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“So, what exactly is going on here?” Rebecca asked.
I didn’t know how to come clean or how much to reveal. Even the sparest details could be enough to get me in trouble, but the story wasn’t all that different from what I’d told them before.
“It’s almost exactly like what I told you,” I said, “except Sloane was here with me.”
The cogs inside their heads were spinning, trying to work things out. “I’ll freely admit that it doesn’t sound likely,” I said, “but it’s the truth. We were worried about water damage to the house and came over here to make sure it wouldn’t be a problem. Clothes got wet and needed to dry off, et cetera. Et cetera.”
A sales tactic I’d learned a long while back was to let the customer speak first. Amateur salesmen often try to fill the silence as much as possible because it feels uncomfortable. All that does is make them seem desperate. Leaving space for silence forces the customer to make an offer and, generally, it’s better than what you might have come up with on your own.
In this case, I could have answered all the questions I thought they’d have, but it was better to wait for them to ask them. It left less room for me to put my foot in my mouth.
Sloane, however, didn’t have the sales background that I did.
“We’re very sorry,” she said. “We’ll be sure not to let it happen again.”
“And what is it, exactly?” Rebecca asked.
“You know,” Sloane said, even as I was mentally sending her a message to not respond so I could handle it. She remained under the blanket, though she wasn’t moving around anymore. I imagined she didn’t want to be seen in her t-shirt and sweatpants. As cute as she looked in the extremely casual outfit, it didn’t present a professional appearance. “It.”
“It,” Marty said, repeating her word. “Is it a kind of sexual fetish game that the two of you play?”
I let out a brief chuckle and was about to say, “Of course not,” in a manner that made it sound ridiculous that he’d even suggest such a thing.
But Sloane beat me to the response. “What?! No! I’m not into clowns.”
“Yeah, right,” Marty said, looking at me. “I know who some of your other clients are. I heard all about what you did with the wax museum.”
“What?” Sloane asked. “What are you talking about?”
The wax museum was an unusual property that we sold before Sloane came aboard. Due to complications with its location and zoning permits, it was very difficult to unload. We did have one buyer, however, which was a studio that produced adult films in the gay genre. The woman who owned the studio loved the building and, to this day, was still sending gifts to our company that, thoughtful as they were, I had no idea what to do with.
“That was one property,” I said.
“Rebecca and I went to that wax museum on our first date,” Marty said. “And now that experience is forever tainted by what it’s become.”
The wax museum, by the way, was absolutely horrifying in its original form. It was surprising to me that anyone would go there for any reason, but it somehow seemed appropriate that this relationship from hell originated in such a space.
“I think that you two like to play games in other people’s houses,” Marty said. “I think it gets you off to have sex in other people’s houses and I don’t think ours is the first.”
“Believe me,” Sloane said, “this was the first. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
I wish Sloane could get out from under the covers and look at me so I could signal to her that she wasn’t making things better. She was digging us a hole and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to dig ourselves out of it.
“Seems unlikely,” Rebecca said. “The one time you get caught is the first time you’ve done this? No, Marty’s right. This is some kinky shit if I’ve ever seen it.”
I much preferred it when the two of them hated each other and couldn’t agree on anything.
“You know what I think, Bec?” Marty asked. “I think we might have a lawsuit here. Maybe we should get your brother on the phone.” He looked at me in a way he must have thought was threatening, but it was clear he hadn’t had much practice at it. “He’s a lawyer.”
“What’s Frank going to do?” Rebecca asked. “He’s a tax attorney.”
Marty’s face reddened. “He’ll know someone from school. The point is, you broke and entered.”
I heard a giggle and a hiccup from underneath the blanket.
“Mr. Dyer, Ms. Chapman,” I said, “I’m sure we can work something out. As I said, this was entirely inappropriate and I’m deeply sorry for any inconvenience, discomfort, or degree of distress that we’ve caused you.”
And then I bit my tongue, because I was about to knock a quarter percent off of our commission. That’s the danger of talking too much. Unfortunately, we were not dealing with reasonable people.
