How to 3/4, J2 AU
Title: How to sell a guy a house in six weeks
Pairing: Jared/Jensen, Jared/Sandy, Jared/Tom, and mentions Jensen/Danneel
Rating: NC-17 for adult themes
Summary: Jared's a realtor and Jensen's a house hunter.
Spoilers: none
Warnings, unbeta'd, language, some angst
Disclaimer: none of this is true, it's all fiction
Chapter Three
This is how it happened. Jared was new in town, trying to find a bar where his fake I.D. wouldn’t be subjected to close scrutiny. Tom was between acting gigs, temping at the gayest straight bar in Los Angeles. He gave Jared’s I.D. a cursory glance and laughed. But served him a beer just the same, “because you look like you could use a friend.”
“Thanks, friend. I’m Jared.”
They took it slow, first date, second date, first kiss, third date, second kiss…four months on, first night together.
This is how it’s happening: Jared’s unfocused at work, unfocused at the gym. He only seems to focus when he’s with Jensen. It’s like his mind is permanently tuned onto Jensen FM. And like his body’s got a bone-deep itch that won’t quit until he’s buried inside Jensen, dripping sweat and endearments on Jensen’s nape as Jensen writhes under him, biting on his knuckle to stifle those ragged groans that Jared hears anyway.
Jared had set out to know Jensen, and now he does. He knows that Jensen loves directing but misses acting, sings and plays the guitar but hates to do so in public. Jensen loves coffee, hates early morning calls, likes his toast almost burnt, over-thinks things at times and then shrugs, laughing at himself. It scares Jared sometimes, how well he knows Jensen, because they only met five weeks ago. Everything’s moving so fast Jared can’t catch up with himself. He needs, “I need more time with Ackles, Eric.”
“You’ve still got seven days to the deadline.”
“A week’s not…it’s nowhere near enough.”
Eric does that thing where he lowers his head and peers at the reprobate over the rims of his glasses. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Mr. Ackles is very selective, which he has every right to be. So far, I haven’t identified a property that meets his criteria.”
“I’ll give you a couple more weeks. Then I bat him back to Miller.”
Jared rearranges his appointments with his other clients. Diary cleared, he skips lunch, sits at his desk throwing handfuls of gummi bears into his mouth as he reviews every property in his portfolio, matching the properties against Jensen’s virtual home. Damned if he’s going to let Wentworth handle Jensen.
Jared doesn’t realize the office is clearing out until he glances away from his computer screen at Sandy’s chirpy, “log out or we’ll miss happy hour.”
He’s blank on happy hour. It must show on his face, because Sandy says, “after-work drinks. Then dinner, then after-dinner drinks.”
He shakes his head, still blank.
“Free dinner,” Sandy emphasizes, “all you can eat. I e-mailed the details last week.”
Jared remembers the e-mail now, something about Sandy’s former client inviting her plus three to the grand opening of his sushi place. Jared had got to free, all you can eat and had instantly e-mailed back, I’m there!
“That’s this Friday? Tonight?”
“Jared,” every syllable oozing with disappointment.
“I can’t, Sandy. I’ve got all this work.”
“But Chad and Sophia are going!” Although Sandy doesn’t have hysterical tendencies, she’s close to it now; eyes wide and hands wringing her purse strap. Piercing voice, “are you that cruel you’d abandon me to Chad and Sophia feeding each other California rolls?”
Boy, is he out of the loop. “How come nobody told me Chad finally got his girl?”
“Chad’s been hinting at it all week,” says Wentworth, the only other person still in the office. He shrugs on his jacket and comes over to Jared’s desk. “I think you should know that Kripke’s trimmed four clients off my workload. He wants me to prioritize the Ackles file when you hand it over.”
Jared’s on his feet and pacing to the window, wrenching at his tie, roughly loosening it. He’s sweating, feels like he’s been kicked in the gut. Kripke that son of bitch has written him off before his time’s even up, and as if that isn’t enough, Sandy’s looking at him with that implacable expression of hers. He just can’t deal with her demands right now.
Surprisingly, Wentworth rescues him. “I’ll go with you Sandy, seeing as my training partner just cancelled on me.”
“That’s tonight?” Jared asks, appalled at himself. “I’m sorry man, I just, Eric’s been stressing me out.”
Sandy looks his chaotic desk over, her sigh wistful. “Text me when you’re through working. I’ll have an after-dinner vodka standing by.” She slips her arm through Wentworth’s, and she’s only small, but she manages to drag him towards the door, “Okay, baby, let’s roll.”
*
When night’s inching towards eight and Jared’s eyes are gritty from staring at the screen and his stomach’s digesting itself from lack of food, it’s not Sandy he texts.
What you doing?
Working.
Me, too. We’re sad.
Total losers.
Jared smiles, hitting the call button. “Hey, loser.”
Jensen’s reply is a gruff laugh.
“How much longer will you be?” Jared asks.
“About an hour.”
Jared has three houses with Jensen’s name on them in his shopping cart. He could add another one, maybe two in an hour. “An hour’s good.”
“Good for what?”
“Beer, burgers, fries. My treat.”
“Yeah, sure. Where?”
Habit takes over, and Jared’s halfway through reciting the address before realizing it. He’s already committed, so he keeps going and hopes the bar’s been redecorated since he last went there. Six weeks ago. Before Jensen. That’s how he demarcates the passage of time, now. Before Jensen. During Jensen. He tries not to think about After Jensen.
“So, nine fifteen?” Jensen’s tentative, like he thinks Jared’s having second thoughts.
“I’ll be there, Jensen,” he says with plenty confidence for them both.
*
He’s there, and the bar hasn’t been redecorated. He wonders if he has time to rip some of the photos down before Jensen arrives. Larry the owner has a penchant for putting up photos of his procession of bar staff on the walls so he can point and brag, that shmuck used to work for me before he was famous.
Tom’s one of those shmucks. There he is, wiping down the counter, and there, handing a cocktail to a giggling redhead. There again, lighting candles on a huge cake, and the shmuck with gangly arms wrapped around Tom from behind? That shmuck is him. Famous by association.
Someone brushes up beside Jared a familiar dry chuckle reaches his ears. “You look about twelve in that photo.”
“Count the candles, man. Twenty one.” Jared slides an arm across Jensen’s shoulders, feels like he’s trying to prove something as he crushes Jensen against him. “Why don’t you find us somewhere to sit? I’ll get the orders in.”
Friday nights at Larry’s are busy. Jared has to stand in line at the crowded bar and while he’s waiting to get served, he takes advantage of his height, scanning the bar over everyone’s heads to check if Jensen’s managed to find a table. Jensen hasn’t moved. He’s still staring at the wall, shoulders a rigid line under his jacket. Jared wants to go over there and tell Jensen they’re leaving, going somewhere new.
“I started thinking you were dead, kid. Where’ve you been?”
Jeff - early forties, scruffy salt and pepper beard, soulful dark eyes, and aging beautifully - is supposedly Larry’s sleeping partner but helps out behind the bar on busy nights. Jared secretly thinks they are actual sleeping partners. “Work’s been a bitch, lately,” he says.
“Tell me about it,” Jeff doesn’t mean that figuratively. It’s as though his day’s not complete until he’s listened to a sob story or ten. “Tell uncle Jeff all about it.”
Jared winces at that. “I’ll pass. Thanks, anyway.”
“Alright, what can I get you?”
*
Foam splashes over the rims of the full pint glasses and onto Jared’s fingers as he pushes through the press of bodies. Jensen’s sitting at a table in a booth, fixed smile on his face as some guy, a regular, talks at him from across the table.
Jared doesn’t do jealous boyfriend, it’s not his style. Also, he’s not Jensen’s boyfriend and even if he were, he wouldn’t feel threatened by average Joe over there. He sets the beers on the table, slides in next to Jensen and wraps a hand around Jensen’s throat, caressing rather than gripping. Feels Jensen’s pulse leap under his thumb, feels his own pulse kick as Jensen tilts his head back, offering his mouth. Jared takes it, kisses Jensen like they’re alone. Running his hand up Jared’s forearm to encircle his wrist, Jensen kisses him back with tongue and teeth and a groan that vibrates against Jared’s palm before it tumbles into his mouth. It’s torment, the way he wants Jensen, always on fire for him. Can’t ever get enough.
When they eventually break for air, the regular guy’s gone. Jared laughs, picking up his pint glass, and Jensen follows suit with the laughing and the chugging of beer. A waitress brings their fries and burgers over, and between bites, they trade stories about work, family and growing up in Texas. It warms Jared up and quiets him down to see Jensen loose-limbed and relaxed, giggling. Jensen’s a giggly drunk, and Jared could get used it.
“We should do this more often.”
Jensen burps, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Do what?”
“Go out together, not on a date or anything, just together.”
“I asked you on a date. I drummed up my courage, asked you on a date and you turned me down.”
Jared’s not stupid. He wouldn’t have done such a stupid thing like decline a date with Jensen. “I don’t think so.”
“You did,” Jensen insists, and damn if he isn’t pouting. “After viewing house number ten. You shot me down and laughed at my pain.”
Jared can’t help smiling at the memory of klutzy Jensen walking into a post. “That was you asking me on a date?”
“Trying to, yes.”
“Oh Jensen,” he says, affectionate. He wants to fold Jensen up and tuck him away safely in his pocket. Since he can’t do that, he tucks Jensen’s hand in his own and rests their joined hands on his thigh. “You don’t need courage with me. Just liquor me up and I’ll say yes to anything.”
Jensen’s face lights up and he waves to a passing waitress. “A shot of whiskey for this guy here, please.”
“Double shot,” Jared’s voice carries. And when he’s having a good time, it really carries. “Hell, just bring the whole bottle.”
“Jared? Is that you?” Comes a voice from the depth of the crowd, and then the crowd’s parting and Sandy’s standing at the table.
Thousands of bars in town and she winds up here? So unfair. Sandy flicks a sharp glance over Jensen, her smile thin and her vibe hostile. “I thought you were working,” she says, turning her attention on to Jared.
“I am, was, am,” he releases Jensen’s hand. “We, Jensen - Mr. Ackles - and I, we’re working.” He feels the warmth leach from his side as Jensen shifts away.
Sophia, Chad and Wentworth show up behind Sandy. While Wentworth’s face is unreadable, Sophia and Chad’s expressions say it all.
And Chad verbalizes it, “what the fuck dude, you blew us off for him?”
“It’s not like that. We’re working,” lame. Pathetic. He looks over at Jensen and something wrenches inside him because Jensen’s withdrawing into himself, smiles gone, walls up.
“I’ll go with the third place you described to me, Jared,” Jensen stands and drapes his jacket over his arm.
“But you haven’t seen it yet.”
“I trust your judgment. Fax me the papers Monday,” Jensen slides out of the booth as Sandy slides in on the other side.
Wentworth barely waits until Jensen’s clear of the table before taking Jensen’s place. Sophia hops in beside Sandy, and Chad stays standing, watching as Jensen puts his jacket on.
“Goodnight folks,” Jensen says, turning away.
No-one replies, least of all Jared, who’s amazed at how quickly a good night went bad. He should go after Jensen or call him back. Sandy snuggles up against him, lays her head on his shoulder, and he says nothing, does nothing as the crowd closes around Jensen’s retreating figure.
*
On Saturday, Jared cleans his windows, twice.
On Sunday, he cleans Sandy’s windows. He’d cleaned them twice, but she tells him to stop and waves him over to the couch where she’s watching T.V. in her nightshirt and red ankle socks. Her lips are dry when she kisses him.
“We can’t,” he says. “We can’t do this anymore.”
“What’s changed?”
“I’m not what you’re looking for, Sandy.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
She’s right. “You’re not what I’m looking for,” he gets to decided that.
Sandy’s throat works. She turns her head to stare at the T.V. screen and increases the volume.
Jared leaves.
*
First thing Monday, he rings Jensen and gets diverted to voicemail. The third time this happens, he leaves a message saying he needs an offer on the house in writing before he can fax Jensen the terms of sale.
Jensen sends the letter of offer by courier within two hours.
Jared stuffs the letter into Jensen’s folder and picks up the phone. “At least see the house first, Jensen,” he says to the voicemail.
Sandy goes home sick at lunch time, and by the close of the day, Jared still hasn’t faxed Jensen the terms of sale.
*
At 9 am on Tuesday, Jared launches his offensive. “See the house, that’s all I’m asking,” he says when Jensen’s phone clicks to voicemail.
“See the house, Jensen,” he says at 10 am, voicemail again.
“I can’t proceed with the sale without you viewing the house,” he says at 11 am.
Every hour on the hour, he talks to Jensen’s voicemail, his messages variations of, see the house. He makes the last call at 9 pm, and at 9 am the next day, he starts over, “come see the house, Jensen. Please.”
Sandy’s chair is empty, her computer switched off. Later, during team meeting, Eric announces that Sandy will be off work for two weeks. Sophia scowls at Jared, Chad kicks his shin under the table. Jared glances at his watch; five minutes to three.
“I have a call to make,” he says, already at the conference room door.
“Can’t it wait?” Eric asks.
No. It can’t wait.
After work, he swings by Sandy’s place. Her eyes are puffy, her hair tangled. The clock on her DVD player says six-twenty and her apartment smells of chocolate. He follows her into the kitchen, walking on a tight-rope. There’s a fondue set on the table, melted chocolate instead of melted cheese. Gummi bears on a plate instead of the banana slices she used to dip into the chocolate when they first met. There’s also a book, open face down on the table.
Sandy impales a piece of candy on her skewer and dunks it in the chocolate. “You’re a bad habit,” she says.
His chair creaks as he fidgets, knees bumping the underside of the table. “Are you okay? It’s just that Eric said-”
“I’ve been through a lot worse, Jared. This is nothing.”
He glances away. The clock on her stove says quarter to seven and the flat leaf parsley plant on her windowsill is wilting. Jared’s shoulders sag under the force of the too sweet, too heavy chocolaty air. He has some idea how that plant’s feeling.
“I should go,” he says.
“Working late?” Sandy viciously impales a gummi bear on the skewer. “Another business dinner with Jensen.”
“Yeah, blame Jensen. He’s responsible for the mess we got ourselves into before he turned up at the agency,” Jared’s voice is raised, angry.
He never shouts at Sandy and she flinches, looks shocked for a second, before hurling the book at him. It whizzes past his ear, missing by an inch. She grabs the plate, gummi bears scattering everywhere in rainbow colours. Jared gets out, quickly.
He dutifully makes his calls to Jensen’s voicemail, one at seven, one at eight and the last at nine. Has trouble sleeping, so he fixes a nightcap of Irish coffee without the coffee.
*
He barges into the office, late for work. Most of the other realtors keep taping on their keyboards. Chad, Sophia and Wentworth glance up at him.
“Morning,” he grunts, snatching his mail from his pigeon hole.
He flings the mail on his desk, drops his briefcase on the floor, throws his jacket over the back of his chair and flips his phone open. Quick dials Jensen. The phone rings once, twice, will kick to voicemail on the fourth ring, and Jared will be leaving a tactless message because he’s not in the mood for softly-softly. So not in the mood.
Jensen picks up before the fourth ring. “Fine. Show me the house.”
Jared’s emotions catch him unawares. They boa-constrict him, driving the air out of his lungs. His throat hurts, his eyes prickle and his voice isn’t quite steady. “I’ll come pick you up. What time?”
“Around three-thirty,” and Jensen hangs up.
Chapter 4
Pairing: Jared/Jensen, Jared/Sandy, Jared/Tom, and mentions Jensen/Danneel
Rating: NC-17 for adult themes
Summary: Jared's a realtor and Jensen's a house hunter.
Spoilers: none
Warnings, unbeta'd, language, some angst
Disclaimer: none of this is true, it's all fiction
Chapter Three
This is how it happened. Jared was new in town, trying to find a bar where his fake I.D. wouldn’t be subjected to close scrutiny. Tom was between acting gigs, temping at the gayest straight bar in Los Angeles. He gave Jared’s I.D. a cursory glance and laughed. But served him a beer just the same, “because you look like you could use a friend.”
“Thanks, friend. I’m Jared.”
They took it slow, first date, second date, first kiss, third date, second kiss…four months on, first night together.
This is how it’s happening: Jared’s unfocused at work, unfocused at the gym. He only seems to focus when he’s with Jensen. It’s like his mind is permanently tuned onto Jensen FM. And like his body’s got a bone-deep itch that won’t quit until he’s buried inside Jensen, dripping sweat and endearments on Jensen’s nape as Jensen writhes under him, biting on his knuckle to stifle those ragged groans that Jared hears anyway.
Jared had set out to know Jensen, and now he does. He knows that Jensen loves directing but misses acting, sings and plays the guitar but hates to do so in public. Jensen loves coffee, hates early morning calls, likes his toast almost burnt, over-thinks things at times and then shrugs, laughing at himself. It scares Jared sometimes, how well he knows Jensen, because they only met five weeks ago. Everything’s moving so fast Jared can’t catch up with himself. He needs, “I need more time with Ackles, Eric.”
“You’ve still got seven days to the deadline.”
“A week’s not…it’s nowhere near enough.”
Eric does that thing where he lowers his head and peers at the reprobate over the rims of his glasses. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Mr. Ackles is very selective, which he has every right to be. So far, I haven’t identified a property that meets his criteria.”
“I’ll give you a couple more weeks. Then I bat him back to Miller.”
Jared rearranges his appointments with his other clients. Diary cleared, he skips lunch, sits at his desk throwing handfuls of gummi bears into his mouth as he reviews every property in his portfolio, matching the properties against Jensen’s virtual home. Damned if he’s going to let Wentworth handle Jensen.
Jared doesn’t realize the office is clearing out until he glances away from his computer screen at Sandy’s chirpy, “log out or we’ll miss happy hour.”
He’s blank on happy hour. It must show on his face, because Sandy says, “after-work drinks. Then dinner, then after-dinner drinks.”
He shakes his head, still blank.
“Free dinner,” Sandy emphasizes, “all you can eat. I e-mailed the details last week.”
Jared remembers the e-mail now, something about Sandy’s former client inviting her plus three to the grand opening of his sushi place. Jared had got to free, all you can eat and had instantly e-mailed back, I’m there!
“That’s this Friday? Tonight?”
“Jared,” every syllable oozing with disappointment.
“I can’t, Sandy. I’ve got all this work.”
“But Chad and Sophia are going!” Although Sandy doesn’t have hysterical tendencies, she’s close to it now; eyes wide and hands wringing her purse strap. Piercing voice, “are you that cruel you’d abandon me to Chad and Sophia feeding each other California rolls?”
Boy, is he out of the loop. “How come nobody told me Chad finally got his girl?”
“Chad’s been hinting at it all week,” says Wentworth, the only other person still in the office. He shrugs on his jacket and comes over to Jared’s desk. “I think you should know that Kripke’s trimmed four clients off my workload. He wants me to prioritize the Ackles file when you hand it over.”
Jared’s on his feet and pacing to the window, wrenching at his tie, roughly loosening it. He’s sweating, feels like he’s been kicked in the gut. Kripke that son of bitch has written him off before his time’s even up, and as if that isn’t enough, Sandy’s looking at him with that implacable expression of hers. He just can’t deal with her demands right now.
Surprisingly, Wentworth rescues him. “I’ll go with you Sandy, seeing as my training partner just cancelled on me.”
“That’s tonight?” Jared asks, appalled at himself. “I’m sorry man, I just, Eric’s been stressing me out.”
Sandy looks his chaotic desk over, her sigh wistful. “Text me when you’re through working. I’ll have an after-dinner vodka standing by.” She slips her arm through Wentworth’s, and she’s only small, but she manages to drag him towards the door, “Okay, baby, let’s roll.”
*
When night’s inching towards eight and Jared’s eyes are gritty from staring at the screen and his stomach’s digesting itself from lack of food, it’s not Sandy he texts.
What you doing?
Working.
Me, too. We’re sad.
Total losers.
Jared smiles, hitting the call button. “Hey, loser.”
Jensen’s reply is a gruff laugh.
“How much longer will you be?” Jared asks.
“About an hour.”
Jared has three houses with Jensen’s name on them in his shopping cart. He could add another one, maybe two in an hour. “An hour’s good.”
“Good for what?”
“Beer, burgers, fries. My treat.”
“Yeah, sure. Where?”
Habit takes over, and Jared’s halfway through reciting the address before realizing it. He’s already committed, so he keeps going and hopes the bar’s been redecorated since he last went there. Six weeks ago. Before Jensen. That’s how he demarcates the passage of time, now. Before Jensen. During Jensen. He tries not to think about After Jensen.
“So, nine fifteen?” Jensen’s tentative, like he thinks Jared’s having second thoughts.
“I’ll be there, Jensen,” he says with plenty confidence for them both.
*
He’s there, and the bar hasn’t been redecorated. He wonders if he has time to rip some of the photos down before Jensen arrives. Larry the owner has a penchant for putting up photos of his procession of bar staff on the walls so he can point and brag, that shmuck used to work for me before he was famous.
Tom’s one of those shmucks. There he is, wiping down the counter, and there, handing a cocktail to a giggling redhead. There again, lighting candles on a huge cake, and the shmuck with gangly arms wrapped around Tom from behind? That shmuck is him. Famous by association.
Someone brushes up beside Jared a familiar dry chuckle reaches his ears. “You look about twelve in that photo.”
“Count the candles, man. Twenty one.” Jared slides an arm across Jensen’s shoulders, feels like he’s trying to prove something as he crushes Jensen against him. “Why don’t you find us somewhere to sit? I’ll get the orders in.”
Friday nights at Larry’s are busy. Jared has to stand in line at the crowded bar and while he’s waiting to get served, he takes advantage of his height, scanning the bar over everyone’s heads to check if Jensen’s managed to find a table. Jensen hasn’t moved. He’s still staring at the wall, shoulders a rigid line under his jacket. Jared wants to go over there and tell Jensen they’re leaving, going somewhere new.
“I started thinking you were dead, kid. Where’ve you been?”
Jeff - early forties, scruffy salt and pepper beard, soulful dark eyes, and aging beautifully - is supposedly Larry’s sleeping partner but helps out behind the bar on busy nights. Jared secretly thinks they are actual sleeping partners. “Work’s been a bitch, lately,” he says.
“Tell me about it,” Jeff doesn’t mean that figuratively. It’s as though his day’s not complete until he’s listened to a sob story or ten. “Tell uncle Jeff all about it.”
Jared winces at that. “I’ll pass. Thanks, anyway.”
“Alright, what can I get you?”
*
Foam splashes over the rims of the full pint glasses and onto Jared’s fingers as he pushes through the press of bodies. Jensen’s sitting at a table in a booth, fixed smile on his face as some guy, a regular, talks at him from across the table.
Jared doesn’t do jealous boyfriend, it’s not his style. Also, he’s not Jensen’s boyfriend and even if he were, he wouldn’t feel threatened by average Joe over there. He sets the beers on the table, slides in next to Jensen and wraps a hand around Jensen’s throat, caressing rather than gripping. Feels Jensen’s pulse leap under his thumb, feels his own pulse kick as Jensen tilts his head back, offering his mouth. Jared takes it, kisses Jensen like they’re alone. Running his hand up Jared’s forearm to encircle his wrist, Jensen kisses him back with tongue and teeth and a groan that vibrates against Jared’s palm before it tumbles into his mouth. It’s torment, the way he wants Jensen, always on fire for him. Can’t ever get enough.
When they eventually break for air, the regular guy’s gone. Jared laughs, picking up his pint glass, and Jensen follows suit with the laughing and the chugging of beer. A waitress brings their fries and burgers over, and between bites, they trade stories about work, family and growing up in Texas. It warms Jared up and quiets him down to see Jensen loose-limbed and relaxed, giggling. Jensen’s a giggly drunk, and Jared could get used it.
“We should do this more often.”
Jensen burps, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Do what?”
“Go out together, not on a date or anything, just together.”
“I asked you on a date. I drummed up my courage, asked you on a date and you turned me down.”
Jared’s not stupid. He wouldn’t have done such a stupid thing like decline a date with Jensen. “I don’t think so.”
“You did,” Jensen insists, and damn if he isn’t pouting. “After viewing house number ten. You shot me down and laughed at my pain.”
Jared can’t help smiling at the memory of klutzy Jensen walking into a post. “That was you asking me on a date?”
“Trying to, yes.”
“Oh Jensen,” he says, affectionate. He wants to fold Jensen up and tuck him away safely in his pocket. Since he can’t do that, he tucks Jensen’s hand in his own and rests their joined hands on his thigh. “You don’t need courage with me. Just liquor me up and I’ll say yes to anything.”
Jensen’s face lights up and he waves to a passing waitress. “A shot of whiskey for this guy here, please.”
“Double shot,” Jared’s voice carries. And when he’s having a good time, it really carries. “Hell, just bring the whole bottle.”
“Jared? Is that you?” Comes a voice from the depth of the crowd, and then the crowd’s parting and Sandy’s standing at the table.
Thousands of bars in town and she winds up here? So unfair. Sandy flicks a sharp glance over Jensen, her smile thin and her vibe hostile. “I thought you were working,” she says, turning her attention on to Jared.
“I am, was, am,” he releases Jensen’s hand. “We, Jensen - Mr. Ackles - and I, we’re working.” He feels the warmth leach from his side as Jensen shifts away.
Sophia, Chad and Wentworth show up behind Sandy. While Wentworth’s face is unreadable, Sophia and Chad’s expressions say it all.
And Chad verbalizes it, “what the fuck dude, you blew us off for him?”
“It’s not like that. We’re working,” lame. Pathetic. He looks over at Jensen and something wrenches inside him because Jensen’s withdrawing into himself, smiles gone, walls up.
“I’ll go with the third place you described to me, Jared,” Jensen stands and drapes his jacket over his arm.
“But you haven’t seen it yet.”
“I trust your judgment. Fax me the papers Monday,” Jensen slides out of the booth as Sandy slides in on the other side.
Wentworth barely waits until Jensen’s clear of the table before taking Jensen’s place. Sophia hops in beside Sandy, and Chad stays standing, watching as Jensen puts his jacket on.
“Goodnight folks,” Jensen says, turning away.
No-one replies, least of all Jared, who’s amazed at how quickly a good night went bad. He should go after Jensen or call him back. Sandy snuggles up against him, lays her head on his shoulder, and he says nothing, does nothing as the crowd closes around Jensen’s retreating figure.
*
On Saturday, Jared cleans his windows, twice.
On Sunday, he cleans Sandy’s windows. He’d cleaned them twice, but she tells him to stop and waves him over to the couch where she’s watching T.V. in her nightshirt and red ankle socks. Her lips are dry when she kisses him.
“We can’t,” he says. “We can’t do this anymore.”
“What’s changed?”
“I’m not what you’re looking for, Sandy.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
She’s right. “You’re not what I’m looking for,” he gets to decided that.
Sandy’s throat works. She turns her head to stare at the T.V. screen and increases the volume.
Jared leaves.
*
First thing Monday, he rings Jensen and gets diverted to voicemail. The third time this happens, he leaves a message saying he needs an offer on the house in writing before he can fax Jensen the terms of sale.
Jensen sends the letter of offer by courier within two hours.
Jared stuffs the letter into Jensen’s folder and picks up the phone. “At least see the house first, Jensen,” he says to the voicemail.
Sandy goes home sick at lunch time, and by the close of the day, Jared still hasn’t faxed Jensen the terms of sale.
*
At 9 am on Tuesday, Jared launches his offensive. “See the house, that’s all I’m asking,” he says when Jensen’s phone clicks to voicemail.
“See the house, Jensen,” he says at 10 am, voicemail again.
“I can’t proceed with the sale without you viewing the house,” he says at 11 am.
Every hour on the hour, he talks to Jensen’s voicemail, his messages variations of, see the house. He makes the last call at 9 pm, and at 9 am the next day, he starts over, “come see the house, Jensen. Please.”
Sandy’s chair is empty, her computer switched off. Later, during team meeting, Eric announces that Sandy will be off work for two weeks. Sophia scowls at Jared, Chad kicks his shin under the table. Jared glances at his watch; five minutes to three.
“I have a call to make,” he says, already at the conference room door.
“Can’t it wait?” Eric asks.
No. It can’t wait.
After work, he swings by Sandy’s place. Her eyes are puffy, her hair tangled. The clock on her DVD player says six-twenty and her apartment smells of chocolate. He follows her into the kitchen, walking on a tight-rope. There’s a fondue set on the table, melted chocolate instead of melted cheese. Gummi bears on a plate instead of the banana slices she used to dip into the chocolate when they first met. There’s also a book, open face down on the table.
Sandy impales a piece of candy on her skewer and dunks it in the chocolate. “You’re a bad habit,” she says.
His chair creaks as he fidgets, knees bumping the underside of the table. “Are you okay? It’s just that Eric said-”
“I’ve been through a lot worse, Jared. This is nothing.”
He glances away. The clock on her stove says quarter to seven and the flat leaf parsley plant on her windowsill is wilting. Jared’s shoulders sag under the force of the too sweet, too heavy chocolaty air. He has some idea how that plant’s feeling.
“I should go,” he says.
“Working late?” Sandy viciously impales a gummi bear on the skewer. “Another business dinner with Jensen.”
“Yeah, blame Jensen. He’s responsible for the mess we got ourselves into before he turned up at the agency,” Jared’s voice is raised, angry.
He never shouts at Sandy and she flinches, looks shocked for a second, before hurling the book at him. It whizzes past his ear, missing by an inch. She grabs the plate, gummi bears scattering everywhere in rainbow colours. Jared gets out, quickly.
He dutifully makes his calls to Jensen’s voicemail, one at seven, one at eight and the last at nine. Has trouble sleeping, so he fixes a nightcap of Irish coffee without the coffee.
*
He barges into the office, late for work. Most of the other realtors keep taping on their keyboards. Chad, Sophia and Wentworth glance up at him.
“Morning,” he grunts, snatching his mail from his pigeon hole.
He flings the mail on his desk, drops his briefcase on the floor, throws his jacket over the back of his chair and flips his phone open. Quick dials Jensen. The phone rings once, twice, will kick to voicemail on the fourth ring, and Jared will be leaving a tactless message because he’s not in the mood for softly-softly. So not in the mood.
Jensen picks up before the fourth ring. “Fine. Show me the house.”
Jared’s emotions catch him unawares. They boa-constrict him, driving the air out of his lungs. His throat hurts, his eyes prickle and his voice isn’t quite steady. “I’ll come pick you up. What time?”
“Around three-thirty,” and Jensen hangs up.
Chapter 4