Price.”

  I wait to see if she has any sort of reaction to that. People that read the financials absolutely know who I am. But she only continues to smile, sweet and warm and friendly. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Price. Welcome to Three Jacks.” She gestures at the lobby. “Did you just happen to walk in?”

  “Something like that.” I glance around. “Nice building.”

  She smiles proudly, like it belongs to her or something. “We’re on the historical register. The owners refurbished the place after it was nearly condemned twenty years ago. It’s got a fantastic history if you’d like to hear it.”

  “Some other time.” It just looks expensive and fancy to me . . . just like her. That’s all I need to know.

  She inclines her head. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or a bottle of water?”

  “I’m good. Can I buy you a drink?”

  The look on her face becomes shuttered, her smile tight, and I know I’ve gone too far. “I don’t date clients, Mr. Price.”

  Good. I like that she’s got a firm moral backbone, even if I’m scaring the dickens out of her. I’ll just have to cool my jets a bit. Just enough to get her comfortable. “Of course. I’m just used to being a straight shooter and all.”

  “I see.”
She gestures at the sea of desks in the back office behind her. “If you’d feel more comfortable, I’d be happy to let you talk to one of my associates—”

  “I want you,” I say flatly. When her mouth gets tighter, I put my hands up in the air. “All right. I’m putting my foot in my mouth with everything I say, aren’t I?” I throw on a bit of the charm to make her think my words aren’t sincere—truth is, I mean every fucking word of it. She’s mine. All mine. But I’ve got to play it cool and sneaky until she lets her guard down a bit more. “I want you to sell me a house. We don’t have to date. In fact, we can just pretend I never opened my fool mouth and said any of that.”

  For now, we can pretend that.

  She relaxes a little, but there’s a bit of wariness still in her posture. Ivy gestures at a nearby set of chairs in the lobby, and we move over to them. As we do, she sits down and crosses her legs, and I swear to god, I nearly bust a nut in that moment. She’s effortlessly beautiful, and I’ve never been filled with so much lust and possessiveness for a woman in my life. I’m not a big dater, and now I know why.

  I was waiting for her.

  As I sit, I notice a fine cloud of dust leaking from my hat. Actually, I notice there’s a trail of dust from where I was standing, now over to this chair. Whoops. “Sorry about the dirt. I came in straight from the field.” It’s been another long day in West Texas, but this time I found myself a new spot for a well—and not on Bates’s property. He can go fuck himself.

  She waves a hand. “Work is work, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She pulls out a small notepad and a pen and writes my name across the top in a girly, looping scrawl and then underlines it. “So tell me about you, Boone. What are you looking for?”