The A Little Bit Trilogy Bundle: A Little Bit Submissive; A Little Bit Rough; A Little Bit Controlling - A BDSM Erotica Romance

by Bebe Wilde

  I awoke woke early one winter Sunday morning and it was raining. I went to the window and looked out, then thought about Southern California and all that sunshine. I imagined myself living there, in the warmth, feeling it on my skin. I imagined all the sunscreen I’d have to use as I was so fair skinned. I imagined the big commission checks made out in my name. I imagined the ocean and the freeways, which I’d heard were insane with traffic, and I imagined myself living there, being myself, doing my thing. And I saw it. It was like a vision: Go West, young woman! Go West!

  And so I did.

  I immediately sat down and figured out how to do it. I’d need a place to stay and, obviously, a job. I added all the money I had in my bank accounts—savings and checking—and ascertained I could live for almost a year on what I had while I waited for my first big sale. I would be living frugally, sure, but it would allow me to pursue my goal of becoming a top Los Angles real estate agent.

  After that, I researched apartments online and found a great one near the offices of the real estate firm I wanted to most work for. It was one of the biggest and best agencies in town. I made a call and somehow landed an interview, which I scheduled for two weeks later.

  Then all there was to do was give my boss my notice and, once I was done with that, I handed my clients over to another agent. After that, I got everything ready to move. I withdrew all the money I had in my bank accounts and told my landlord I was moving. I packed my car with just what I needed and gave everything else to charity. I got on the road at five in the morning, making my move out West, seeking my gold in the real estate market. And I drove and drove and drove until eventually I hit the city limits of Los Angles, California.

  Yes, I was more than a little intimidated by the size of the place; talk about urban sprawl! Nothing had prepared me for that. But, due to good planning, I knew where I was going and I went straight to my new apartment, signed the lease and moved my stuff from my car and into the apartment. I had to go out and buy an air mattress and some linens, but I was happier than a lark. The next day, my interview was scheduled and, due to the fact that my former boss gave me a glowing letter of recommendation, I walked out an hour later with a job. The only caveat was that I had to get my license from the state of California immediately. I got right on this and, in a matter of time, got my first listing on a condo in the Valley, a fixer-upper that we listed for a few hundred thousand. The place was a wreck and I didn’t know how the hell I was going to sell it. Who would buy this dump? And for that price? I saw a price-reduction in the near future. Maybe we’d have to give it away? But within a week, I had an investor interested and a week later, I made my first sale.

  To say that I was shocked would be an understatement.

  It was almost like I’d gone to Las Vegas , put a quarter in a slot machine and—Ding! Ding! Ding!—hit the jackpot. It had been so easy, I thought that I had forgotten to do something and that I’d missed a step. But I hadn’t. I’d hit paydirt that easily. That quick sale set me up for many others and initiated the hunger in me for more.

  After that, there was no stopping me. I was able to get more and more listings, sometimes carrying over a dozen at a time, which was probably really stupid. But they all sold! Soon, I worked my way up to being a top agent. Everyone loved me, both my bosses and my clients. They loved my Southern charm and my pretty face. They felt that I was approachable and that they could trust me, which seemed to be an overriding theme out there as you just couldn’t do that with a lot of people. After about three years at my agency, I went from selling condos in the Valley to multi-million dollar homes in some of the most prestigious neighborhoods in the world. And the kicker was, I would sell a client a house, they’d stay a while, build some equity, then ask me to find them a newer, better home, and then resell their “old” house, moving themselves up the property ladder. It was like a revolving door of listings. And of money.

  The market in California was like a honey hole. Everyone was buying! Everyone wanted to sell! The commissions allowed me to rent a fabulous apartment with all the amenities. It was gorgeous and everything I’d always wanted. I was making so much money, I could furnish it with the best furniture, art and accessories. I had the best dinnerware, the best linens and the best rugs. The best everything.

  I made so much money, I was able to lease a new European car every year. In LA, it was all about the image. If you projected wealth, people would assume you didn’t really need the money from the sale of their house. This gave you an aura of indifference; you could take the listing or not and this made them want to give it to you even more. Whatever. It was LA, after all. If you acted desperate, no one wanted to deal with you. If you didn’t project the image of affluence and status, you might come off as what my mother called “a poor ass.” And people turned away from that. If you wanted to be the part, you had to act the part. You had to drive the car, wear the clothes and jewelry and carry yourself as if you not only fit in but you were the star. And everyone wanted to work with a star. This applied to everything, including real estate. That meant they wanted you and no one else in the world to either sell their house or help them buy a new one. You were the best and they only wanted the best. If they got you, that meant they had the best.

  In LA, that’s what was important: Being the best and having the best. And, if you couldn’t do that, you had to at least look the part. It was all about image.

  I went along with this because, hey, it made me a lot of money. And I was a damned good real estate agent and I knew I had to do whatever it took to sell houses. I loved the hustle of it, of knowing I helped people buy their dream houses, or sell them, and keep them moving on to other “forever homes.” This allowed me to shop in the best stores and send plenty of money home to my mother, as well as give to charity. I was also able to afford great assistants, going through a few until I got to my latest and greatest: A super cute wannabe actress named Hailey. I was on top of the world and I was the best at my game. If you wanted to buy or even lease the best properties, you came to see me, Teagan Finney.

  Soon enough, I met and married a man I totally loved. He was a good looking, famous actor and… Well, the relationship hadn’t worked out. Like my college love, Adam, he too left me brokenhearted. I again turned back to my career to fill the hole, making more money that I ever thought possible. I began to work seven days a week, sometimes twelve hours a day not only to distract me from the pain but also to help heal my heartbreak. And once again, I was happy to be reuniting with my real love, real estate. The money was flowing, everything was good. I was happy, even if I was nursing a broken heart. Life was good and it always had the potential to get better.

  Then the market crashed.

  And it crashed, just like that. It didn’t take any time for things to turn in the other direction. It’s like the bottom fell out and I fell right along with it. Suddenly, I found myself no longer making those gigantic commissions, and starting to beg for smaller listings, hoping against hope that it would all get better. Getting a deal was like pulling teeth—wisdom teeth. The honey hole had dried up. Even the fact that I had been married to a famous actor, and was a quasi-celebrity due to our very public divorce, didn’t make a difference. I got listings, sure, but the houses languished on the market, refusing to sell. No one actually wanted to or could buy properties. The market was that bad. Houses began to lose their value and no one could get loans. In other words, things went from normal to pear-shaped. At first, people thought it was only affecting the regular houses and not the multimillion dollar mansions, but eventually, the recession trickled up and absolutely nothing was selling.

  It was quite depressing, to say the least.

  Looking back, if I had been smarter, I would have done a few things differently. First, I would have paid my astronomical mortgage off. Second, I would have traded Rodeo Drive for the mall. Third, I would have flown coach home instead of business. And, last? I would have gotten some fucking alimony! My ex had offered it to me but, being the
prideful person I was, I had refused. No, thank you, I am an independent woman and fine on my own.

  I was so dumb, dumb, dumb.

  I guess all good things have to come to an end and they sure did. Everything went topsy-turvy. I was upside down on my house. I had a closet full of designer bags, clothes and shoes and yet, I had to eat fast food, when I could afford even that. When I couldn’t, I ate ramen noodles, just like in college. When I took clients out for drinks, I sipped water.

  It was hell. How could I climb out of this? Why had I been so stupid with money? I had acted nouveau riche without having the riche. Sure, I had made excellent money but I had spent it as fast as I made it and that kind of money, no matter how good it is, rarely lasts. That sort of money needs to be saved. If only I had known that. But I didn’t and I found myself in a financial hell that was not only anxiety inducing but completely and totally embarrassing.

  I didn’t tell anyone, of course, and I sure as hell didn’t tell my mother who would have loved to shake a finger in my face and say, “I told you so!” And she had told me so. She’d told me to save my money, to pay off my debts and to watch my spending. She did. I just hadn’t listened. I had thought she was just acting poor and old fashioned.

  I hid it well, though. Everyone thought I was okay financially, especially due to the fact that I’d been married to a very famous and wealthy actor. But I wasn’t okay. My assistant Hailey was the only one who knew what dire straits I was headed into and she only knew because she helped me go through my closet one day and took some of my stuff to a consignment store. When she handed me the money, she said, “They only paid you twenty bucks for the Dolce and Gabbana dress. I’m sorry, Teagan.”

  I felt a sharp pain shoot into my heart at her words. Twenty bucks for that? Twenty bucks? I was about to cry when I looked at her. She looked so sad, so dejected, I straightened up and forced a smile.

  “It’s okay,” I said nonchalantly and waved my hand. “It’s just some old stuff I never wear. Don’t worry about it.”

  “You’re not going to let me go, are you?” she asked, her blue eyes sad. “I love my job. I love working for you!”

  “No,” I said and pulled her into a hug, patting her thin back. “Now hush. Nothing is wrong. I just needed to clean out my closet.”

  “You would have never sold that stuff if you didn’t have to,” she said.

  She was right. It had cost too much! I shook my head and forced another smile. “Listen, Hailey, it’s true that things are a little tight right now but you are golden, okay? I have plenty of money to pay your salary. And you can still go on your auditions.”

  She wanted to be an actress and working for me meant a flexible schedule so she could pursue it. If she got another job, she wouldn’t be able to drop everything and head to the “one audition that might make me,” as she always said. I wanted to tell her to give it up and get a real job. Looking back, I probably would have told myself the same thing. Maybe I should have listened to my mother and never moved out here. But I wasn’t that sort of person. I would never tell someone to give up on their dreams. And, right then, I was so desperate, I wanted her to make it now more than ever, if only so I could be her assistant, if need be. Besides, if I let my assistant go, it would be obvious that I wasn’t doing well and that would be career suicide in the Los Angles real estate market.

  She nodded and smiled a little, her face splotched with red. “Next time you clean out your closet, let me have the first look, okay? You practically gave away some really good stuff.”

  I blanched at the thought. I knew that, of course, and I prayed to God I wouldn’t get that desperate again. I had been a fool and I really felt like one, too. My only saving grace was the fact that I paid cash for most everything, having been taught from an early age by my mother not to go into credit card debt. Even so, I spent way more than I should have and should have saved way more than I did. But I didn’t do much of that because I never thought the good times would end. I was a good real estate agent. No, I was better than good; I was a great real estate agent and yet, I had acted like an idiot. In my defense, however, I had never seen the market when it was in recession. I had no clue that my skills as a real estate agent would only get me so far in a bad market. I hadn’t planned ahead. I hadn’t planned for failure. I was paying for it now.

  But I could turn it around and I would. I was a survivor and I would survive this. I just had to keep working my ass off. Even though I didn’t tell Hailey this, I knew that if I couldn’t make it happen, I would eventually have to let her go, as I had my maid and my gardener. Luckily for me, my neighbor, an older man who had probably been there since the town was built, sent his gardener over, telling me one thing he would not put up with was overgrown shrubbery. He also liked to peek in my windows when he didn’t think I was looking. I didn’t say anything; it was LA, after all. But I did keep the shades drawn.

  The Listing

  A few days later, I was outside our offices smoking a cigarette, a bad habit I had re-acquired since the stress of the market had almost killed me. I promised myself I’d quit again soon and I would. Hailey walked out of the building, looked around and spotted me on a bench in the little courtyard where everyone came to smoke and drink coffee and talk about how bad the market was.

  “Oh, there you are,” she said and smiled at me.

  “Here I am,” I said and flicked the ash off my cigarette.

  She sat down beside me, patted me on the leg and grinned mischievously.

  “You look like the Cheshire Cat,” I said.

  “Who’s that?”

  I rolled my eyes. Hailey was a natural blonde so I was used to this kind of thing. But I didn’t say anything. “Never mind. What is it?”

  “I got the inside scoop on something,” she said, very proudly.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Roman Juniper is selling his house.”

  I thought about that, then rolled my eyes. “What is a Roman Juniper?”

  “He was an actor.”

  I groaned. I hated working with actors. It was a requirement, selling in LA; however, it could be a daunting process. Most of them acted like prima donnas. Some were nice, of course, as there are always few in each bunch, but most? No. The houses were always too this or not enough of that and they had such big egos, even my Southern charm and disarming manner never swayed them. They were a pain in the ass, to say the least. I did make a lot of money off them, but I earned every single cent. Also, many of them were nowhere as rich as they acted so finding them a house that looked good for what they could afford was sometimes a big challenge. In other words, I was skeptical.

  “He was an actor,” she said again. “Now he builds houses or something. I got a bunch of stuff on him printed out for you to go over before you meet.”

  “I have a meeting with him?”

  “You will once you agree that this is the best idea ever.”

  I thought about that. “Where’s the house?”

  She gave me the address. “It’s near your house, not right near, but near-near. And it’s on this to-die-for lot. The property alone is valued in the millions. And he has flat land. Imagine that! In the Hills!”

  “How the hell did he get flat land?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Who knows? He bought that old Alden House. Remember that one?”

  “That old rat hole?” I asked, my eyes growing wide. “I thought that was a tear down!”

  “No, it’s totally like on the historic register or something.”

  “It is?” I asked, shaking my head. “But it’s a mid-century and not good mid-century, either. And, let me add, a monstrosity. I think it has over five-thousand square feet or something. Maybe it’s six.” I thought about it, but couldn’t remember the exact figure I had heard.

  “That’s pretty big,” she said.

  “But I don’t think it’s old enough to be on the historic register.”

  “Maybe someone pulled some strings to get it on there. Maybe
I’m wrong about that! I don’t know!” She shook her head, exasperated. “Anyway, he’s looking to sell. And he totally redid it, from top to bottom. I heard it looks fantastic.”

  “Huh,” I said. “What do you know about him?”

  “He’s French,” she said.

  “French?” I asked, thinking that sounded intriguing.

  “Yes,” she said. “Anyway, who cares? He wants to sell, this place is worth millions and we need a big commission. You game?”

  “You do know nothing is selling right now, don’t you?” I said.

  She nodded. “But if anyone can sell it, it’s you.”

  “I love how you have faith in me when I have none in myself.”

  She gave my arm a little punch. “Stop it! You are the best! The best! You can and will do this!”

  I thought about it. Maybe I could. I needed this sale, that was for sure. But right then, no one was buying that sort of house. But what did I have to lose? I glanced over at Hailey. “Can you set the meeting up?”

  She grinned. “I can and I will. Today? After lunch?”

  “Before,” I said and glanced at my watch. “I have another listing appointment at two. I’d like to get this done.”

  She stood and smiled. “I think this is the one, Teagan. I think we can do this.”

  I nodded and put out my cigarette. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am,” she said. “Oh, and don’t forget, the Pasadena house might come through any day. Those people were really interested in it. The offer was good. It might happen.”

  I wished it would. We were just waiting to hear back from the seller, who stood firm on her price and refused to move. She, like so many others, had yet to realize just how dire the real estate situation was. That’s one reason the place had been on the market one-hundred and sixty days, which, in the real estate world, was the equivalent of death. If it didn’t sell soon, I’d have to pull the listing which meant all the money I had put into selling it would vanish it not thin air—poof! Just like my real estate career.