Page 14 of Misadventures of a Biker

“Uh-huh.” She nodded eagerly. “I’m not gonna lie. I’m fascinated with you. We could hang out. Find new places to eat. Talk. I’d help you out with girl problems. You could help me out with guy problems. I know everyone in town. I could help you find a freaky partner. You could help me find a guy who’s not an asshole.” Her eyes narrowed. “No sex,” she said, wagging her index finger at me as she spoke. “I mean it.”

I had no one other than a cantankerous old army veteran to talk to. He was entertaining, but our conversations were all over the place. What was for dinner, Wheel of Fortune, who was parked in the neighbor’s drive, and his bowel movements were his biggest concerns. Having access to a woman’s mind beyond the walls of the office sounded like a great idea.

I nodded. “I’d love to.”

“It has to be platonic,” she said, still doing the finger-in-my-face thing. “No tricks.”

I raised my pinkie. “Want to pinkie swear?”

Grinning from ear to ear, she hooked her pinkie to mine. “I hope you’re not the type to break promises.”

“Real bikers don’t break promises.”

“Are you the real deal?”

One of the summer’s daily torrential downpours was underway. It was dumping water so rapidly, I couldn’t see my motorcycle. It resembled a hurricane.

“I’ll let you decide.” I nodded my head toward the parking lot. “I’m riding to lunch in that.”

She glanced at the rainstorm. She shook her head. “No, you’re not.” She pulled her pinkie away and kissed it. “Friends don’t let friends ride to lunch in the rain.”

Chapter Four

Teddi

It took me a week to have professional photos taken and have a graphic designer format new flyers, datasheets, and sales literature for Margaret’s home. It was time to meet with everyone and advise them of our new approach.

I glanced around the conference room table. “Where is she?”

“She’s on the phone,” Kate replied.

“Can you remind her that we’re meeting, please? She’s probably talking to that idiot in Port Royal.”

“Be right back,” Kate said cheerily.

Port Royal, a neighborhood situated in Naples Bay, consisted of four hundred homes that ranged in price from six million to sixty million dollars. Each residence had water access through the bay’s channels. None had a private beach, nor did they have a view of the gulf. One of their residents, a man in his late sixties, had shown interest in Janine—who was thirty-four years his junior—during an open house. Based solely on his wealth, she was considering hooking up with him.

Naples was a great place to be a real estate agent. With the second-highest rate of millionaires per capita in the United States, there was in excess of a billion dollars being spent on homes each year. The problem—and it was a big one for young single women—was that the average age in the city was sixty-five. Considering there were fifteen thousand registered high school students who ranged in age from fourteen to eighteen in a city that was alleged to have a population of roughly twenty thousand permanent residents, the average realistic age of most men in the city was eighty.

I looked at Rhea. “She hasn’t fucked that guy, has she?”

“Not yet.” She cringed. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

Rhea was a hard worker, but she lacked experience. She’d been in my employ for a little over a year. She had a great personality, was the only one of us who was married, and she was driven to succeed by a desire to provide for her three children.

“Good work on that Crayton Road property,” I said. “That wasn’t on the listing long enough to be in print. Then it was gone.”

“I had a buyer pocketed for it,” she replied.

Low seven-figure properties were Rhea’s specialty. The traffic on such homes was a constant stream of available clients, provided they were priced accordingly. The differences between selling a three-million-dollar home and a thirty-million-dollar home were vast.

In Naples, three-million-dollar homes were the norm. They were typically sold within a week of being listed, often to a buyer who hadn’t even seen the property in person. The buyers for a thirty-million-dollar home were far more discriminative. They were versed on styles, finishes, types of appliances used, and location. They knew what they wanted, wouldn’t settle for less, and were willing to pay more than listing price for a home that met their long list of requirements.

Kate returned with Janine in tow. As they took their seats, I glared at Janine. “You haven’t fucked that guy, have you?”

She grinned. “Not yet.”

I fake-barfed. “If you do, I’ll vomit.”