On The House (Caldwell Brothers Book 7)

by Colleen Charles

  The air hangs silent and heavy between us…except for the incessant clicking of cameras. The man doubles down better than a blackjack pro. Slowly, Dante turns to look at them.

  The rapt human wall of Vegas press record and document every word.

  And so does everyone else with a camera.

  Even Dante’s own men look stunned by his outburst. They stop escorting Jon away, but rather than taking advantage of their lack of interest in him, Jon’s stares daggers at Dante as though an alien larva just burst out of his chest.

  Dante stands still for a moment, breathing hard, looking around him like an animal that’s just realized its leg is caught in a snare. Then he pulls his handkerchief from his breast pocket, mops the sweat from his forehead, and gestures to his bodyguards.

  “Come on, forget that little stronzo and let’s get out of here,” Dante tells them. Together, they hustle off to their sleek black town car.

  “That…was…awesome!” Jon blurts out after a few minutes.

  I sigh, thinking about how Nixon will react to this news that the recent calm only amounted to the calm before the storm when I break it to him. “No, Jon. No, it really, truly wasn’t.”

  Chapter Seven

  Chloe

  “I can’t believe you’re dragging me to a damn swap meet.”

  Jamie looks at me, and I almost burst into a fit of giggles because her astonished face looks comical – her mascara turning her eyes into big black circles of surprise, her vivid pink lips puckered into a tiny oval like a miniature volcano on a topographical map. She wears an ankle-length coat, wrapped tight to cover her entire body.

  “I can’t believe you can’t believe it!” she squeaks indignantly. “For starters, it’s not just a ‘swap meet,’ it’s the Vegas Indoor Swap Extravaganza.”

  “A flea market by any other name…” I sigh wearily, looking around. The place looks roughly the size of an aircraft hangar, its cavernous ceiling lined with huge panes of glass. The rays of light beaming down illuminate dusty shafts hanging in the air over the tables of arts, crafts, collectibles, and assorted junk that seem to go on for miles in every direction.

  Kids haggle with adults over comic books, baseball cards, and action figures. Middle-aged women ooh and ahh over displays of needlepoint, stained glass, and atrocious lawn art. The grown men mostly hang off to the sides, waiting for their wives and children – but there are still plenty of older guys jostling kids out of the way to grab autographed sports memorabilia or kitschy neon beer signs.

  I’ll admit, earlier in my career, I used to spend a lot of time in places like this one. Flea markets can be good places to find the well-worn odds and ends that can really make a home feel lived-in. But that urge died years ago – and now, mercifully, I have people who go on those kinds of shopping sprees for me based on the initial decisions I make regarding the home staging. My numerous storage bins are filled to the gills with cataloged items obtained at events much like this one.

  Plus, spending hours wandering aimlessly through swap meets exacerbates my aching leg and hip. We’ve been here for less than twenty minutes, and the twinge already nips at my muscles.

  “‘Flea market?’” Jamie repeats incredulously. “Would the one and only Janis Davenport be promoting her new line of cookware at a mere flea market?”

  I shrug. “I honestly have no idea. I mean, would she? All I know about her is she cooks, she cleans, and she did time. I’ve never been that interested in celebrities, Jamie. And frankly, I’m not so sure I understand your fascination with them either.”

  “Because they’re worth points,” she whines.

  I cock my head to the side, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘they’re worth points?’ This isn’t like Death Race 2030 or something, is it? I mean, we’re not here to kill her, are we?”

  Her hands fly to her hips, and she juts out her chin at a stubborn angle. “No, silly! It’s for a website called photobombardiers.com. You earn points by photo-bombing celebrities.”

  “Well, maybe you do,” I chuckle. I can’t imagine what’s gotten into her. I don’t recognize this loose version of Jamie.

  Her eyes beg me to agree with her. “Come on, Chloe. It’s fun!”

  “We seem to have rather different ideas of what constitutes ‘fun,’ Jamie my dear. But if it means that much to you, I’ll tag along…for a while, at least.”

  I catch myself wincing and try to play it off, but Jamie sees it anyway, and her eyes fill with concern. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Your leg is probably bothering you, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have made you walk around with me like this, I’m so stupid.”

  Jamie may be frivolous, but she’s also observant. Her quirky demeanor makes it easy for me to forget that.

  “You didn’t ‘make’ me do anything, so don’t worry about it,” I reply, trying to sound breezy and casual even as the pain drives a handful of rusty nails into my hip. The only thing worse than feeling like this is feeling self-conscious about it. I try to change the subject. “So how come I’m only hearing about this photobombardiers.com thing now? It seems like you’re really into it.”

  Jamie blushes. “I’ve, um, been keeping it kind of a secret. Not just from you, I mean, but from everyone. It just…well, it seemed a little silly, is all. But I’m becoming really passionate about it. I’m saving up my winnings.”

  “Maybe it is a little silly,” I concede, “but if it makes you happy, so what? Silly trumps unethical or illegal any day of the week.”

  “It’s not just that. I was afraid that it…I mean, I didn’t want it to, you know…reflect poorly on your business or anything. I’ve even been wearing masks when I do it, and posting them using my initials instead of my full name.”

  My shoulders sag under the weight of the aching in my leg even though I fight them to stay squared. “That’s very considerate of you, but I don’t really see how this would negatively affect the business. After all, you’re not doing anything dangerous or mean-spirited, right? You’re just, what, hopping into the backgrounds of celebrity photos?”

  Jamie nods sheepishly.

  “Well, that sounds perfectly harmless then, and I wouldn’t worry about it. Hell, some of our prospective clients might even get a bit jazzed about it. Who knows? I mean, is this a popular website? Do a lot of people know about it?”

  “Oh yeah.” Her vigorous nod causes her bangs to fly upward. “I don’t want to use the word ‘fad,’ but a lot of people are into it right now.”

  “And Janis, she’s worth a lot of points?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s why I finally decided to tell you. There’s no one I trust more than you, and I need you as backup to make sure I get the perfect photo of this.” She grimaces as if world peace lays on the line. “I can’t screw this up, not when that…’John Doe’ person has more points than I do.”

  I smile. It’s always funny to listen to Jamie try not to swear, no matter how much she wants to. I’m practically a sailor by comparison.

  I snort a laugh. “‘John Doe?’ My my, another code name. This mission, should we choose to accept it, gets more exciting by the minute.”

  I glance around the swap meet, and my stomach flips over. My eyes meet those of Lincoln Caldwell, causing my whole body to jerk to a stop, like a car slamming on the brakes. Struck by the look inside the depths of his, my heart squeezes. I ignore the clenching of my nether regions as an unwelcome warmth whispers and caresses my flesh into knots of emotion.

  I hate seeing someone in the very last place you’d expect them to be, jarring and surreal. Encountering a slick, wealthy, impeccably-dressed real estate magnate in a dusty flea market surrounded by secondhand crap is like seeing the person who makes your Big Macs sitting at a table in Monte Carlo, wearing a tux and betting big on baccarat.

  But it’s more than that. It’s that look in his eyes – the mingled surprise and pleasure, almost relief, at finding me here. Why, though? He’s only met me once, and neither of us put our best foot forward unt
il it was fourth and ten at the two-minute warning.

  But the look in his eyes seems to perfectly match the warm feeling spreading through me at the sight of him, like a lock clicking into place. Even better, using him as eye candy chases away my pain until it retreats as though it were a vampire shrinking away from sunlight.

  “Fancy meeting you here.” His words scream cliché, but coming from him, they still manage to sound suave. “Let me guess, you’re buying more used sporting goods for imaginary teenage girls.”

  I laugh. “No, but that’s a good guess, actually. The real question is, what are you doing here? I mean, you’re welcome to check for yourself, but I’m pretty sure they don’t have any used Armani for sale here.”

  “I’m here with my friend.” He gestures to a rumpled-looking young man in a long coat standing next to him. Wow, I can’t believe I was so focused on Lincoln’s eyes that I didn’t even see the other guy with him. But in actuality, the friend is pretty nondescript, so I throw myself a bone for the oversight.

  “Jonathan Doehner.” Normal guy offers his hand. “Marijuana enthusiast.”

  “Chloe Sanderson.” I shake his hand. “Home stager. And I’m here with a friend as well. This is my assistant, Jamie St. Ives.”

  I turn to gesture to her, only to find her cringing oddly behind my shoulder, like a shy little kid hiding behind her mother’s dress. She’s not known for being socially gregarious, but this behavior seems a bit much, even for her. Maybe I should try to break the ice a little.

  “A lot of people don’t know this,” I continue, rushing to fill in the silence with something I hope interests them, “but Jamie’s hobby is photo-bombing celebrities. Apparently, there’s a whole website for it, with a point system and everything.”

  “Yes, I think I heard about that somewhere,” Lincoln says dryly, raising an eyebrow at Jonathan. For his part, Jonathan stares at Jamie with what looks like utter shock and horror.

  “You,” Jonathan hisses, pointing a finger at Jamie. “Shit, it’s you? ‘JSI?’ Jamie St. Ives? You’re a woman? I’ve been getting beaten by a woman? Are you kidding me?!”

  Jamie shrinks back even further. I have a hard time understanding this guy’s enraged outburst. This whole website thing seemed like a bunch of harmless fun, and he’s acting like the music just stopped, and he’s the one without a chair.

  And then, the most amazing thing happens. Lincoln throws his head back and laughs, straight from his core. The sound floats around me, and even reserved as he seems to be, I find that I like the sound of it. Mixed signals shoot like firecrackers all around us.

  He gestures toward Jamie. “So this is the fearsome JSI? The scourge of celebrities everywhere? The bane of your existence, unmasked at last? Ha!”

  His full lips and movie-star smile make me forget my confusion for a split second. “Sorry, I have to ask. What’s going on here?”

  “It seems that your assistant and my pot smoking friend are bitter rivals online,” Lincoln says, still laughing. “The whole thing is such a reach I’m going to need a step stool.”

  I jerk a thumb in Jonathan’s direction. “You’re telling me he’s the guy you were talking about earlier?”

  Jamie nods, her expression pitiable. If she were a turtle, her head would probably be all the way inside her shell by now.

  “So that means you’re both here to photo-bomb the elusive Janis?” I guess.

  “No, it means I’m here to photo-bomb Janis, and if ‘JSI’ knows what’s good for her, she’ll go look at the vintage copies of “Vanity Fair” and stay the hell out of my way,” Jonathan growls.

  “Okay.” Jamie’s voice sounds so tiny. I want to chastise her, tell her to pick herself up by her bootstraps and carry the hell on. My heart bleeds for her lack of self-confidence. She seemed so excited about this a few moments ago, so animated and determined. She’s usually such a timid person, and this hobby seems like it makes her happy and lets her express herself. Who’s this asshole to come along and snatch that out from under her? If Jamie won’t stand up for herself, then I will.

  “Now listen, ‘Johnny Donuts,’ or whatever the hell you call yourself.” I step forward, although my diminutive stature probably won’t intimidate him the way I’m hoping.

  Lincoln actually snorts with laughter. The sound seems to surprise even him, and he covers his mouth with his hand.

  “It’s John Doe, actually.” Jonathan puffs out his chest like a peacock proud of his unoriginal alias.

  “Well, if you ever talk to my friend like that again, I’ll make damn sure your nickname matches your toe tag.” Then, I step back again with a little ‘take that’ sass.

  “She will too,” Lincoln chimes in. “I’ve been on the business end of Chloe’s temper, and believe me, Jon, you do not want a piece of that action.”

  I flash him a smile even while my heart flips over. “Ah, you remember. I’m flattered.”

  That mouth, those lush lips tugging upward at the corners. It’s almost enough to make me forget myself. My breath feels stolen from my lungs, and my heart pulls at the mirth lacing his words. “How could I forget? Now look, it seems you’re both at a bit of an impasse. If you both try to beat each other to the picture, odds are Janis will see you coming and put the kibosh on the whole thing, and neither of you will get the points you need. True?”

  Jamie and Jonathan nod like good little soldiers.

  “Okay,” Lincoln continues. “Then here’s what we’re going to do. Jon, you said Janis will start showing off her new cookware in a couple of hours?”

  “Yeah,” he concedes.

  “That should be enough time for the two of you to work this out between yourselves, then. There’s a place a few booths down that sells hot dogs and pizza. Pretzels too, I think. We’re all going to stroll over there, you’re going to sit down together, and I’m going to buy you both as much food as it takes for you to figure something out that doesn’t involve a cage fight.”

  “But what will you two be doing?” Jamie asks.

  “Sitting at the grown-ups’ table,” I answer. “Come on, it’s a solid plan. And if you can’t come to a reasonable agreement by the time Janis gets here, then as far as I’m concerned, neither of you deserve the picture.”

  “Amen to that,” Lincoln agrees, his eyes sparkling. He’s really getting off on this whole scene.

  Jonathan and Jamie look at each other as though they’re both afraid they’ll be poisoned the moment their backs are turned. Then, sullenly, they let us lead them over to the snack bar. Within a span of minutes, they sit across from each other a few tables away from us. Jamie has a hot dog, Jonathan has a slice of pizza, and they’re scrolling through each other’s cell phone photos. I can hear them complimenting each other’s work in dulcet tones.

  Lincoln and I share a soft pretzel – we take turns dipping our pieces of it in tiny plastic cups of cheese sauce and mustard.

  “This was a good solution,” I admit.

  His words come, low and conspiratorial. “Well, mostly I was just trying to protect Jon from having a prosthetic leg thrown at his head. I don’t think even a haze of medicinal marijuana could temper that shock.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh as a feeling comes back in droves. The one I lost so long ago. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. That was an extreme reaction, and very uncharacteristic of me. Usually, even when I lose my temper, I don’t…”

  An eyebrow raises as he crosses his arms over his sculpted chest. “Toss limbs? No, I don’t suppose you do. I guess I just bring out the best in people, don’t I?”

  I stifle a smile. “Speaking of which, I saw some clips of what happened at Dante Giovanetti’s ribbon-cutting. Nicely done, unwitting photobombadier.”

  There’s that smile again. It almost feels like he reserves it just for me. For a second, I savor that lie as if it’s the truth. “Yeah, that little speech of his was like something out of The Godfather, wasn’t it? Dante can be quite florid when he wants to be.”

 
“Still, those things he said to you…” The words fall between us like an explosive ticking down to detonation time.

  “Dante likes to make colorful threats and throw his weight around, especially where my family’s concerned,” Lincoln acknowledges with a shrug. “But at the end of the day, he’s just a blowhard. I know he seems dangerous, but there’s no reason to worry. He hasn’t done anything other than be mildly annoying for years.”

  “I meant the things he said about you,” I add gently. “What he called you.”

  Lincoln pauses for a moment, a shadow flickering across his eyes. When he speaks again, his voice changes and turns stoic, like when we first met. “It’s fine. I got used to that a long time ago. I’m tougher than I appear.”

  I think back to all the times I’ve been called the same names. I think of all the times potential boyfriends noticed that one of my legs was fake, and studiously avoided me from then on. I think about the one who banged me out of some kind of perverted need to find out what I look like without my prosthetic on. Most of all, I think of my mother, lying to everyone about how I lost the leg until it felt like I’d drown in her shame and disapproval.

  “That’s an easy thing for people like us to say,” I reply softly. “But not as easy for us to mean.”

  Lincoln sighs and puts down his wedge of the pretzel, wiping his hand with a cheap paper napkin in direct contradiction to his pricey suit. “Look…we’re both considered disabled. Fine. Technically, we have that in common. And I’m sure you’ve had to overcome a lot in your life, and I respect that, and I certainly don’t dismiss any of it.”