Dirty Money

  Something screams out of the other room, and I jump a little. “What was that?”

  He grimaces and pats my shoulder. “That’s my ringtone for the money guys. Hang on a sec.”

  I watch, mystified, as he goes to answer the phone. Sure enough, the scream echoes through the room again a second later, and he answers. “What is it?”

  He’s silent for a long moment, and so I close the bathroom door to give him some privacy. I put my grooming kit away, twist my wet hair into a bun, and pin it tight, and then work on moisturizing my face again. I’m still a little pink from last night but I can’t find it in me to ask him to cut the beard . . . I like it too much, heaven help me.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, Boone’s grinning ear to ear. “Get dressed, darlin’. We’re about to go have some fun.”

  “We are?”

  “Yup. Remember I told you I wanted to buy a golf course?”

  I head to the opposite side of the bed and pull my suit off the floor. It’s wrinkled badly. Ugh. I’m going to have to iron it before I dare leave the room, or else the staff downstairs really will think I’m a hooker. “I remember. I thought we’d focus on the house first, and then—”

  “I bought one,” he says, interrupting me.

  I stop, surprised at the stab of hurt I feel at his announcement. “You did?”

  “Yeah, there’s one I wanted in particular, so I set my money guys on it. They made an offer on the business and signed the paperwork lickety-split.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know if this particular business would have fallen into my jurisdiction, but I’m strangely wounded.

  “Don’t be sad, baby girl,” Boone says. He comes to my side and wraps his arms around me in a bear hug. “I know I promised you the commission on this one but the owner was motivated to sell fast, and so I needed to get my guys in there. We threw so much cash at him it made his head spin.”

  This isn’t making me feel any better. If anything, I feel worse. There goes one commission, and I never even had a stab at it. What if Boone gets bored or tired of waiting on me to find him the perfect house and goes under my nose again? “I see.”

  “Get dressed, because we need to go meet my brothers at the golf course and I wanna show you off to them.”

  I feel a stab of irritation and pry out of his arms. “I’m not sure I want to go. I have a lot of work to do and I’m already eating into my schedule by being here.”

  The boyish enthusiasm on his face dims, and I feel like a jerk. “Am I hogging all your time?”

  “It’s not that,” I say quickly.

  “Tell me how much it’ll cost to keep you with me today—”

  “I’m not a hooker,” I snap. “You can’t buy me by the hour.”

  Boone looks utterly abashed. “Well, shit, Ivy. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  And now I really feel like a jerk. “I know you didn’t. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just hurt about the golf course.” And I’m woman enough to admit it. “I’ll go with you. I just need to tidy up my suit.” I hold up my wrinkled skirt.

  Some of the excitement returns to his face. “I’ll show you a good time. It’s gonna be fun.”

  I’m not sure how me seeing his new purchase that I didn’t get a commission on is going to be “fun” but I have to admit that every time he gives me one of those broad smiles, I get weak in the knees. “While I iron, do me a favor and find me a hand towel I can pin to the front of my jacket to act as a slip?”

  He nods and pulls me against him. “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Ivy.” The look on his face is utterly somber. “I’m just used to declaring that I want a thing and going after it. I completely forgot that this might take money out of your pocket. I’m gonna make it up to you.”

  “You don’t have to,” I say quietly, because I don’t know why I’m mad. It was pie-in-the-sky money, anyhow. As in, I won’t believe there’s a sale attached until I see the money in my bank account.

  “I do. And I’m gonna. Starting right now.” The naughty gleam returns to his eyes and he drops to his knees. “Think you can iron while my mouth’s on your pussy?”

  Oh, dear lord help me, because I think I’m about to find out.

  Chapter Ten

  Ivy

  A short time later, we pull up to the Silver Birch golf course. The parking lot is near-empty despite it being Saturday morning, and I worry that Boone’s made a bad purchase. There’s a few men standing near the front entrance talking, but other than that the place is deserted.

  Not that this bothers Boone. He just grins and smacks a hand on the steering wheel. “I see my brothers are here. Those are their trucks.” He points at a row of pickups that stick out like sore thumbs in the parking lot. Each one is enormous, older, beat up, and covered with mud. Well, except for one. There’s a brand-new, tricked-out Sierra Denali . . . that is also covered in mud. One brother apparently has expensive taste.

  As he parks the truck, I check the front of my suit in the mirror. The pinned-on washcloth is covering my very gaping cleavage, but it looks ridiculous. “Am I all right?”

  “Yup,” he drawls, and leans in to give me a quick, possessive kiss. “You can hardly see the scorch marks.”

  “The scorch marks are your fault,” I scold as he jumps out of the truck to go open my door. Of course, I didn’t exactly do a lot of protesting, so I guess it’s my fault, too. I’m blushing as he helps me out of the truck, but I’m smiling, too. Boone’s practically beside himself with excitement, and it’s hard not to get caught up in it as he takes my hand in his. “Boone, you’re practically giddy. I had no idea you liked golf so much.”

  He just throws back his head and laughs, which mystifies me.

  As we cross the parking lot, I notice that the men standing out front are there with what look like red gas cans. There’s a golf cart or two parked on the lawn, so maybe they’re fueling up? Though directly in front of the main clubhouse seems an odd place to do so. There’s also a box on the lawn, and one of the men has a dirty boot propped up on it.

  “Well lookee there,” calls one man. “Who’s that fancypants asshole headin’ for us?”

  “Can’t be Boone,” yells another. “That fucker ain’t never seen a hairbrush.” He elbows the third man, while the fourth looks occupied with his phone.

  “Fuck all y’all,” Boone says amiably. “And don’t be fuckin’ cussin’ in front of my fiancée. She’s cultured, damn it.”

  “F-fiancée?” I sputter as we approach. “Excuse me?”

  He just gives me another one of those panty-melting smiles. “Told you I was gonna marry you, Ivy. But don’t you worry. I’ll propose all nice and right when you’re ready for it.”

  “That doesn’t mean we’re engaged,” I protest, but it’s clear that Boone’s already decided. This man is pure pigheadedness. I think of his words—that I’m cultured—and inwardly cringe. If only he knew the truth.

  Of course, it’s kind of hard to bring it up right now when his four brothers are staring me down. They eye me like I’m some sort of strange beast, though one keeps staring at my breasts. I move a little closer to Boone and he puts a possessive arm around my shoulders. “This here’s Ivy. She’s the one that’s gonna sell me a mansion to make all those assholes weep that they ever talked shit about us.”

  “Uh-huh,” one says. “’Cause a mansion is gonna fix things.” He tilts his head, and for a moment, he looks shockingly like Boone, bushy beard and all. The others don’t look much like him—the youngest is blond and looks a little familiar, though I can’t place it. One brother has slightly darker skin that hints at Hispanic ancestry. They’re all wearing Price Brothers Oil trucker caps, and I swear that they all shop from the same closet, because they all look like they just came from a construction site. Good lord. Here I thought Boone was an anomaly with his rough talk and even rougher appearance, and he’s got four clones
lined right up in front of me.

  “Shaddup, Clay. I like the idea of a big fancy house. And so does Ivy.” He squeezes my shoulder.

  One of the brothers narrows his eyes at me, and I suddenly feel like a gold digger. “I’m his real estate agent,” I tell them quickly. “Our personal relationship has nothing to do with business.”

  As a one, they smirk. “Uh-huh,” drawls the first one again. He taps his boot on the box under his foot. “Before you ask, I brought the good stuff, bro.”

  Boone howls with laughter. “You got some dynamite this early in the morning? You’re a genius, Clay.”

  Wait . . . dynamite? Perhaps I heard wrong.

  Even as I wonder, a loud horn honks behind us. Everyone turns, and I see two big fire trucks full of men pull up in the parking lot. The firefighters are grinning and one bounds out of his truck. Boone crosses over to meet him, and they shake hands.

  “Thanks for inviting us out for this,” he says to Boone. “Gonna be a great exercise for my men.”

  “Anytime,” Boone declares. “We’re just about to get started.” He looks over at his brothers. “Everyone gone from inside?”

  “Almost,” Clay says. “The manager didn’t much appreciate gettin’ fired. She’s takin’ her time packing up her stuff.”

  Fired? I blink at the brothers, then back at Boone, where he’s talking to the firefighter. “I’m afraid I’m a bit confused,” I say. Okay, I’m a lot confused. “I thought Boone just purchased this place?”

  “Oh, he did,” Clay drawls. “This is all part of the plan.”

  There’s a plan here? Because this just seems like chaos to me.

  As if I can’t get any more confused, the doors to the clubhouse open and a woman comes out with a box in hand. It looks like a bunch of desk junk, and she’s weeping. Is this the manager that got fired? I want to ask what’s going on, but the others are staring at her like she’s some sort of viper. This just gets weirder and weirder. As she passes us, she glares at Boone and his brothers. “Trash!” she spits at them. “I wish you’d go to hell!”

  “Wish in one hand, shit in the other,” one of the brothers murmurs, and that sends them all into a fit of laughter.

  The woman gives me a haughty look, as if I’m some kind of idiot for being here with them, and sticks her nose in the air. She marches through the parking lot and gets into her car, and when she drives off, Boone turns to the fireman and rubs his hands. “Shall we get started?”

  “Be my guest,” the man says, gesturing at the building.

  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, ricket
y 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.”