She just laughed. “Yeah, well, it never worked out for me either, until it did.”
“You wanted it to.”
“And you don’t?”
Yes, I did, deeply, desperately, down in the lightless depths of my secret soul.
“Nope,” I said. “Not at all.”
Lizzy just cackled. “You’re a shitty liar.”
“Goddammit, I am not!” I protested. “You’re the second person today to say that. I’m a terrific liar.”
Lizzy just laughed and herded me onto the party bus, with the rest of the group trooping on behind us. Kat had a bottle of Patrón in one hand, a bowl of lime wedges in the other, and behind her, Zoe had a stack of red Solo cups, and behind her, Teddy was carrying a case of lime LaCroix and a case of hard seltzer.
“Oh, shit,” I breathed. “We’re getting turnt up.”
Autumn took the bottle of tequila, uncorked it, propped one foot up on the nearest seat and slugged from the bottle. “Yes, my love, we certainly are. This wedding marks two down, four to go,” she said, her voice hoarse from the liquor, and then shoved a lime wedge in her mouth; she handed the bottle to me. “And you’re next, Boo,” she said to me.
“The fuck I am,” I muttered, and pulled on the bottle.
For tonight, at least, I could ignore, forget, and pretend.
If only through the blessed, despicable means of a lot of alcohol.
I’m a grown-ass woman—you’d think I’d know better by now. But no. Tonight, we party, tomorrow, I regret.
3
I locked up the condo I’d just finished showing, sent a text to Kat to meet me for lunch, and headed down to my car. I hadn’t sold it, but the clients I’d shown it to were considering it, along with one other option, a little two-bedroom ranch in San Diego, which I, for obvious and selfish reasons, was advising against.
I mean, my reasoning was sound—they were a young couple with a child, and they’d need more than two bedrooms, and the condo they’d just seen had an extra bedroom for fifty grand less than the house—no yard, granted, but their little nugget was four months old and didn’t need a yard yet, and there was a nice park within walking distance. Save the cash for a bigger house in a few years. That was my advice. It was good advice too, it just had the additional bonus meaning I’d get a nice little commission out of the deal.
I left the condo parking structure, mentally trying to figure out what else I could do to entice these people to spring for this unit.
My phone rang, an unknown number, but an LA area code. I put in my wireless earbuds as I waited at a red light and answered it. “Hello, this is Laurel.”
“Laurel, hi,” a smooth, older female voice said. “My name is Alaina and I represent the interests of Troubadour Enterprises. My client is interested in looking at a couple properties you have listed for sale in the Malibu area. Can I schedule an afternoon of your time?”
“Who did you say you represent?” I asked.
“Troubadour Enterprises,” she answered.
“I’m assuming your client wishes to remain anonymous, then.”
“For the moment, yes. In the interest of privacy, as I’m sure you understand.”
“Certainly,” I answered. “Send over your NDA and I’ll look it over, sign it, send it back, and then we can get your client on my schedule. I’m booked for this week, but I could probably carve out a few hours next week.”
Complete bullshit—I did have several showings this week, but I wasn’t so booked I couldn’t make time for more. But if you make it seem like you’re booked solid, it puts a little pressure on the buyer to commit sooner.
“My client only has time this Saturday, eleven a.m. I should add, my client is a cash buyer, with the ability to write a check on the spot, should they see a property which strikes their interest.”
I mentally high-fived myself. “Hmmm, hold on, let me look at my schedule.” I had it memorized, obviously, and knew I had the morning open—I muted the call for a good thirty seconds, then popped back on. “I can do Saturday at eleven. Does your client have a particular property or properties in mind?”
“Yes, indeed. I email you with a list, in order of priority.”
“Very good.”
“The NDA should arrive in your inbox soon, I just sent it over. It’s standard language, but my client has and will enforce it, being a very, very private person.”
“Understood. Discretion is an utmost priority for me personally, and for all of us at Six Chicks Real Estate.”
“That’s the word on the street, which is why my client chose you.”
“Well, I’m honored to be chosen, and if none of the properties on your client’s list work, I can promise I’ll find something that does. Thank you, and thank you to your client for the opportunity to earn your business.”
We ended the call, and I finished the drive back to the office. I printed out the nondisclosure agreement, read it—it was indeed standard language, meant to make sure I didn’t sell to tabloids or anyone else any details of the client or the showing or anything at all. I signed it, and sent it back; NDAs were standard fare in the luxury market, especially in this area, as we’d all shown and sold homes to high-profile clients and we’d all had to sign our share of NDAs.
There was nothing in any of the emails to give away who “Troubadour Enterprises” was, and my admittedly mediocre internet sleuthing skills turned up nothing.
Well, I’d find out who it was on Saturday. Probably some aging record executive with money to burn and a bald spot. Whatever—his, or her, money would spend the same, right?
Saturday, ten-fifty in the morning, and I was pulling up to the first property on the list. I’d been emailed this morning that the client themself—that was the word used: “themself” would meet me there and we’d see the rest together. I figured I’d be a few minutes early, turn on some lights, maybe set up a Keurig. I always kept one in my trunk, along with an assortment of pods, bottles of filtered water, and nondairy creamer.
When I pulled up into the driveway, though, there was already a car parked on the left side. The car intrigued me—it wasn’t the car of a moneybags, cash-flasher industry exec; it was a classic pickup, big, red, burly and beefy, with oversize knobby tires, and not a single piece of chrome. Masculine and macho, without being the kind of truck that screamed: “I HAVE A TINY PENIS.”
I parked my Aston Martin DB6, itself an understated piece, sexy and cool without being flashy, beside it. As I exited the car, bending in to retrieve my purse from the passenger seat, I felt something ripple over me.
I straightened slowly, noticing for the first time the figure kicked back in the rocking chair that was part of the staging—the house featured a huge, deep-covered porch that had just begged for a pair of antiqued rocking chairs.
Frayed cutoff khaki shorts, the frayed ends hanging below his knee. Slouchy, untied combat boots, faded and battered from years of wear. A black Rolling Stones shirt, the classic ’75 tour concert logo with the sticking-out tongue, sleeves cut off. Amber bead bracelet, a hemp bracelet, and a thick leather strap with a chunky watch face on it adorned one wrist, a profusion of rubber bracelets on the other, as well as more bead bracelets, of the kind you’d get at one of those crystals and reiki healing stores on the other wrist. A backward ball cap, the brim heavily curved and fraying.