~ Chapter 11 ~
By les16
Based on Good vs. Evil and Destiny
I throw my head down and bang it over and over again on my desk.
It's hopeless, utterly and completely hopeless.
I'm never going to find the Evil-Goods a house. Visions of my Adam and Eve order go up in smoke. God damn it, I really wanted that new Rabbit, too. I can't help but cringe when the curse word slips out and immediately I'm looking around, sure that Mrs. Evil-Good is hovering around somewhere ready to add another sin to my ever-growing list.
She's a real pain in the ass about taking the Lord's name in vain for some reason.
Such a weirdo.
Deciding that the universe really fucking owes me for having to deal with the Evil-Goods, I click the mouse one more time and bring up the MLS page and like manna from Heaven, there on my screen is the house. A brand new listing that I hope is the answer to all of my prayers. A huge three-story house set far back in the woods. No neighbors. Plenty of bedrooms for all the little devils err … angels. A rose garden, lots of natural light. It seems perfect.
It better be.
I really need that order from Adam and Eve.
Fucking finally.
I quickly print out all the details and put them in a new folder. This has to be the one. Has. To. I can't take much more of this. I mean, even the Devil himself couldn't stand much more of the duo from Hell. I call the number listed for the owners and am thrilled to find I'm the first one to call. The man that answers enthusiastically agrees to a showing in just an hour so I make a call to my clients who say they can meet me at the office right away. Folder in hand along with the ever-present little black box, I walk out of my office and out the front door of Ellipsis Real Estate to wait for Mr. Hottie and his goody-two-shoes wife.
"So, you have a good feeling about this one, do you, KK?" Mr. Sexy as Hell asks from the back seat of the Suburban as we drive toward the outskirts of town.
Mrs. Evil-Good hasn't so much as looked in my direction this morning, not that I mind, it's just odd. Usually she's so loving toward everyone. Of course it probably doesn't help that I keep imagining her husband laying me out on my desk and fucking me until I can't walk every day.
She sighs but doesn't look up from the magazine she's flipping through on her lap. I get a slight chill and shake my head, positive she knows what I just thought, but unsure how she could possibly know.
"Awww, babe, don't be like that," Mr. Evil-Good coos into her ear. His forked tongue flicks out and he licks up the side of her neck.
Jesus H. Christ.
"Actually I don't have a middle name if you don't mind," she says primly and when she looks up, I gulp audibly.
Please let this be the house. I can't take much more of this.
The Mrs. snorts, Mr. smirks and I feel like I'm Noah when he was building the ark, just wanting to get the hell out of Dodge.
"Well, now, let me tell you about this house," I say in as sweet a voice as I can muster, ignoring the fact that my panties are uncomfortably wet. I go on and list all of the amenities that I remember seeing on the web page and give myself a silent fist bump when neither has any negative comments.
I totally ignore the little black box in the passenger seat beside me.
That Adam and Eve order is looking better and better.
We turn off the main road and bump along a long, winding driveway. So far so good, I think. We continue on and I hear snippets of conversation from the back.
"I don't know, babe, Father said we'd discuss it later."
"But, Bella," he says huskily and I swear his voice is like sin.
Mrs. Evil-Good raises an eyebrow and then says, "Well, I don't know about sin, but it's sure Heavenly."
The two giggle with their heads bent close together and I turn my attention back toward the maneuvering the car the rest of the way up the driveway.
"Oh my," I gasp, when the house comes into view.
It's gorgeous.
It has to be the one.
We all exit the car, me with the ever-trusty black box in hand, and make our way to the front door where I press the doorbell. I can hear a man, whose voice rivals Mr. Evil-Good's in the 'making panties wet in under five seconds department', tell someone, presumably his wife, that he'll answer the door.
When the door opens, I blink. Then blink again. Then once more, positive that the vision in front of me can't be real. He can't be real. Perfectly pale white skin, with not one blemish, not one freckle or scar or even a wrinkle anywhere that I can see. Hair that looks like someone, likely his very blessed wife, has spent hours running their fingers through. Eyes that aren't any color I've ever seen before and lips that are so perfectly proportioned God himself couldn't have made them any better.
"Oh I don't know about that, Ms. Komma, you'd be surprised at what Father can do if He sets his mind to it," Mrs. Evil-Good says beside me and shakes me from my lust-addled fog.
"Oh! Oh! I apologize! I'm Katherine Komma with Ellipsis Realty. Thank you so much for letting us stop by on such short notice! These are my clients, Mr. and Mrs. Evil-Good."
"It's no problem. My name's Edward Cullen and my wife," he stops mid-sentence and tilts his head to the side as if he hears something. I try to listen but hear nothing. "Excuse me." He grins, flashing teeth that look almost like fangs but then his mouth closes so fast, I'm sure I imagined it. "Ms. Komma, feel free to show them anything they'd like to see, I uh ..." His eyes darken and I swear I hear him growl. "Just let me know what your clients decide. I have to go."
And in a flash he's gone, like he wasn't even here. I can't even hear footsteps.
Shrugging my shoulders, I turn back to the Evil-Goods, ready to use every trick in the book to sell this house.
The bottom level is picture perfect. Huge kitchen with top of the line appliances that look brand new. A wide open living room with floor to ceiling windows lining one whole wall. A study, a formal dining room. It's all beautiful. It's almost like no one lives down here.
We move up to the second level, climbing the stairs. When we're about halfway up I hear something that sounds like a tree crashing down to the ground followed by the tinkling of bells.
Bells?
Weird.
The first two doors we look in are spare bedrooms that look like they haven't had a visitor in years. Years and years and years. Things still look promising. Both Mr. and Mrs. Evil-Good have smiles on their faces and they haven't complained once.
The little black box sits in my pocket, and I can practically hear it whisper, "Don't get cocky, KK."
Mr. Evil-Good snickers behind me, and I wonder if he speaks little black box.
"Let's see what this room is," I murmur, as I open the door at the end of the hall.
"Oh, Father!" Mrs. Evil-Good shrieks when we enter the room.
"What in the Hell is that?" Mr. Hottie hollers and his wife slaps him on the arm.
"Watch it, Mister," she warns.
I stare at the floor, gaping at what's in front of us. "Is that? That looks like … but how?"
"That's the outline of a body. Believe me, I've seen plenty in my time, and that," Mr. Evil-Good points, "is most definitely the shape of a body. Funny, it doesn't feel like anyone I know has been in here."
"Yes, well, I've seen all I need to see. Come along, dear, you can thank your Father for yet another wasted trip."
Click. Click. Click.
"Jesus Christ," Mr. Evil-Good mumbles, and his wife stops in front of him.
"Bella, honey. Try not to forget it again, hmmm? You know what happens when I'm unhappy."
He shudders and then grins at her, waggling his eyebrows. "Oh, I've been a bad, bad boy, baby. I think I need to repent."
"You." She huffs, but she definitely does not look mad.
Turned-on yes, but definitely not mad.
No, mad would be me.
Fucking hell.
I really wanted that Rabbit, too.
And then as we walk outside, the nail in the coffin as Mr. Evil-Good glances toward the detached garage, which is really a large metal building. "Besides, look at that, babe. Anyone could stand in those trees and watch you while you were outside. Damn perverted creepers. No one's going to watch my wife but me."
As we climb into the Suburban, my fingers are clicking the little black box so fast, it's a wonder the damn thing doesn't crack.
.
.
.