Page 16 of Misadventures of a Biker

I crossed my legs. “What does it matter?”

“Short of someone who wants a Mediterranean home with the warmth of a cave, no one is going to move into this home,” he explained. “If they can’t see themselves in it, convincing them to buy it is going to be impossible. It would be cost prohibitive to change the architecture, and it would be a nightmare to re-trim the place with lighter wood, but the flooring could be redone with something brighter and more inviting. That alone would change a potential buyer’s perception entirely.”

His ability to communicate astounded me. Nevertheless, he was out of his mind. The change would cost half a million dollars or more. “I can’t change the flooring. It would cost half a mil—”

“What would you lose in commission if this listing was pulled?”

The last time I revealed my income to a man, it ended disastrously. I mentally cocked my hip and peered down my nose at him. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“No?” His look hardened. “Do you want my help or not?”

“I want ideas and action on selling this property,” I snapped back. “I don’t need some tattooed biker who has no knowledge of—”

He shot a fuck you glare right at me.

He stood and leaned toward the center of the table. “If I didn’t have knowledge, I’d be listening, not speaking. I’ve worked here for eight days. I don’t expect you to respect me. Hell, you haven’t spoken to me more than twice in passing. But if you want me to be a member of this team, you’ll treat me in a respectful manner. If you don’t, or if you ever talk to me in that disrespectful tone again, I’ll walk out of here so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

My heart was in my throat. Incapable of speaking, I simply stared back at him like a mindless idiot.

“Obviously you didn’t review my application,” he said, still looming over me. He crossed his arms over his wide chest. “If you had, you’d know a few things about me. Because you didn’t and you don’t, I’ll hit the highlights. I was born and raised here. I have nearly fifteen years of construction experience. Ten of them were spent overseeing the construction of homes that would make this ugly son of a bitch look like an Italian cracker box. Based on my experience, I’d suggest spending a little less than a hundred grand on flooring. It would make the home appeal to a wider market, and it would only cut your commission by a few percent. If you’re too stubborn, too money hungry, or just too goddamned blind to see the benefit in making that change, leave it the way it is.” He tossed the datasheet in front of me. “I’m sure you’ll sit on it for another hundred and eighty days.”

He was Alpha with a capital A.

To minimize my discomfort from my wet panties, I wagged my knees back and forth and hoped he couldn’t sense my state of arousal.

I gave him an apologetic look. “You’re telling me that I can get that floor done for less than a hundred grand?”

“Between fifty-five and ninety, depending on what you want to put in place of what’s there. It won’t be the quality of the rest of the home’s interior finishes, but it’ll get the home sold, and that’s what matters.”

I sold homes. I didn’t build them. I had no idea what real-world construction costs were. When I’d asked for previous clients, the prices I’d been given were ten times what he was suggesting.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

He arched an argumentative eyebrow.

I swallowed a lump of humility. “Can you get me an exact quote?”

“I can get you a damned good one,” he replied. “As long as you’re not opposed to having a few tattooed bikers in there doing the work. Before you ask and piss me off even more, yes, they’re licensed.”

Feeling defeated—and horny as hell—I glanced around the room. Three wide-eyed women and one stern-looking man were staring back at me.

“Does anyone else have something to add?” I asked.

The meek silence that followed was deafening. If no one had anything constructive to say, I desperately needed to change my panties. I closed the folder.

“Meeting adjourned,” I squeaked.

Chapter Five

Devin

Herb Riley was a family friend. Following my father’s death, he and I became rather close. He insisted at the time of my incarceration that I list his home as my residence. Unlike state prison, federal prison requires approval of an inmate’s proposed residence prior to them being released. If the residence is preapproved, the transition from incarceration to freedom is seamless.

A former brigadier general in the US Army and a decorated combat veteran, Herb wore his gray hair in a crew cut, woke every morning at four thirty, and briskly walked the neighborhood’s four-mile footpath prior to breakfast each day. He was opinionated, argumentative, and entertaining. One thing he wasn’t?

Delicate.

“First she talks to you like you’re some punk kid,” Herb said. “Then she spends the next week and a half parading by your desk in tight dresses while giving you the stink eye?”