Uninhibited

All because of you

I press the end button on my phone while sitting at the small desk in my office. Okay, it's not my office. It's a medium-sized room I share with two of the other newer realtors. It's fine, nice even, with a cute scenic view of the back parking lot, dumpster and all.

Also... holy fuck!

I shake my head, stunned. Karen—who's become a mentor of sorts while I'm getting my feet wet in the land of house sales—circles her hands, waiting for me to drop the deets.

My disbelieving gaze shifts down to my cell, back to her, then down once more before remaining on her expectant eyes.

"Well?" She bends forward with her palms lying flat on the two-by-four surface.

I shake my head again, in some serious shock. Three days have gone by since the shitstorm I'm not presently trying to think about. I won't allow thoughts of that clown to diminish this moment. Three days since I listed my first house... ever.

I'd met with the owner before the lunch that makes me want to rip Jonathan's shriveled-up balls off and shove them up his nostrils. That's a pleasant visual. Anyway, I figured he banked on the fact that I'd have an impulsive reaction. Not all that long ago, I absolutely would have.

The thing is, I'm not a woman scorned. Nope. That definition doesn't quite match the underlying feeling he'd—unknowingly, I'm sure—inspired.

Past me would've spouted off, not giving a shit if my mouth had a detrimental effect on someone else. Not anymore.

After hours of brooding about it, I finally understood the phrase revenge is a dish best served cold. I never thought about it before.

Jonathan will require calculation. Time. An element of surprise. And a dose of patience.

Who am I?

Because, when he crashes and burns, I want him to hit the ground with such an impact that he shatters into a million pieces. I'm not doing the entire he said, she said thing. I'm pretty sure he's worked those angles. Someone of his advanced age, with his shiesty morals, has no doubt resorted to this low level before.

Forty? Gross.

I just need to outsmart him at his own game.

So instead of drowning in frustrated tears, I put everything into the here and now. I called the property owner, offering to get a jump on the hands on shit. He was more than happy to allow me to do the grunt work.

I worked my dick off. Well, if I had one, it'd be gone. That's kind of a weird idiom. Is that the right word? Whatever. Anyway, I busted my hump. Trying, no, determined to manifest the sale. I spent the rest of Monday adding touches and rerouting my rage into rolling long strips of neutral colors.

Not gonna lie, it got messy. And I'm also not going to lie and pretend I wasn't envisioning the tiny splatters of wet paint that dotted my face as his blood.