RIAN
“I seriously can’t believe you!” I keep a tight grip on the steering wheel so I don’t end up flailing, as my hands want to do when I’m agitated like this.
“That guy was a total asshole.” Marley slouches down in the passenger seat with her arms crossed over her chest like a petulant teenager. Which isn’t far from reality some days. It’s hard to believe she entered the world before I did, considering her lack of maturity in this current situation. Those three extra minutes of life haven’t made her any more aware of the repercussions of her actions.
“You hit his car! He had every right to be an a-hole.” I’m still going to perseverate on the cleavage comment, and maybe find a way to use that sexist remark to my advantage when it comes to managing paying for the paint job.
“He was parked way too close to me. It’s his own damn fault I hit his stupid, pretentious car.”
“Well, I guess you should’ve waited him out and told him about his subpar parking job instead of ruining his paint job. Like we can afford three thousand dollars in repairs right now!”
“We’ll have the money when we sell those two houses on the beach in a couple of weeks, and the trust comes due soon, so it’s not even really an issue.”
“The commission and the trust aren’t supposed to be for some guy’s paint job.”
“Well, he seems to like your rack. I say you use your boobs to get some kind of Tesla repair discount so we don’t have to use the commission money.” Marley pulls out her phone and taps away on the keypad.
“I’m not using my boobs to get a discount.” I’d like to say it’s odd that my sister and I often have the same train of thought, but it’s not. Being twins means that we frequently already know what the other one is thinking, or planning, before it happens. The more I think about it, the more I consider the validity of her suggestion, regardless of how abhorrent it seems.
She gives me her bitch brow. It’s the expression where she arches a brow evilly, with a knowing look. “Why the hell not? That asshole was hot, which are two of your favorite qualities in a man. And rich. He’s a rich, hot asshole. And he thinks you’re hot.”
“I do not like hot a-holes, and he does not think I’m hot.” The truth is, I have a very bad track record when it comes to dating attractive men; they always turn out to be grade-A jerkfaces. I hit the brakes when the light turns yellow and come to a stop before it changes to red. It annoys the person behind me, but I’m nothing if not a safe driver, unlike my sister.
“I saw the way he was checking you out. You need to capitalize on his hormonal impulses. Use it to get us out of having to pay for his scratched paint.”
“Are you suggesting I sleep with him so we don’t have to pay for the repairs?” I don’t know why I sound appalled. I shouldn’t be the least bit surprised that Marley has intimated this. It’s totally something she would consider.
“I didn’t say anything about sleeping with him, but I find it interesting that’s where your head went.”
“That’s what you were implying!”
“Actually, no, it wasn’t. I’m just saying he’s smokin’, and he clearly thinks you are too, so you can use that to cut our paint-scratch bill.”
“Well, if he thinks I’m hot, he thinks you’re hot. So maybe you should sleep with him.” I pull into the driveway of our duplex and come to a jerky stop.
“Not true. He doesn’t want to hump my rack; he wants to hump your rack.”
“Our racks are nearly identical, much like everything about us.”
“Again. Not true. I’m a B cup and you’re a C. You have way more curves and your butt was made for twerking.”
I glare at my sister. “Are you quite done?”
“Based on how angry you look, I’m going to say yes. It’s not an insult, Rian; it’s a compliment. I’m a stick with boobs. You actually have a shape.”
“Please stop.”
I’m more than a little annoyed by this whole situation. I’m also concerned about having to part with thousands of dollars for an unforeseen car repair. We have financial goals we need to meet in order to execute our plan, and this is going to cause a setback. I don’t like setbacks. Especially the financial kind. We’ve had more than our fair share of those over the past decade, and we’re finally getting our lives on track. I don’t want anything to mess that up, especially not an antagonistic suit.
For the past few years we’ve been making a decent living in the real estate market, but the real money is in flipping, which requires a lot of capital and a fast turnaround. The quicker the flip the better, and the right piece of property can mean big profits. The kind that can make a bank account sing “Hallelujah.” As long as Marley doesn’t hit any more Teslas.
I get out of the car, slamming the door a little harder than necessary, and round the vehicle, popping the trunk. It isn’t until I get a load of the whole bunch of nothing inside that I remember all my groceries are still in the cart in the store where I left them, my hour of price matching wasted.
I bang the trunk closed and walk around to the front of my car, where smudges of black paint mar the bumper. My car once belonged to an elderly person who could only tell if she was close to something when she hit it, so it’s no wonder I didn’t notice the paint smudges until now, since all the edges have dings. None of which are my fault.
“I think you need to look at the positives in this, Ri,” Marley says as she follows me up the driveway to the side entrance. “At least I wasn’t driving the good car.” She pats the Acura on the hood as we pass.
It would be smarter financially to have only one car, but the truth is, we need two. And one of them has to be nice. Arriving at a showing in a beater doesn’t scream success, and in the real estate market, driving a nice car says very loudly: I’m successful, buy from me, sell through me! It’s a fake-it-till-you-make-it world out there.
So Marley gets to drive the Acura to all the open houses, and I drive around in an old Buick previously owned by a person who hit stationary objects on a regular basis.
I key in the code and drag my poor, already achy legs to the second-floor apartment, Marley following close behind. It’s a far cry from the home we grew up in. But when you’re orphaned at eighteen, left with a mountain of debt and an army of enemies, you learn to appreciate what you have, even if it isn’t much.
This little duplex was a gift from our grandmother, God rest her beautiful, intelligent soul, because without it, Marley and I would’ve been homeless a decade ago. It’s the only thing we have left from Deana Sutter. Thanks to our fraud of a father, everything else we had was either repossessed by the bank or put in foreclosure.
Marley is an excellent agent and I’m very adept at the money-managing side of our venture. But this bill for the paint is an unexpected expense and puts distance between our financial position and our house-flipping goal. And the ones in the Hamptons are incredibly desirable, particularly the properties surrounding the Mission Mansion.
It’s a beautiful, although rundown, estate in the more affordable part of the Hamptons, if any of it can actually be considered affordable. Anything on the beachfront boasts prestige and exclusivity, but this unique property and its location make it a desirable piece of real estate, despite the work it needs.
From what we’ve observed over the past few years, it’s the homes owned by elderly couples or widows and widowers surrounding the mansion that make the best investments. They’re tired of the maintenance, of the busy beaches on the weekend, and the inevitable changes that come with time. They want the warmth from down south, where the temperature never dips below zero. They’re also the same people who last updated their home in the early eighties or nineties, so everything is out of date. And surprisingly for the Hamptons, the prices of some properties aren’t as astronomical as one would think.
Once we have the capital on hand, we want to buy one of those houses, bring it into the twenty-first century with a facelift, and flip it. Between our savings and our trust, we’ll finally have enough to make cash offers so we don’t have to worry about mortgages and credit. Our ultimate plan is to continue to sell real estate, but to move in the direction of flipping more houses until we can afford to buy the Mission Mansion—the gorgeous, neglected estate in Hamptons Bay that was once owned by our grandmother.
I don’t want to flip it, though. Ideally, with enough financial backing, we could renovate and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. Convincing Marley that’s a good idea is where the challenge lies. She’s not attached to it the same way I am.
Besides, it’s a crapshoot since we don’t know when, or if, it will go up for sale. But it’s been empty for years, and the market is crazy right now, so I have a feeling it’s just a matter of time. It’s a big dream and an even bigger numbers game. I love numbers. So much. They make me happy. They give me peace. But not when they’re in the form of dollar bills being drained out of our bank account by rich, Tesla-driving, a-hole hotties.
After a quick shower, I throw on leggings and a T-shirt and settle on my bed with my laptop. I have notifications from the online dating profile my sister set up for me, without my permission, as a joke.
They make you take a survey—which Marley kindly answered for me. I went back and adjusted all the information because I was curious who I would match with, and what algorithm they use to determine the compatibility score. I’m most interested in looking at the men who are incompatible, rather than the ones who are—just to see who would be bad for me. Unsurprisingly, it’s all the really hot guys.
My history with hot guys hasn’t been particularly promising, so I tend to steer away from them. They’re generally unreliable and fairly self-absorbed—both in and out of bed.
The guys with a higher compatibility rating tend to be less attractive, but also less likely to screw me over. I went out with a guy named Terry the other day. We had coffee. Well, I had coffee and he had decaffeinated herbal tea.
He asked me out again yesterday. This time for dinner. I’m not 100 percent convinced there’s much of a connection there, but we’re supposed to be a nine out of ten on the compatibility score, so I said yes mostly as a social experiment. Maybe the awkwardness was first-date jitters and the second one will be better.
I’m not sure I want a man in my life, regardless. They make things complicated. I already have daddy issues, and my last long-term relationship went up in flames—that was years ago, right after the rest of my life took a giant crap. I haven’t had a lot of time or energy to invest in another person who isn’t my sister. Also, getting dumped is the worst. If I could get more comfortable with the whole casual fling thing like Marley is, that’d be ideal.
At midnight, as I’m getting into bed, my phone buzzes with a message. I give it a cursory glance, sometimes I get messages on that dating app at this time of night. I assume all the lonely losers are lying in bed, wishing they weren’t alone. Not me. I’m happy to have my entire double bed to myself. Most of the time. And I have a pretty decent vibrator to take care of my physical needs when the loneliness takes its toll and dating is too much effort.
Except it’s not the dating app. It’s a message from a number I don’t recognize. I slip under the covers and key in my password.
Hi. It’s Pierce, the guy you nut smashed with a grocery cart and whose car your sister scratched. Can you shoot me your email address so I can forward you the quotes?
I debate whether or not I want to respond at such a late hour. I decide to wait until the morning. It is midnight, after all. Most people who have to work in the morning are already asleep. Maybe he’s the kind of suit who makes his own hours.
The following morning I wake up to the wisps of a very X-rated dream, which takes place in a grocery store. I also wake to new messages from Pierce—who incidentally was the star in my dream. My imagination has decided he’s very well-endowed.
Pierce: Guess that’s a no.
That message is followed by three pictures, each a quote from a different body shop. They’re all very similar in price. I fire a message back, and blame my lack of forethought on the fact that I’m only half awake.
Rian: My sister was the nut smasher, not me. Do these quotes include the sexist comment discount?
The humping dots appear, indicating he’s composing a message. But after two minutes the dots disappear and suddenly my phone rings, making me jump. I pull the covers up to hide my stupidly hard nipples—not that he can see them.
“Hello?” My voice is still sleep raspy.
“Hi. Is this Rian?” Why does my name have to sound so sinful coming out of his mouth?
I cover the receiver and clear my throat before I answer. “Yes.”
“It’s Pierce. Did I wake you?”
“Yes. I text in my sleep.”
“What else do you do in your sleep?”
“Isn’t it a bit early for innuendo-laden conversation between virtual strangers?” I don’t give him time to answer that question. “So I’ve done some thinking.”
“And what kind of thoughts have you been having, Rian?”
Dirty ones, about you and me in the produce aisle. I keep that inside my head. “I think it’s only fair that you discount the repair bill on account of that sexist comment you made about my cleavage.”
“Is that so?” He sounds amused.
“Mmm. Also, Marley said you parked way too close, so it’s your fault she scratched your car in the first place.”
“Ah. That’s some interesting logic.”
“If you’d left her more room, maybe your car would be fine.” I don’t honestly expect him to discount the bill, but I figure it’s worth a shot.
“Do I need to remind you that your sister fled the scene of an accident and I was kind enough to refrain from calling the cops on her?”
“But can you even prove it was her in the first place? What if you’re scamming us? And really, you kind of stalked us in a grocery store, I’m not sure that’s much better.” Why am I engaging with this guy? I mean, other than to keep him on the phone so I can listen to his sexy voice. Also the lower half of my body has started pinging.
“Well, considering it’s a custom paint color and there’s still lots of it on your bumper, I’m not sure it would be all that difficult to prove. Unless you’ve taken your luxury sedan to the car wash since our introduction yesterday.”
Sarcastic turd. “Maybe I have. Maybe this alleged proof doesn’t exist.”
“Doubtful. I’m willing to negotiate terms, though.”
“Terms for what exactly?”
“The repair bill. We could discuss them, say over drinks?”
“Excuse me?” I can’t imagine I heard that correctly. “Can you repeat that please?”
“We could negotiate the cost over drinks. Just a couple hours of your time during which I’m sure we can come to an amenable agreement.”
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“We can call it that if you want.”
It suddenly clicks what he’s trying to do. “Hold on a second. Are you trying to blackmail me into having sex with you over a car repair? Because if that’s your angle, I’m sorry to tell you, but you can’t put a price tag on my vagina. She is not for sale.”
Half of me is flattered that he thinks sex with me would be worth trading for a three-grand car repair. The other half of me is disgusted that I’m flattered at all.
Three grand is a pretty hefty price tag, but still. Only a few cars have parked in my garage. I’m not interested in letting another one in there simply to avoid paying for a repair, even if the car is a nice one and is owned by a seriously hot man.
“Whoa. Simmer down, sweetheart. I’m not trying to blackmail you. You were the one asking about a sexist comment discount. All I’m suggesting is that we discuss how to proceed over drinks. They can be of the nonalcoholic variety if you’re worried about being under the influence around me. And for the record, I neither said nor implied that sexual favors would be involved, but I’m quite intrigued that you’ve automatically assumed it would be included in the deal.”
I pfft into the phone. “Oh, come on. The implication was totally there. I mean, who trades a three-thousand-dollar car repair for a date unless they have money to burn and are too much of an a-hole to get laid without blackmail? There will be no sexual anything and there will be no date. I don’t even know you. You could be some crazy sociopath who’s been stalking me and my sister at grocery stores, waiting for the right time to strike.” That crime story marathon I watched last week probably wasn’t the best idea.
“I can assure you, I’m definitely not a sociopath. If you change your mind, you know how to get in touch with me.”
And then he hangs up.
I stare at phone in complete disbelief. “What the heck?” This has to be some kind of weird game. Maybe the date thing is to throw me off. Maybe he thinks he’s being funny. I have no idea. I don’t even have a last name for this guy. Just Pierce; hot a-hole in a suit. I hope I never hear from him again, although I realize it’s unlikely since Marley and I still owe him money.
* * *
Much to my dismay—sort of—Pierce messages me again the next day.
Pierce: Reconsider drinks yet?
Rian: No.
Pierce: You sure?
Rian: Yes.
Pierce: Okay. Just checking.
Of course I’ve reconsidered, probably a hundred times in the past two days. But I can’t say yes now. Not after I automatically assumed he was bartering for sex. Not that someone like him needs to barter for anything, especially not sex. I’m sure women regularly fall for the sweetheart business and his pretty smile. Which is the exact reason I won’t say yes. It’s on principle. I also have that date with Terry next week and I don’t like to date more than one guy at the same time because it gets confusing.
For the next two days it’s more of the same from Pierce.
Rian: Isn’t there a dirty song about that?
Pierce: Why is it always about sex with you?
I don’t respond to that one. Later that evening I get another message:
Pierce: Do you like tea?
Rian: Are you going to make a joke about tea bagging?
Pierce: Such as bag in or out?
I ignore that message. It’s been days since he sent the quotes, and I’d like to get it off my conscience and my plate.
Rian: I’d like to wire the money to your account. Can you send the details, please?
Pierce: Sure. Meet me at Frescos on the beach. 7pm work for you?
Rian: Not happening. Bank details please.
Pierce: I’d prefer that this transaction takes place in person.
I look up Fresco’s. It’s a five-star restaurant. That place is designed for romance and seduction. The cheapest dish on their menu is a thirty-five-dollar chicken breast. I don’t know what this guy’s game is, but I don’t want to play. Mostly. Sort of.
But I need to get this money situation sorted out and for him to stop messaging me. Because I’m starting to enjoy all this banter, which isn’t good. So I relent, even though I shouldn’t.
Rian: Meet me at the Starbucks on the corner of Montauk and Ponquogue in an hour. I’ll bring a check.
Pierce: It’s a date.
Rian: It’s a transaction, and a way to get you off my back, don’t read anything into it.
Pierce: See you soon ;)
I don’t understand why this guy is pushing so hard to see me when all I’ve been is difficult with him. He probably likes the chase.
I would like to say I make zero effort to look good for my anticipated meeting with Pierce, but that would be untrue. I only make half an effort. I pair jeans with a long-sleeved shirt and fix my makeup—but just the basics, mascara and some lip gloss. I wear flats and I put my hair in a ponytail so as not to seem as if I care what he thinks of my appearance.
I go armed with his quotes, my checkbook, and a vague plan to whittle him down for his sexist comment. My goal is to set this up like a business meeting so he knows it’s not a date. Even though I’m fifteen minutes early, he’s earlier. A-hole.
He’s sitting in one of those comfy chairs, with his hand wrapped around a grande something or other. He’s not dressed in a suit this time. Instead, he’s wearing a pair of distressed jeans and a T-shirt with a hot dog on it. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he looks as good in jeans as he does in a suit, maybe even better.
It’s horribly unfair. And all my girl parts are reacting accordingly. Which is bad. I have to remind myself that hot guys are always a bad call.
He lifts his eyes from the phone in his hand when the bell over the door tinkles. He sets his coffee on the little table and motions to the empty seat across from him as he rises. Why does his smile have to be so pretty?
“You’re early.” It comes out sounding like an accusation.
Pierce’s smile widens. His lips are so full; his teeth are so white and straight and perfect. “So are you.”
I drop down in the chair across from him and immediately produce my checkbook. “Shall we discuss the quotes?”
He ignores my attempt to get right down to business. “What can I get you to drink?”
“I’m not thirsty. Thank you for the offer, though.” I should be somewhat polite considering my plan to haggle a discount.
I wait for him to take a seat, but he doesn’t. It means his crotch is at eye level, and it’s difficult not to allow my eyes to drift in that direction. Especially when he stuffs his hands in his pockets. I finally yield and meet his amused gaze. “I bet you’re a caramel macchiato woman.”
I frown. Maybe he really is some kind of crazy stalker. “How would you—”
“Your grocery cart was full of sugar. Lucky guess. Any modifications, or just the way it is?” He takes a step toward the barista.
“You can’t buy me a coffee. I already owe you money. I don’t want to owe you more.”
“Technically your sister is the one who owes me money. I’m just lucky I get to deal with you instead.” I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or what since I don’t think I’ve been a particular joy to deal with thus far.
I lurch out of the chair and duck around him with a complete lack of grace so I can get to the counter first. I place my order and attempt to pull up my app, but Pierce reaches around me and scans his first. I mutter a reluctant thank you and wait for the macchiato I had no intention of purchasing, but am very much looking forward to drinking—even if it’s on Pierce’s dime.
He stands right beside me while I wait. “You look nice,” he says conversationally.
I glance in his direction. “Thanks.”
“What’re you doing after this?”
Probably going home to masturbate to the image of your pretty face. “I have to work.”
“Do you do that from home?”
“Sometimes.” I don’t enjoy being asked questions about myself, partly because my family history is less than ideal. It’s one of the reasons I struggle with dating. The whole let’s-get-to-know-each-other part is a problem. For most people, banal questions about family and employment are easy to answer, but not for me.
“You’re a real talker, aren’t you?” Pierce asks, that wry smile still in place.
“Sometimes.” The barista passes me my drink and I follow Pierce back to the table he’s secured for us. I notice we’re tucked into a corner.
“You sure had a lot to say last week in the grocery store.”
“Well, you were throwing out accusations, and making sexist comments, so of course I had something to say, which brings us to the reason we’re here.” Using that as a way to bring it back to business, I pull my checkbook out and the quotes. “I’m willing to cut you a check for the dealership quote, minus twenty percent for objectifying me.”
“Do you work in sales or something?”
“Or something, not that it has anything to do with you being sexist or my sister hitting your car. Your quote is for $3122. A twenty percent discount would bring it down to roughly $2500.”
He sips his coffee, or whatever it is, regarding me from over the rim. “If you think that’s fair, you can go ahead and write a check for $2500.”
I can’t believe he doesn’t even argue over the 20 percent. Or that this could be so easy.
“On one condition,” he adds.
Of course. I set down the pen. “And what would that condition be?”
“You agree to go out with me.”
I frown. I’m sure it’s an unbecoming expression.
That ever-present grin widens and his eyes, quite literally, twinkle as he clarifies. “On a date.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
Because you’re gorgeous and I’m attracted to you and it makes you exactly the kind of guy I should definitely not go out with. “I don’t understand why you want to go out with me. It’s not as though I’ve been particularly friendly, or even a little nice or encouraging.”
He leans forward, as if he’s going to tell me a secret. “I find you attractive, and I like that you’re sassy and not a pushover. I also like a challenge.”
“I’m seeing someone.” It’s not exactly a lie since I have a date with Terry later this week.
“Oh.” Pierce’s smile disappears, and he leans back in his chair. “Why didn’t you say something before?”
“It’s new, and I didn’t feel as though I owed you an explanation.” I’m not sure why I feel as though I owe him one now either.
“Are you exclusive?”
“I don’t date more than one person at a time.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.” This guy is super-insistent to the point of being unnerving.
“Okay. Fine. I like that you don’t want your attention divided. I don’t like mine divided either, so when this thing with this current guy doesn’t work out, you can go out with me.”
I take that to mean he’s accepting the 20 percent chauvinist-remark discount, so I fill out the check. “What makes you think it won’t work out?”
He hitches a shoulder and motions between us. “Because there’s chemistry here, and I doubt you’ll be able to ignore it indefinitely.”
“Wow, it’s surprising you can fit through a door with the size of your ego.” I pass the check over and give him my sweetest smile. “I added four dollars and seventy-five cents for the coffee.”
He may be right about the chemistry, but there’s no way I’m going out with him. That’s a recipe for certain disaster.