Down & Dirty

by Tracy Wolff

  But Kerry doesn’t even look at the printer as she storms into her office, all but slamming the door behind her. I lift my brows at Alice as the sharp sound echoes through the office. But she just shrugs, then starts to giggle as I continue to stare at her.

  Soon I’m laughing, too, though my laughter has a tinge of a hysterical edge to it. I never dreamed that my first job out of college would have me at such odds with my boss—especially not on the second day.

  “Still think the house sale will make enough money to get me back in her good graces?” I ask in between giggles.

  “Honestly? You could sell houses to the Lightning’s entire offensive line and I’m not sure it will be enough to make her like you.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging.”

  “Actually, I think it’s really encouraging. Think of all the money you’ll make if Hunter hooks you up with a couple of his friends. I mean, seriously. Getting to sell one house in this price range is awesome. Getting to sell three or four? You’ll be rolling in it.”

  I start to tell her I don’t want to be rolling in it, but I stop because…come on. It’s pretty amazing that I landed Hunter Browning as a client my first time out of the gate. Especially since yesterday had started out so badly. If I could land just one of his teammates, I would be set for a long time. More than long enough to really give myself a chance to get my stuff on the radar of the California art community.

  It’s that thought that has me shuffling through my notes again after Alice leaves to meet a client. That has me scouring the MLS listings in between fielding phone calls and doing assistant work for Kerry, looking for any house I might have missed on my search last night.

  I only find one, and that’s because it was just listed this morning. I fall in love with it right away, not just because of its location—on some of the most prime La Jolla beachfront there is—but because of its lines. Unlike most of the modern mansions around it, this home is stately. Old-world Mediterranean without being fussy. Beautiful, with its creamy white stucco and bronze metal balconies and rounded architecture. It has soaring windows on each of its three levels and a million high-end amenities, but as I flip through the pictures I’m impressed with how warm it feels. With how much it feels like a family home.

  The fact that it’s also on the water—like, the property ends where the beach begins—is a huge win. Its price tag, a whopping $23.5 million, makes me wince, but it’s within the range Hunter gave Kerry. And, best of all, I can call and make an appointment to see it instead of having to go through that damn database.

  I have a feeling in my bones that it’s the one, so I try to set up an appointment early in the day—even if it means having to cancel one of the ones I already set—but I can’t get one until seven in the evening. On the bright side, the other three appointments I set up in La Jolla were also at the end of the day, so at least we won’t have a lot of extra rush-hour driving to do. And it’s only about twenty minutes from the stadium when traffic is good. All in all, it’s a huge win and I’m thrilled it hit the market today.

  The next couple of hours drag by, despite the fact that Kerry keeps me busy making her appointments (using her license number) for the week, setting up open houses and vetting a couple new real estate staging companies. Despite the fact that she’s only putting up with me to keep Hunter happy, I am glad that I get this chance—however short it will be—to work for her. She may have a myriad of personality flaws, but she’s a great real estate agent and I’m already learning a lot from her.

  This may not be my first choice of career, but it’s something that can potentially support me as I pursue art, and I’m grateful that I’m getting the kind of on-the-job training that I am. Even if I get fired next week, I’ll still know a million times more than I did when I was hired last Monday.

  Kerry keeps me so busy, in fact, that one o’clock sneaks up on me. I’m securing the last appointment for her Friday client when the main office door opens and in walks Hunter.

  Somehow he looks even hotter than he did yesterday. He’s dressed in a red, vintage Aerosmith T-shirt that really works with his green eyes and is just form fitting enough to show off his well-muscled chest and tight, tight abs. Not to mention his freaking amazing biceps and the stylized dragon tattoo that makes up one of the most beautiful sleeves I’ve ever seen. His jeans are so faded that they’re bleached white and fraying at the cuffs and he’s wearing the round black diamond earrings that are one of his trademarks.

  In other words—cliché or not—he looks so smoking hot that I’m surprised the office hasn’t caught fire. A quick glance behind me says I’m not the only one who feels that way. Alice is staring at him with her mouth open and the only other female agent in the place right now might need to wipe the drool from her chin.

  I can’t judge either one of them, though, not when it’s taking every ounce of willpower I have not to lick my lips. He’s still the guy who soaked you with water, I remind myself as I reach into my desk drawer to pull out my purse. Still the guy who couldn’t even summon up a decent apology.

  Still the guy who kissed you until your panties were soaked through, my suddenly wide-awake libido reminds me. And damn it, it’s all true. He might have a tendency to be a jerk, but the man can fucking kiss.

  “You’re right on time,” I tell him as I push back from my desk. I wore one of my most conservative outfits today—a black wiggle skirt that hits me mid-calf and a purple peplum blouse with long, tight sleeves, a sweetheart neckline and a bow that delineates my waist. It’s a far cry from a suit, but it does cover more of me than almost any other outfit I have, so I figure that has to count for something in Kerry’s book. The fact that she looked me over for flaws numerous times today but never found anything to complain about makes me feel like I actually look professional—not just an artist’s vision of what professional might look like.

  “One of my trademarks,” he answers laconically.

  He looks me over—it’s subtle, way more subtle than yesterday, but it’s hard to miss the way his gaze runs over me from my head to my toes. His eyes are warm and it’s obvious he likes what he sees and I’m not sure how I feel about that. More receptive than I did yesterday morning, certainly…but that’s not saying much. Especially when Kerry’s words—along with a million gossip columns and sound bytes—are on a loop in my head, each one reminding me that men like him take what they want and then get out quick.

  The last thing I want is to become one of Hunter Browning’s dates for a night. As the best—and best-looking—quarterback in the NFL, his prowess with the ladies is pretty much legendary. As is the fact that he rarely has one on his arm, or in his bed, for longer than a night or two.

  With the way he kisses, if he was a normal guy, I might be tempted to sign up for a night or two in his bed. If it was only between two consenting adults who had the hots for each other. But becoming just another notch on superstud Hunter Browning’s very public bedpost? Definitely not on my agenda.

  “Can you drive again today?” I ask as we head out to the street. I hope he says yes because my car is still dead as a doornail. I want to have her towed to a garage, but until I get my first paycheck, I can’t even afford to do that.

  “Of course.” His hand goes to my lower back as he leads me to the absolutely beautiful gunmetal silver Aston Martin cozied up to the curb. The thing glistens in the early October sunlight and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to ooh and aah as he gets the door for me.

  “No truck today?” I ask a little snidely. I don’t want him to think this gorgeous specimen of automobile impresses me. Even if it does. The man might think he’s God’s gift, but there’s no denying he has really, really good taste.

  “I just wanted you to be comfortable,” he answers with a smirk. “I noticed you had a little bit of trouble climbing down from the truck yesterday.”

  “I am not short.” I pick up the white box on the seat as I slide into the car.

  “Of course not.” H
is smirk grows wider. “You’re just vertically challenged.”

  He closes the door on me before I can come up with a comeback and though I have no plans to let his comments go, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate them. As long as he’s not being an ass, I’ve always been a sucker for a guy who can give as good as he gets.

  I still haven’t thought of a retort when he slides behind the wheel, but that’s probably because I was distracted by the sight of his very fine ass in his very worn jeans as he crossed in front of the car. No wonder he’s been People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive three times in the last decade. Now that I’ve seen him in person, I feel like he got gypped the other seven years. Seriously. None of the Chrises—Evans, Pratt, or even Hemsworth—have anything on this guy.

  I try to hand him the box, but he just shakes his head and grins. “That’s for you.”

  “For me?” I sound as incredulous as I feel. “You bought me a present?”

  “Don’t get too excited. It’s not diamonds.”

  “I never thought it was.” I eye the box suspiciously. “So what is it?”

  “Why don’t you open it and find out?”

  Warily, I do as he asks. And then I crack up when I see what’s inside. “You bought me cupcakes?”

  “I bought you chocolate cupcakes.”

  “Why?” I already know the answer, but I want to hear him say it.

  “Because it seemed a little late for Froot Loops and a little early for tequila.” He grins as the engine roars to life. I don’t know what else to say except “Thank you.”

  He shakes his head like it’s nothing. And maybe, to him, it is. But still I feel myself softening even more.

  “So, where to?” he asks.

  “I thought we’d start in Del Mar, then move on to Coronado before ending up in La Jolla this evening, if that’s okay with you.” I want to tell him about the house I found, but I don’t want to unduly bias him against any of the other houses we’re going to see today. There are quite a few really nice homes on my list and I think he could be happy in a number of them. The fact that the last house is so perfectly my dream home—with the exception of its proximity to the water, of course—doesn’t mean that it’s going to be Hunter’s.

  “This evening?” He raises a brow as he pulls smoothly into traffic. “How many houses are you planning to take me to?”

  “We’ve got appointments at eleven.”

  “Eleven? Seriously?”

  “Yep. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours scouring every listing in San Diego that meets your specifications.”

  “And there were only eleven?”

  “Proximity to the ocean is a killer, especially if you don’t want a tacky, nouveau-riche McMansion—”

  “I don’t,” he tells me firmly.

  “I know. Hence the twenty-four hour search. But to answer your question, no. There were more like forty or fifty that could meet your specifications. Then I went through and ranked them based on my knowledge of you and—I admit—my own personal preference. We’re on the first tier today. If you don’t find anything you like, then I’ll take your feedback and go through the rest of them and come up with a new list for later this week—or whenever you’ve got time to go house hunting again,” I add hastily.

  “If we don’t find something today, I’ll make time.” He says it with a grim determination that makes my radar go off all over again. There’s a story here and it’s definitely not that of a celebrity searching for his latest pleasure palace.

  Maybe I’m giving him too much credit, trying to see what I want to see now that I’m going to benefit greatly from having him as my very first client. But I don’t think so. There’s more to Hunter Browning than the brilliant quarterback/hardcore party boy that the media takes such delight in reporting on.

  “Let’s think positive,” I tell him as we cruise onto the 805. “Maybe you’ll fall in love with the first house we see.”

  Chapter 12

  Hunter

  I definitely don’t fall in love with the first house Emerson takes me to. Of course, that could be because for most of the tour I’m too busy staring at her to pay much attention to the house at all.

  She looks gorgeous today. Absolutely, drop-dead, pinup-girl gorgeous. So gorgeous, in fact, that I’m not sure what to look at first.

  It’s not just her hair, though I spent half the night dreaming about wrapping those curls around my hands and tugging on them until she begs me for all manner of things.

  It’s not just her X-rated mouth, though God knows the red lipstick she’s wearing today does things to her obscene lower lip that should be illegal in at least twenty-seven states.

  And it’s not just her body, though she has more curves than a roller coaster and looks twice as dangerous in that truly amazing excuse for a skirt.

  It’s more than that. It’s the way she holds herself. The way she talks. The look in her midnight blue eyes that says she isn’t buying whatever crap I’m selling. I think that’s what I like the most, even more than the little star-shaped birthmark she’s got right under her jaw. And that’s a lot, considering just how many minutes I spent in the middle of the night fantasizing about licking my way over that birthmark.

  I will say that the house is much better than anything her boss ever picked out for me. While it’s not quite right—most of the rooms feel a little too cramped for me, their size overpowered by darkly painted walls and towering built-ins—it’s definitely more in line with what I’m looking for. A home and not just a showplace.

  We step into the backyard—which boasts a lap pool and a really comfortable-looking hot tub, according to the MLS listing—and both stop dead. Because while there is a pool, the backyard has something else that definitely didn’t make it into Emerson’s list of talking points about the property.

  The gardens are full of sculptures. And not just any sculptures. Erotic sculptures.

  And not just any erotic sculptures. Erotic sculptures depicting pretty much every carnal act a man and a woman or a man and another man or a woman and another woman can possibly get up to together. And that’s not even counting the numerous pieces depicting various forms of menage.

  We both stand speechless for several seconds, our eyes darting from one piece to the next. I’m not a prude by any stretch of the imagination. I’ve been with a lot of women and done a lot of things with those women, but there are depictions of things in these gardens that I’ve never even heard of, let alone tried. I wouldn’t have believed some of them were even anatomically possible, except the sculptor and his or her subjects have obviously proven me wrong. Add to that the fact that whoever the artist is was not very accomplished and it feels a little like we’re trapped in a bad porn movie.

  Emerson recovers first. “So, I might have been overly optimistic about this house.” She’s trying to sound nonchalant, but she’s staring, wide-eyed, at a sculpture of three men involved in what is commonly known as a daisy chain.

  I can’t help yanking her chain. “I don’t know.” I walk a little deeper into the garden, deliberately pausing beside a very amateur-looking statue of a woman straddling her male lover’s face. “I kind of like this one. Its lines speak to me.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” She snorts a little, starts to turn away. But I stay where I am, and even manage to keep a straight face as I pretend to study the sculpture like I would an original Picasso.

  She pauses for a second, her eyes darting from me to the sculpture like she can’t quite tell if I’m serious or not. Which is the whole point.

  I almost have her, too, until I decide to push it. “I particularly like the look on his face. The arch of his neck, the flex of his jaw. This is obviously—” She looks so horrified that I strangle on my own laughter.

  She smacks me then, a quick slap of the back of her hand against my stomach. “Very funny, Charles Baudelaire,” she says, and I don’t know if I’m more surprised that she knows who he is or that she just expects that I do. Either way, I’m
impressed, both by her knowledge and her bullshit detector.

  And, most surprisingly, by her willingness to play along. After one more quick look at my face, she moves deeper into the garden, wandering from one erotic sculpture to the next. She finally pauses in front of a sculpture that has my eyebrows hitting my hairline.

  “Really?” I ask incredulously. “This is the one you like?”

  “It’s exciting. Just look at his face.”

  “That’s agony, not excitement. His dick is about to break and he knows it.”

  “Right?” she says with a laugh. “I mean, really, what do you even call that?”

  “Painful. That’s what you call that.”

  “I’m serious. Is that reverse missionary?”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe missionary flip 180?”

  “Missionary flip 180? It’s sex, not a snowboarding competition.”

  “You sure about that?” I ask doubtfully.

  “Actually, now that you mention it…” She moves even deeper into the garden. “What about this one?” she asks as she pauses in front of a statue of a man holding up a woman who is doing the splits while he buries his face in her pussy. “What do you think this is called?”

  “Fun. Obviously.”

  She snorts. “You only say that because you have those gigantic arms. Normal guys probably wouldn’t feel the same way.”

  I pretend-buff my nails against my shirt. “So many reasons it pays to be a player, baby.”

  She rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing hard now, which in turn, makes me laugh. Until she stops in front of a sculpture that has my laughter turning to a wince. As I stare at the sculpture of two men having anal sex in what has to be the most uncomfortable position ever invented, it’s all I can do not to cup my dick in sympathy. I just thought that last position was bad.

  “I’m really not sure this is possible,” Emerson says as she crouches down to get a better look.

  “I’m here to tell you it is NOT possible. Once again, penises are not meant to bend in that position.”