Page 37 of My Soul for Sale

Sue me!

A girl has needs, and I needed to get off, so I queued up a threesome porn with two dudes and a girl and my rose got to work.

Branson’s broker agency popped up on the side of the screen while I was scrolling and here we are. I’m calling it fate.

“I’m glad you found us. I have a flight to catch, but don’t hesitate to call.” He closes his briefcase and leaves.

I close my fist around the keys to my house. They’re cool against my palm, and they carry the promise of countless memories yet to happen within the walls of Grandma’s old house.

Heart racing with excitement, I step out of the bank that foreclosed on the house and into the crisp morning air. The sun casts golden rays over the familiar sight of downtown as I head to my car.

While I navigate the familiar streets, I hum along with the radio until I’m in the driveway of my house. A driveway that’s been taken over by grass. The large white Victorian house stands proudly, its chipped paint and weathered wraparound porch bringing a smile to my face.

Walking up the sidewalk, I fish my phone out of my pocket and dial my landlord's number. "Hey, Hank," I say, my voice tinged with excitement. "It's Sloane. I have the keys to my house, so I'll be out within ninety days if that works? I have some work to do, and then you can rent my place out to someone else."

"That's fine, Sloane," Hank replies, his voice warm and reassuring. "Stay as long as you want. And you know what? The rent is on me for the next three months. Consider it my housewarming gift."

"Thank you, Hank!" I exclaim. “You don’t have to do that.”

"No problem, sweetheart," Hank replies. "You've been an amazing tenant, always on time and ready to help whenever I need it. It's the least I can do."

With a smile on my face, I end the call and turn my attention back to what I’m doing. With trembling hands, I unlock the door, the click of the lock sending a surge of anticipation through my veins.

I push it open and step inside. The air is thick with dust, but I hardly notice, too busy envisioning the possibilities that lie within these walls. This is where I want to raise my kids, build a future, create memories that will last a lifetime. This is my home, and I couldn't be happier to call it mine.

As I tour the house, I make a list of all the things that I need to get done in order to move in. First things first, I need to call and get all the utilities in my name and then it’s in need of a good deep clean. Which is good because we all know the best type of cleaning is rage cleaning. Lucky for me, I have two men who have given me a reason to be pissed.

After a quick trip to the dollar store to stock up on supplies, I’m ready to get this place cleaned up. The first order of business: getting fresh air into this stagnant space. Pulling open each window, I welcome the cool breeze that blows through the screens.

But fresh air alone won't do; these windows need a thorough cleansing. Armed with some paper towels and a bottle of window cleaner, I set to work. The glass is streaked with grime, proof of months, if not years, of neglect.

I doubt Ali ever cleaned if she was here after Grandma died. Which reminds me, I need to change the locks. I know the bank said they did it after they foreclosed, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. No way is Ali stepping foot into this place.

Next, I turn my attention to the woodwork. Dusting spray in hand, I methodically wipe down every window, baseboard, and doorframe, plus the built-ins.

The floors are the worst, and they’ll need a few good moppings, along with the walls. The power and water companies have yet to turn the utilities on, but I only called on my way to the dollar store and they said it could take a bit.

Undeterred, I make my way to the neighboring house, knocking on the door with a hopeful smile. The elderly couple who answer greet me with kind smiles. I explain my predicament, asking if I might borrow their hose to fill my bucket.

With a nod of approval, they usher me into their backyard, where the hose lies coiled. I fill the bucket with cool water, adding a few capfuls of Lysol. It may not be hot water, but it will serve its purpose for now.

Lugging the heavy bucket back to my house, I set to work with renewed determination.

As I scrub away the grime, I can't help but start to think about Rip and Atlas.

How fucking dare they get mad at me for coming back to the club when that was in the rules they signed. They agreed to return the merchandise to the club by midnight that night. Just because we know each other doesn’t mean they’re above the rules.

To say the things Rip said to me were out of line would be an understatement. I accepted his apology once, no questions asked, since, at one time, we were family. But if we see each other again, I don’t know what will happen. Will I slap his smug face again or let him be?

His asshole son owes me an apology as well. How could he sit there in silence and not defend me? After calling me his and begging me to stay with him, he let his dad call me horrible names and said nothing.

I can’t believe they think so low of me.

After all, they were there to buy a bitch, let’s not forget, but then I’m the slut.

You would think that after this weekend and everything that transpired, they’d know better. Know me better.

Don’t get me wrong, there was a good chunk of sex, but there was also time spent together just relaxing, talking, enjoying each other’s company. I know a small—and I mean fucking minuscule—piece of the blame can fall on me for not being honest with them about why I wanted or needed the money, but they still had no right to say the things they did. They signed up for this, just as much as I did.

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