Chapter One
Linden
Dear Monday, please don’t suck.
No really, just this once. Please. Do. Not. Completely. Suck.
I’d love to start off the week with positive thoughts, but ‘positive’ and ‘Monday’ clash worse than orange and pink. So, I spend every seventh morning mentally chanting the same moronic plea to whatever deity is in charge of the wretched day.
It’s yet to ever work, but I keep trying anyway… still shy of a “Plan B.” Besides, what can it possibly hurt? I have nowhere to go but up, right?
Wrong. So very, very wrong.
“Miss Dean, I have Knox Morgan on the line. Shall I put him through?” My receptionist, Louise, is a champ. She knows to check with me before ever transferring a call from Knox through.
Honestly, I’m pretty sure even he knows he gets screened… he’s just too pompous to care.
‘Send his entitled ass to voicemail, then please figure out how to block his calls altogether,’ I think to myself and smile… enjoying it only a moment before remembering—that I’m an adult, and a business owner—and refusing to speak to my biggest client probably isn’t the best idea. So, my actual reply is, “Go ahead Louise, thank you.”
The phone buzzes, and for a second… or three… I just stare at it, timing my deep breathes with the flashing red light. But, duty (a.k.a. bills) calls too, too damn often, so I slowly reach for the receiver, as if it’s a tank of live snakes and all that stands between me and a Fear Factor win. “Linden Dean, how can I help you?” I answer, my tone sickeningly sweet. As in, I may now be a diabetic.
“Morning, Lin. How was your weekend?”
He doesn’t give a tinker’s damn how my weekend was; or if he does, it’s only in hopes it was shitty. And ‘Lin,’ which he hasn’t called me in a very long time, means just one thing… he’s not calling for usual business. He wants something big.
“Fine and dandy, yours?” Phony pleasantries — a trick of the trade, and my strong suit.
“Good, zipped over to Aspen. It’s ideal this time of year; slopes are prime. You ever been?”
“Can’t say that I have, but it sounds fun,” I reply on auto-polite, still unsure what he’s up to, but growing more aware by the syllable… it’s definitely something major.
Knox may be nothing more than a client now, but does he really think the fact that we’ve known each other for years, literally grew up together, somehow slipped my mind? We both know he could point out every place I have, and haven’t, been on a map, possibly with his eyes closed; so, his hollow question has me even more leery of this call’s true motive.
“Um, Knox, it’s a little hectic here this morning. Did you just call to catch up or did you need something?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve got a few questions about your new listing on Zimmerman.”
There we go — back to the only place we ever need to be — me, real estate agent; him, investor.
“Alright, shoot.”
“Shoot?” He laughs. “You might want to work on your redirect. I’ve shown interest; this is the part where you’re supposed to break out the amazing sales- pitch. You know, all the amenities, best features, things like that.”
“Oh, you mean all the information listed on the listing?” Forget my “strong suit,” sucker was smothering me to death anyway, and his interest in this particular property has my hackles raised and ready for a fight. “You obviously read it. What else is it you need to know?”
“No, really,” he chuckles again, “you’re losing your touch. In fact, you’d probably make more money if you applied at one of your competitors.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Knox Morgan. I haven’t lost anything, except my interest in this conversation. Trust me, Zimmerman isn’t even close to a property that you’d like. Tell me what it is you’re in the market for, and why, and I’ll find you something else… of your caliber.”
“My caliber?” he parrots. “Linden, are you seriously trying to distract me with false flattery right now?”
“Uh, no, not at all. I would never flatter you in any way. I’m attempting to do my job, which is, what’s best for my client, and the house on Zimmerman isn’t that. But out of curiosity, why the sudden interest in a small, let alone on the east side of town, property? There’s very marginal profit to be made, if we can find a buyer, and… do you even know how to get to that neighborhood?”
My question may ring of sarcastic condescension, but is indeed sincere. A “Morgan,” crossing the tracks? I checked the weather app before leaving my house this morning — not a word about Hell having frozen over — so what gives?
“I’m starting to think this isn’t about me, my caliber, or the house. No,” his tone plunges with suspicion, “it’s something else. You’re a terrible liar, Linden; always have been. This… this is somehow about you.”
Too bad I can’t bluff worth a damn either, but it’s not from lack of trying. “There is no pretty shade of paranoia, Knox.” I tsk. “Why, how, would this possibly be about me? I just know it’s not a good investment for you, that’s all. So, now that we’ve covered boring, monotonous, and more boring, as well as any conversation in history I’d say, and I’ve got some actual work to do, are we done here?”
“You know all I have to do is call another realtor and book a showing, right?”
“Do whatever you think you need to, Knox. I’m hanging up now. Have yourself a great day.”
****
The rest of my less-than-stellar day flies by, and I have the nerve to finally take a deep breath, picturing the finish line… but it was just another set-up— a sadistic play of the fates to lull me into a false sense of comfort— and let my guard down.
I should’ve known.
I’ve literally got my finger on the trigger (in this case, the light switch) ready to end things on a high note and beeline to a hot bath… when Louise’s equally exhausted voice comes over the intercom.
“Miss Dean, I have Knox Morgan for you.”
Nope, not a chance in Hell I’m walking into another trap of a phone call like the one earlier.
“Thanks, Louise, but I’m headed out for the night. Can you send him to voicemail, please? I’ll get back with him tomorrow.”
Or not. Maybe not ever. Who knows? I probably will. My bitter, resentful hurt runs deep, but my debt runs deeper.
“I’m sorry, Miss Dean, but I meant… he’s here to see you.”
“Son of a bitch,” I groan.
“I’m gonna tell her you said that,” Knox’s smug quip echoes through my office.
Fanfuckingtastic. Seem to have forgotten that the intercom works both ways.
Even if I try sending him on his way, not only will I just be wasting more of my time and energy, but he’ll simply wait for me at my car. Or worse yet… show up at my apartment. There’s no escaping him tonight, so I officially toss down my white flag…. and purse.
“Go ahead and head home, Louise. I can lock up. Have a good night.”
“You too, Miss Dean. Thank you.”
I say nothing more and force my feet to move, flopping down onto my office couch.
And wait.
He knows his way back here.