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Chapter 19
Damon
Overthenextweek,Michael comes over every night at eleven and leaves every morning at around six am. While it’s great because I can see him and hold him, I hate it because he has to leave. I want to wake up with him every morning, not have him sneaking off like a thief in the night. But James usually wakes up around seven, so it’s best Michael is gone before then.
He’s humoring me by leaving, but I’m getting sick of it. I’m a grown man. My boyfriend shouldn’t have to sneak into a house that belongs to me.
James was pissed when I told his lawyer that I needed to have my own attorney go over the contract for the deed transfer. I was extremely proud of myself because no matter how much he tried to bully me, I said no, I needed to have my own people look over it.
“How the hell are you going to pay an attorney for their time when you can’t even pay me back for your college tuition?” he sneered at me, face red and a vein throbbing in his forehead.
It took everything not to tell him that I know he hasn’t been paying for anything but the regular household bills. I wanted to blurt out that I knew he was lying, but I needed to keep up this charade for another week. Just one more week.
When we stepped back into the room with the attorney, he was packing up, saying that he couldn’t have me sign anything since it could be considered under duress—he probably heard James shouting. Then he chided James, saying that, as an attorney, he should know better. He told me to contact him with my attorney’s information and he would send the contract over.
The next day, I got a lawyer who was able to review my deed almost immediately.
Today, I got a call around lunchtime, asking me to come in. Instead of waiting until I got off, I told Mr. Archer I needed to finish some things, put in six hours of paid time off and left for the day.
The attorney I chose, Foster Marks, was a young, smart attorney that was said to be very tenacious and knowledgeable in his field. His reviews said he was extremely fast when he worked with someone, and I can see that’s accurate. It’s only been a few days and he’s already read through the contract for sale. It was a thick document with small print, so that couldn’t have been easy.
I step into the office and the receptionist smiles warmly at me. “May I help you, sir?” she asks.
Smiling back—something I wouldn’t have done mere weeks ago to someone I didn’t know, not even to be polite—I give her my name and what I’m there for. She tells me to have a seat, then picks up her phone to let Mr. Marks know I’ve arrived.
A few minutes later, her phone rings. After speaking into the receiver for a moment, she tells me I can go on back.
Mr. Marks is a handsome man. Not my type, as he’s almost as small as me, but I can appreciate a good-looking man. He’s a Black man with wide brown eyes, a broad nose, and nice thick lips. His eyes look innocent, but sharp and I can see how he might be underestimated for his looks. I like him, even though we’ve only spoken once.
He stands and holds a hand out to me. “Mr. Reed. Great to meet you. Please sit.” I do and he rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head. “This contract is a little … skewed. Do you know the contents of it?”
I shake my head. “No. Just that my stepfather wants the deed transferred over to him so he can sell the house.”
“Yes, that’s in there. It also states that, even though the house will be in his name, you will be responsible for all property taxes until it sells. It also states that you will not receive any of the proceeds from the sale.”
I knew the last part, but not the first. I would be responsible for the taxes? How would he even swing that? He’s already taking about sixty percent of my paycheck.
Blowing out a breath, I ask, “Is there anything else?”
Mr. Marks nods slowly. “Yes. It also states that you would be responsible for staging costs, costs of renovations the prospective buyer outlined, and if they weren’t done in the manner agreed upon by Mr. Cambridge and the seller, the seller would be able to sue you.”
I surge to my feet. “What? How is that even legal?” James is an attorney, so he probably knew how to make it sound like it’s standard practice.
When Mr. Marks starts talking, I know I’m right. “He worded it in such a way that it seems like it’s what you two agreed upon. See here,” he says, turning the contract so I can see it. I stalk over and look at one of the numbered items. “It reads,Previous grantor will be liable for any and all renovations heretofore and is liable for any legal obligations should such needs arise.What most people would miss is the previous. They would assume it meant the person who it belonged to before it was sold. And it would, if this was a contract for sale, not a contract for transfer.”
I’m impressed that Mr. Marks could decipher that, but pissed that James, once again, wanted to take advantage of me when he has so much. He’s a successful attorney, one many people look up to. He has money. Hell, he hasmymoney.
Flopping in the seat I vacated, I deflate on myself. I don’t know why finding this out hurts, because IknowJames hates me and will do anything to screw me over, but what’s the point of draining me dry? It shouldn’t make me feel like shit that I’m not loved in my own home. I shouldn’t be surprised.
But I am. The depths that he’s willing to go to make me miserable, broke, and dependent on him so I can continue to be his free maid—or a maid that pays him—is mind boggling. I can see why he wanted to bully me into signing now. This will effectively make sure I only have enough money to buy lunch.
Lifting my glasses, I wipe under my eyes, collecting the tears angrily and wiping them away. “What do I do now?” I ask Mr. Marks.
“We’re tossing this. I’ll let the other attorney know that we have questions about how the contract was drawn up without both parties involved. That makes the contract void. I’ll handle that. In the meantime, I’ll draw up another contract for the deed transfer and—”
“No,” I interrupt him. “No. I’m not transferring it. It’s my house, right?”
“It is. The deed is public record, as well as your mother’s will.” I wince and Mr. Marks’s eyes grow soft. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He pauses for a beat, then says, “Her will is watertight. There’s no room for misinterpretation.”
