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“Which is fine, because we have plenty of time to do that. That’s the bad news. The owner’s still out of town and will be for at least another week. He’s pulling the listing off the market, but nothing’s official. We only have his word, and the fact that he’s pulling the listing.”
“Is there anything the realtor can get in writing?” I asked. “Anything she can make him sign?”
“Since she’s technically working for him, no. But, I found this basic document online called an ‘intent to sell’ form. It’s usually used for cars, but I think it could work for us in this scenario.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s a simple one-page document that states the owner has the intention to sell the property to us. He signs it. We sign it. The realtor witnesses it, and it serves as proof in case he backs out of the sale. It gives us the right to sue him for penalties and heartache and all that shit if he backs out of the deal after telling us we’re golden.”
“Well, shit. Get him to sign it,” I said.
“I’ll send it over to the realtor and tell her we would feel more comfortable having it signed. I’ll let you know what she says.”
“Lindy, holy fuck. This is fabulous!”
“We’re almost there, Emma. I know. You working tonight?”
“I am. Are you?” I asked.
“Yep. I’m not slated to come in until midnight. But if shit kicks up like it did Thursday night, fucking call me. You can’t handle that kind of crowd on your own.”
“I will. I promise. Oh, shit. I have something to tell you.”
“What? What’s up?” she asked.
“I’ve got fifteen thousand more dollars to put down in cash on the place.”
“How the fuck did you swing that?” she asked.
“Nick and Tyler,” I said.
“One of the twins and the youngest one?” Lindy asked.
“Yep. They knocked on my door, like, fucking twenty minutes ago. Handed me a check for thirty thousand fucking dollars.”
“What!”
“Yeah. Gave me this lecture about how they could tell my mother made my life a living nightmare and how I deserve my dreams. They want me to put all of it toward renovating that loft space, but I think I’m going to put half of it toward more down on the warehouse.”
“Oh, no. You’re not doing that. You’ve fucking sacrificed enough. If they gave you that money for that loft, then that’s what it’s going toward.”
“Lindy, that’s fifteen extra thousand.”
“I don’t want to fucking hear it. What I do want to know, however, is how the fuck you’ve mesmerized these men. I want me some sugar daddies that look like them,” she said.
“They aren’t my sugar daddies.”
“They gave you thirty thousand dollars. They’re the fucking billboard poster kids for sugar daddies,” she said.
“I can’t believe this,” I said breathlessly.
“Emma, can you be straight with me if I ask you something?”
“I always am,” I said.
“What is up with these brothers?’
“What do you mean?”
