On The House (Caldwell Brothers Book 7)

by Colleen Charles

  Jamie opens the front door, and I can hear a scream rise in her throat. She tries to mute it, and it comes out as a wheezing squeak, like the sound from a dog’s chew toy. I run to join her at the door just in time to witness the latest dilemma.

  Nell stands there, along with a dozen other crew members carrying cameras and sound equipment.

  “Hey, guys,” she chirps. “Didn’t know you were here. We were just coming in to shoot some B-roll footage. Is something wrong?”

  Jamie and I exchange a panicked look.

  “Well, that depends.” I glance between her and Jaime. “Did you happen to bring any cans of Raid with you?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lincoln

  I stand in front of Dante’s massive desk like a schoolboy in the principal’s office, while the rotten little goblin scolds me. And no matter what he says, no matter what ugly names he calls me, I have to stand here and take it. If I give in to the urge to tell him to fuck himself and storm out, I’ll torpedo my chance to gather evidence on his scheme for the housing development.

  Which tempts me to no end. My mind races as I try to keep from choking him out.

  Carpenter ants?

  I’ve had houses with scorpion issues. Tarantula issues. Those little bastards can look like a black, hairy carpet during mating season. They can close down roads until drivers lose their shit and run them all over. But carpenter ants? This shit is bad.

  Bad. Bad. Bad.

  The news about the place needing to be fumigated – which blows our plans for the open house, costing me in the high five figures, not to mention the damage to my reputation – is worse. And the news about Bravo getting it all on camera is the most dismal part of all, given the fact that they’ll probably leak the footage just like they did when I argued with Chloe.

  I never thought I’d become famous for such stupid shit. Shit that’s beneath me.

  But the worst news of all came from Charles, Dante’s pet thug, when he told me that Dante had summoned me to his office. No call from him this time, which meant that things must be pretty damn serious.

  All I seem to be able to consider is how I can face Nixon afterward, after the things we said in Best of Both Worlds? I insisted that I could take down Dante where Nixon had failed. I refuse to go back with my tail between my legs. I refuse to admit that I wasn’t strong enough, smart enough, capable enough to do this on my own.

  I am more capable than anyone has ever given me credit for. Even myself. And that shit stops right now.

  I tune out Dante’s ignorant insults about my disability and my family, and instead, I focus on his overall tone and body language. I’ve seen Dante in a frothing rage before, at the ribbon-cutting ceremony.

  And that’s how I can tell that this time, he’s faking his outrage. It’s all an act.

  But why?

  The answer seems comically simple. Ants don’t just show up in the millions one day when they weren’t there before. We’d had an inspector check for them before we started staging the place, and we also lined the doorways and windows with Borax to keep them out, just in case. It’s not foolproof, but it would still prevent a massive colony of the little bastards from spontaneously appearing overnight. We’d have noticed a few of them crawling around here and there before then.

  The most logical explanation, then, is that Dante ordered them there. Or, more accurately, had his braintrust Charles do it for him.

  Dante doesn’t want the best brokers in Vegas skulking around the model home during the open house. Chances are, at least a couple of them would be savvy enough to see that the place is essentially a cardboard shitbox despite Chloe’s spectacular staging, and there goes Dante’s plans for the custom development and his huge payday.

  In his angry words that still ring in my ears, ‘a mentally-deficient cripple and some woman from cow country’ won’t be smart enough to figure it out. But the distraction created by the ant situation will keep everyone’s focus on us and away from him, so he can get away with his scheme.

  I notice as Dante stops talking, and he and Charles stare at me expectantly.

  “Well? What do you have to say for yourself, you brain-damaged moron?” he thunders.

  “You have my deepest apologies, Dante.” I bow my head, but only so I can inhale without him knowing and to sound appropriately shamed and humble. “This won’t happen again.”

  “You’re goddamn right it won’t! Bad enough that we had to cancel the open house. No more surprises, you hear me, whelp? Cute little videos to create drama and generate interest are one thing, but fucking with my professional standing and flushing my hard-earned cash down the john just isn’t fucking acceptable.”

  The hard-earned cash came out of my pocket, not yours, you cheap asswipe. And fuck you for putting on this ridiculous charade when you’re the reason things went south here.

  “Now get the fuck out of my sight!” he finishes. “Now, I’ll have to sexually harass my secretary to lower my goddamn blood pressure.”

  Charles moves forward to hustle me out of the room, but I start toward the door on my own. Standing still for this humiliating crap is one thing, but I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to let a dumb slab of a man like Charles put his hands on me.

  I step out of the Mona Lisa where Dante has his offices, and when I see what lurks for me outside, I let out a weary sigh. This is the last thing I needed right now.

  Nixon leans against one of his cars, a restored, gleaming fire engine red 1957 Chevy in perfect condition. He polishes his nails against his lapel, giving me a wry smile.

  “So, first you’re a YouTube star, and then you become an accidental spokesman for Orkin Pest Control. Is it safe to assume the gangster-hunting is going well for you so far?”

  “You run a whole casino,” I growl. “So ostensibly, you’re a busy man. Isn’t there anything else you’re supposed to be doing right now?”

  He laughs and shakes his head. For the first time, I notice how much silver lines his temples. And how much of it I probably put there. “Oh, come now. I’m never too busy for my baby brother.”

  I shove my hands into my pockets. “Did you really come here just to gloat?”

  “No,” he says. “I came here to make sure you’re okay.”

  Jesus, that’s almost worse. Scratch that. It is worse. After being called an invalid, I’m being treated like one.

  “Thank you.” I can hear the tightness in my voice, but I can’t seem to do anything about it. “I’m fine. You can go now.”

  Nixon puts his hands on my shoulders. I know he means to show concern, but it’s a gesture I’ve come to hate.

  “Okay. So you need to do this. Fine. You’ve convinced me. You’ve got the brains for it, not to mention balls for days. And why not? You’re a Caldwell. But Lincoln…that doesn’t mean you need to go it alone. Let us help you.”

  “Oh, I see. So we’ve gone from ‘Sit this out, Lincoln’ to ‘Let me do this for you, Lincoln.’ That’s a hell of an improvement.”

  Nixon frowns, and a shadow of hurt appears in his eyes. “Where is this coming from, little brother? We used to be able to talk like adults. Now you’re always so defensive. All I’ve ever done is try to be there for you, to help you, to do whatever it took to get you what you’ve always wanted. And look at you now? What did I ever do to piss you off so much?”

  As I stand there looking at him, I realize I don’t have any real answer, except that he’s spent his whole life being damn near perfect. Just his mere able-bodied existence pisses me off. He’s never had to rely on anyone the way I’ve had to rely on him. He can’t understand how much resentment that causes, especially now that I’m out of the chair and people like him still treat me like I’m in it.

  He’s right, though. He’s my brother, and he’s always loved me and done everything he could to make my life better. These things I’m feeling aren’t his fault, not really. Maybe if I went into therapy like the doctors recommended after my operations, to try to face these emot
ions head-on and deal with them in a healthy way, things could be different.

  Things would be different.

  But no. I just can’t face the thought of telling my innermost thoughts to some stranger who’ll pretend to have all the answers, even if they don’t. Maybe that works for other people, but I just don’t see it working for me. I believe a man needs to unwind his own emotions himself.

  I lean forward until his face is directly across from mine. “I’m sorry, Nixon. I know it can be…difficult, sometimes, dealing with me. I know you’re just trying to help. But when I said this was something I had to do alone, I meant it.”

  Nixon’s hands remain on my shoulders. “I can’t stand the idea of you getting hurt,” he confesses in a voice just above a whisper. But it’s so laced with emotion he might as well have been shouting at me. “I know how that sounds, and I know you’re brave, and you’re strong, and you’re your own man, and I should mind my own business. But I can’t help it. You’re my brother, and you’ve only just gotten a chance to live the good life. I don’t want to see all that snatched away from you, especially by some piece of shit. I just want the best for you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. We all have.”

  “I appreciate that.” The tightness lingers, no matter how much I try to let it go. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  He pauses for a long moment, then releases me. “I guess that’ll have to be good enough.” He struggles to sound like his usual buoyant self, but the tone in his voice sounds more like defeat.

  I know there’s nothing I can say to him that will convince him I can do this by myself.

  So I’ll just have to show him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chloe

  When I meet Lincoln at the model home at the scheduled time, I prepare myself for more yelling and fighting about the ants and the ruined open house until I’m wound up so tight my hands actually tremble under the force of my own inadequacy.

  But when he sees me, no anger bursts forth like a gush of censure – if anything, he looks a little embarrassed, though it’s hard to tell with him.

  “I apologize for my behavior the last time we were here.” He avoids eye contact, which shows he feels even more sheepish than I thought. I’d like to grab his chin and force him to look at me. But I don’t. “I have no excuse. You should have consulted me about the chandelier first, but you were right about the lighting in here, and the accident could have happened to anyone. There was no reason to talk to you like that, especially in front of other people. And, you know…cameras.”

  Before I can stop it, an audible sigh of relief escapes my lips. There won’t be another scene. At least not today. “To be fair, I don’t think either of us could have predicted that would go viral the way it did. And I’m sorry about the ants, and the open house. I know that cost you a lot of money. Let’s just say that neither one of us have put our best foot forward here, when I know we want nothing more than to actually do that when it matters most.”

  He shakes his head. “That wasn’t your fault either. Again, it could have happened to anyone.”

  I think about his words for a moment. They flow out of his mouth in a string of niceties that mean nothing and everything all at the same time.

  “The thing is,” I begin hesitantly, “I’m not wholly certain it could have happened to anyone. Or the chandelier, either, for that matter.”

  “What do you mean?” His voice stays so even, I can’t tell whether he’s genuinely puzzled, or he already knows what I’m going to say and he’s just waiting to hear me say it. Because he already knows.

  “Well, the ceiling brace, for starters. Okay, I didn’t inspect it carefully after I had the chandelier installed…but why would I? The installer should be making sure a light that heavy gets installed properly into the ceiling trusses. It usually doesn’t split like that unless it’s some kind of cheap imitation, and I can’t think of a good reason why that would be the case here if Dante’s such a big shot and he’s planning to price the homes so high.”

  “Go on.” His unreadable face sends a frisson of panic through me. And I don’t like feeling out of control. Damn him.

  “And the ants. One day there’s no trace of them, and the next day it’s Ant City. That doesn’t just happen, especially when we’d already had the place checked for infestation. And not just any ants, but carpenter ants, which are particularly damaging to houses and furniture? And people. Definitely people. That almost seems like someone put them here deliberately just before the open house, to sabotage us somehow. Like they wanted something horrible to happen in this house.”

  Lincoln doesn’t answer, and I want to slap his face or extract the words from him so I’ll know where I stand. Instead, I ball my hands into fists and clutch them at my flanks. “Do you know something you aren’t telling me?”

  Those hypnotic eyes gaze right through me. “That’s the kind of thing people tend to suspect when they’re hiding something themselves.”

  “What the hell would I be hiding from you?” Even as the words leave my mouth, I realize that I’ve sprung from the safety of the water to swallow the bait. He led me to change the subject, rather than giving me a straight answer.

  He raises an eyebrow. “How did you lose your leg, Chloe?”

  He’s like some kind of magician the way he waves his magic wand, getting me to reveal things I’ve never revealed before. I need to watch myself around him. “You said I didn’t have to tell you if I didn’t want to, remember?”

  He snaps his fingers triumphantly. “Ah, so it wasn’t bone cancer. Okay. At least we’ve established that. So, what was it?”

  “Fine, what do you want it to be?” I spit in an angry hiss. “I was down in Texas, and some maniac wearing a mask of human faces cut it off with a chainsaw. I was on a weight loss kick and figured amputation was the best way to shed those last few pounds. Or, no, you know what? One day I woke up, and it was just gone.” I stop my tirade only long enough to snap my fingers in the charged air between us. “Damnedest thing I ever saw. I mean, burglary’s one thing, but this was ridiculous. Go ahead, pick whichever story works for you. Just stop hounding me about it.”

  Lincoln frowns, looking over my shoulder. “What the hell is that?”

  “I’ll tell you what it is,” I snap. “It’s another damn dodge from you, that’s what. You’re hiding something from me about this house, this project. I want to know what it is. I think you owe me that, especially after the public lecture about being in this together and needing to share information.”

  Rather than answer, Lincoln walks past me, toward the wall of sliding glass doors that lead from the living room to the backyard area and swimming pool which provide indoor/outdoor living to the home. I let out an exasperated grunt, following him. Will this shit storm never end? The thing that should be the best part of my life has lowered into the gutter so far, I can’t even claw my way out.

  I follow him a few paces, but when my gaze follows his, I stop dead in my tracks.

  One of the expensive chaise lounges has half disappeared into a crater the size of a giant landscaping boulder. While we stare with rapt attention, it lowers another inch, like a ship that’s sinking below the horizon. And a yawning chasm of concrete litters the bottom of the pristine pool. Taunting us.

  I can almost hear it.

  Something diabolical is at play here, and if something else goes wrong with this house, I’m going to lose my shit.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lincoln

  Herb Janssen raises an eyebrow as he peers at the sinkhole in the backyard, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. He’s been standing that way for a few minutes now, and even though I know I shouldn’t rush him, my frayed patience urges me forward, begging me to scream in displeasure.

  Herb’s a structural engineer who worked with Nixon, and he’s the best in the business. Generally regarded as the best in the Southwest, largely he earned that stellar reputation because he’s thorough. So thorough, in fac
t, that he takes a couple more minutes to silently inspect the hole before nodding, jotting a few notes on his clipboard, and turning toward Chloe and me.

  “Well, the good news is that it can definitely be fixed, no problem there,” he says in his laconic Texan drawl. “I know it looks bad, but it’ll just take a little work to fill in the sinkhole and put new turf over it, then patch up the crack in the pool. After that, you can shore up the foundation on the place to stabilize it.”

  “But what made this happen?” Chloe asks, twirling a lock of her mane between her fingers. I recognize it as something she does when she’s trying to keep from losing herself to her emotions. “I mean, will it do this again?”

  Herb shrugs, mopping his ruddy face with a bandana. “That’s the bad news. I know this isn’t the answer you want to hear, but at this point, I honestly couldn’t tell you. On one hand, it could be that you’ve got some serious structural problems which need to be addressed. Usually, these things come to light during the initial inspection, but depending on who conducted it, there could have been some kind of foul-up.”

  Or a bribe from Dante.

  “And on the other hand?” Chloe prods.

  He spreads his arms wide. “Sometimes, new houses just need a while to settle. These things suck, but they do happen, probably more than you realize.”

  “So, what’s next?” I ask.

  “You can call in some people to repair the current damage, but without knowing the exact cause of the problem, you’d basically be flushing your money down the toilet. I’d recommend another inspection. I’m available tomorrow…I was scheduled to do one in Reno in the afternoon, but your family and I go back a long way, so I could move some things around and do this as a favor if you’d like. I can start pulling the permits and paperwork for this place today.”

  The look on Chloe’s face tells me she expects me to say yes immediately, and the longer I hesitate, the more perplexed she seems. But before I agree, I should look at this with focused logic, and I have to weigh my options.