Page 6 of Misadventures of a Biker

I chuckled. “No.”

She gave me a side-eyed look. “You know I can find out if you have.”

“I haven’t.”

“Have you ever stolen anything from someone you knew?”

“No.”

“Is this a job you can see yourself keeping?” she asked. “Or is it a stepping stone to something bigger?”

“If I like it here, I’ll stay,” I replied, not really knowing if the statement was completely true. I’d at least stay long enough to satisfy my parole officer.

“Check the box,” she said with a nod. “Everything will be fine.”

“I’m hired?”

She tried to change her grin to a stern look. “If you’ll accept forty-two thousand a year as salary.”

“Make it fifty thousand.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Forty-six.”

Considering my housing arrangement with the eighty-year-old widower I lived with, I could survive on five thousand a year. My only real concern was staying out of prison.

“Go forty-eight, and I’ll agree.”

“Fine,” she said. “Forty-eight thousand it is.”

“I don’t need to see Teddi?”

“She’s not here, so I’m making an executive decision. In fact, let’s keep the entire you’ve-been-to-prison thing between you and me, okay?”

“You don’t want me to tell her?”

“Not yet.”

“What if she sees my application?”

“She won’t.”

“She might.”

She grinned mischievously. “Not if I misplace it.”

“So, that’s it?” I asked. “I’m hired?”

She extended her hand. “Welcome to the team.”

Chapter Two

Teddi

Naples had three types of homes. Those situated in gated communities, the mansions along the Gulf Coast, and everything else. My focus was selling the first two types of homes. I left the everything else for the remaining Realtors who spent their time scurrying to match my sales figures.

The average asking price for my homes was eight figures. Properties were typically on the market for sixty days or less, and it was common for me to obtain ten percent over ask. In the world of Southwest Florida Realtors, I was despised. In the community, men respected me, women feared me, and those who didn’t know me referred to me using the word no woman wanted to be called.

“Sixty days?” I choked on my wine. “Margaret. Really? It’s the off-season. You can’t expect me to—”