Dirty Money(5)

"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.