Dirty Money

Boone turns to his brothers, a wicked smile on his face. “Boys. You know what to do.”

“I call dibs on golf carts,” says the youngest brother. He picks up one of the gas cans and hauls over to one of the carts, then drives off. As he does, I could swear that I see gasoline splashing out onto the bright, well-tended golf greens. Another pair of brothers pile into the other golf cart, each with cans of gasoline. As I watch, Clay opens the box at his feet and pulls out a stick of dynamite and waves it at Boone.

Has everyone gone completely insane?

Boone steps forward to take the dynamite, and I step forward, too, because I’m confused. “Can we talk, Boone?”

He frowns at the dynamite his brother is holding out to him, and then looks over at me. He immediately heads to my side and tries to pull me against him. “What’s up, baby girl?”

“I don’t understand what is happening here,” I tell him. “Is . . . is this place condemned?” Because it doesn’t look condemned to me. It actually looks very nice, and the realtor in me can see it being fixed up and sold for a very pretty penny. Which is why it’s doubly confusing to me as to what is going on.

“It is now,” Boone says, and grins at me.

“What do you mean, it is now?”

“I mean, I bought this place.” There’s a hard look in his eyes. “I came here a few days ago and they were shitty to me. Treated me like I was low class. Like I was human garbage and didn’t deserve to walk on their perfect green grass. I don’t stand for that shit, and I vowed that I’d handle things.” He gestures at the fire trucks. “This shit’s about to be handled.”

My jaw drops. “You’re going to torch the place because they were rude to you?”

“Not just torch,” he says with a gleam in his eyes. “We’re gonna demolish the clubhouse and burn the greens.”

I think of the crying woman. “And you fired the employees?” I’m shocked. This seems . . . insane.

The look on his face is hard. “Maybe next time when she’s shitty to someone, she’ll think twice about passing judgment.”

“But you . . . you can’t fire everyone, Boone! There are livelihoods at stake here.”

He shrugs and looks off over where his brother is. As if on cue, Clay waves the stick of dynamite at him. Then, Boone looks back at me. “This place was going under fast, Ivy. That’s why the owner sold it so quick. So it wasn’t like those guys weren’t gonna be out of a job soon. I just made it a lot sooner. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a golf course to torch.” He presses a kiss to my forehead and then heads off to Clay’s side.

I watch him go, my arms crossed. I think my jaw is going to permanently hang open.

This is madness.

This is . . . stupid money. Petty revenge for an insult. I’m shocked . . . but then again, am I really surprised? Boone has shown that he can be incredibly pigheaded, and he’s sensitive about being treated like trash.

They treated me like I was low class. I don’t stand for that shit.

As I watch the brothers light up a stick of dynamite, the sick feeling in my stomach grows. I turn away as Clay races into the building and the men howl with laughter. I don’t want to watch this. Of course, the moment I turn around, one of the brothers drives past in a golf cart, shaking gasoline onto the carefully tended grass.

This is how Boone reacts when he feels like he’s been mistreated. What’s he going to do when he finds out I’m just a big fat lie?

***

The razing of the golf course takes a few hours. Everyone seems to have a great time—beer is passed around, a catered lunch is brought in, and the firemen are given plenty of opportunities to train. Everyone except me, that is. Boone is attentive to me, but I’m sick at heart with my secret.

There are no in-betweens with Boone Price and his brothers. To them, the world is in black and white. You are either with them, or you are against them.

And I? I can’t do this. I can’t continue like I have been.

I’m crazy about Boone . . . emphasis on crazy. Nothing about our relationship makes a lick of sense. In the space of a week we’ve gone from me taking him on as a client to me tossing my virginity at him with extreme haste. I’ve forgotten all about the fact that he’s a bull in a china shop and that he takes what he wants, and if you don’t like it, too bad. I’m still crazy about the guy . . . but this isn’t healthy. I don’t know that I can be with someone that has such callous disregard for other people’s feelings.

More than that, I don’t know that I can be with someone who hates how people view his roots so much that he’s sure to hate my roots, too.

I’m quiet as the day goes on, and when Boone realizes I’m not having fun, I cite a stomachache from the catered food. The truth is, I haven’t eaten a bite. I can’t. My stomach’s too knotted with misery.

He’s sweetly attentive, getting me water and rubbing my shoulders, but I just want to escape. I ask Boone to take me back to his place so I can get my car and head home. He immediately agrees, much to the dismay of his four brothers. They exchange a few teasing insults, and then Boone takes me back out to his truck and we head out to his trailer.

Back at his place, he wants to take care of me, but I cite work again, and my illness. He looks torn, like he doesn’t want me to leave, but eventually gives in. I climb into my small, rickety car and feel like an even bigger failure as I do so. I wave at him in the rearview mirror as I leave, feigning a cheer I don’t feel.

As much as I like Boone, I need to break this off before it gets ugly. I can’t do this. I can’t. Even the commission doesn’t matter anymore. While the money would be terrific, it’s not worth the heartache—both mine and how Boone would feel if he realizes I’m the realtor equivalent of putting lipstick on a pig. I can dress up however I want, train my voice, fix my hair, and do any number of things to make myself seem more upscale . . . but at the end of the day, I’m still Reba Lee Smithfield, trailer park trash and burger flipper.

The drive home seems endless, and I’m paranoid enough that I watch my rearview mirror just to make sure that Boone isn’t so worried about me that he’s going to follow me home. That would be the worst. But there’s no one behind me, and I pull up in front of my trailer.

Wynonna opens the screen door before I can even make it inside. “Dude, where have you been? I have to send my admissions payment off today!”

Oh, shit. The last thing I need is to deal with Wynonna and her college issues. I love my sister, but the fact that we have no money for her college is stressing me out almost as much as the lie that is my relationship with Boone. “I’ll send off the payment, don’t worry.” It’ll put our account in the red quite a bit, but I have a few dollars stashed into my wallet that I can make do with until payday. I hope. Monday, I’ll call and see if I can donate more plasma.

Wynonna gives me a weird look as I enter the trailer. “What’s with your jacket? And were you out all night?”

“Farah invited me over to watch movies and have a girls’ night,” I tell her, coming up with a quick lie. “I drank a few too many margaritas and ended up crashing on her couch.”

“And . . . you wore a suit and your realtor heels to your friend’s house?” Her brows draw together.

“We went to a club to get a few drinks ahead of time. You know I told you Farah’s between boyfriends.” As if that explains everything. I set my purse down and head to the kitchen to get a bottle of water, like all of this is no big deal and I normally go out all night every weekend. “Some guy spilled a drink on me at the club and that’s why I have this towel over the front of my jacket.”

“Wow, that sounds like hell.” Wynonna crosses her arms and leans on the counter as I take a sip of water. “At least you had fun, right?”

“Wasn’t all that fun,” I lie. They’re just piling on at this point, those little white lies. “Stuff like this is why I never go out.” Well, that and I spend most weekends working. It doesn’t matter, though. She can’t know what I did this weekend. I love my little sister but I can’t let her know I’m doing something as foolish and selfish as sleeping with a client.

A client that is so ridiculously rich that he bought a golf course just to torch it, I think to myself.

“I’m going to go take a shower,” I tell my sister with a quick smile. “After that, you want to eat dinner and watch some TV? Get some quality sister time in since it’s going to be in short supply once you start college?”

Wynonna rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I’m staying in the dorms,” she says, a wistful note in her voice. “We’ll still have plenty of time to hang out.”

I feel an unhappy surge of guilt. “I wish you could stay in the dorms, Wynonna, I really do. But the costs . . .”

“I know.” She gives me a bright smile. “We can swing college, but not that part. I get it.”

We can’t really swing any of college, but she doesn’t have to know that. “Right.”

“Oh, and before I forget, I’m going to visit Dad a week from Monday. Want to go?”

I freeze. “You’re driving out to Huntsville?”

She nods eagerly. “I talked to him on the phone and he said that he might be up for parole soon. He wanted me to go and discuss options with him.”

My father. I wish I could feel anything other than disgust when his name comes up in conversation. Wynonna has a rose-colored view of him, but I remember him for who he was. Karl Smithfield was a mean drunk, a meaner dad, and incredibly shady. I somehow doubt he’s going to get out of prison early due to good behavior. He’s served six years out of a twenty-two-year sentence for armed robbery and aggravated assault. I wish I could say it was all a misunderstanding, but it’s not. Karl held up a gas station because he wanted beer and smokes, and didn’t have the money for either. While that was bad, he also beat the attendant within an inch of her life for no good reason at all, other than he was drunk and mean. He tries to blame it all on my mother, because my mom had just split with his paycheck. And while I hate her for leaving, I hate him more for knowing he had two young daughters to take care of and deciding to be a degenerate asshole anyhow. “Options? What kind of options?”