Read Online 04 - Shock and Awesome by Camilla Chafer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Camilla Chafer
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to get rid of us that easily. We want this apartment."
"I want it too."
"So... when are you all looking to move?" asked Rick, nervously looking from the Chics to me, his commission suddenly uncertain.
"Straightaway," the three of us chimed in unison. Except, obviously, none of us wanted to move in with each other. Well, Mr. Chic might have liked sharing with his wife and an extra, but I was pretty sure Mrs. Chic wouldn't want to share her closet with me. Also: no way.
"Okay, great." Rick beamed. "Let me get some details from both of you and, um, you," he nodded at me, like I was an afterthought, adding "and we'll proceed."
"So... what happens next?" I asked as he extracted clipboards from his leather shoulder bag and handed us one each.
"Well, we'll run your credit history and then the landlord will make a decision as to who gets the place. You can submit your offers at the end of the form."
Huh? What? Offers?
"We're clearly the best bet," said Mrs. Chic, grabbing the pen and squinting her eyes at the small type.
"Says who?" I gave her my best “Are you kidding me?” frown. After all, it wasn't a fair observation after knowing me for oh, five minutes.
"I know you from somewhere," said the husband again. His mouth wrinkled with thought as he tried to place me. He tapped one finger against his mouth and frowned.
"I really don't think so."
"Yeah, you do look kind of familiar," agreed Rick. Great, now the guys were ganging up on me too? On the plus side, maybe their familiarity would help me out.
"Maybe it's through my volunteer work," I lied. Everyone likes a volunteer, right? I was sure I volunteered at something. Sometime. Somewhere.
"No, that's not it," said Mr. Chic.
"Are you sure? I volunteer a lot." I nodded to Rick. Rick frowned. So much for giving myself a good reference.
"Nope." Mr. Chic shook his head. "Can't think of it yet, but it'll come to me."
Hopefully, I'd be at home with a lease agreement in my pocket by then because if I slept with him and forgot — although I was pretty sure that didn't happen — I wasn't sure it was a story I could confess to Lily. Also, fairly certain I'd never been into blondes of any shade, I was sure that couldn't be it. Not one hundred percent sure, but, you know, fairly certain.
"I know!" blurted Mrs. Chic, looking up, "You're the private investigator. I saw you in the newspaper!"
"Who? Me? No, I don't think so." I stepped back, shaking my head vigorously.
"Yes! It was you! You shoot people!"
"I do not!" Well, not often. Sometimes I just stab them, but only when my life is in danger, which justifies it just fine for me.
"That sounds dangerous," mused the realtor, edging away from me and closer to the Chics . "I think I've read about you. You were at that hotel convention. The one with all the weirdoes killing each other."
"I'm not dangerous," I assured him, with my best ditzy smile. Also, exaggeration. Much?
"She's really dangerous," Mrs. Chic insisted to no one in particular. She focused on the clipboard and began to scribble furiously, as if submitting the form first would definitely give her an edge. "Guns. Murderers. Snooping."
"I don't think the landlord will like that," Mr. Chic said, cottoning on to his wife's massive hints that I would not make a good tenant. He sidled next to the realtor, adding in a low voice, "I work in IT and my wife's a kindergarten teacher. Two very safe professions."
The realtor looked from me to them, clearly weighing up who was more likely to blow up the apartment and his commission. With a sinking heart, I realized I could not come out on top in the race for this
"I want it too."
"So... when are you all looking to move?" asked Rick, nervously looking from the Chics to me, his commission suddenly uncertain.
"Straightaway," the three of us chimed in unison. Except, obviously, none of us wanted to move in with each other. Well, Mr. Chic might have liked sharing with his wife and an extra, but I was pretty sure Mrs. Chic wouldn't want to share her closet with me. Also: no way.
"Okay, great." Rick beamed. "Let me get some details from both of you and, um, you," he nodded at me, like I was an afterthought, adding "and we'll proceed."
"So... what happens next?" I asked as he extracted clipboards from his leather shoulder bag and handed us one each.
"Well, we'll run your credit history and then the landlord will make a decision as to who gets the place. You can submit your offers at the end of the form."
Huh? What? Offers?
"We're clearly the best bet," said Mrs. Chic, grabbing the pen and squinting her eyes at the small type.
"Says who?" I gave her my best “Are you kidding me?” frown. After all, it wasn't a fair observation after knowing me for oh, five minutes.
"I know you from somewhere," said the husband again. His mouth wrinkled with thought as he tried to place me. He tapped one finger against his mouth and frowned.
"I really don't think so."
"Yeah, you do look kind of familiar," agreed Rick. Great, now the guys were ganging up on me too? On the plus side, maybe their familiarity would help me out.
"Maybe it's through my volunteer work," I lied. Everyone likes a volunteer, right? I was sure I volunteered at something. Sometime. Somewhere.
"No, that's not it," said Mr. Chic.
"Are you sure? I volunteer a lot." I nodded to Rick. Rick frowned. So much for giving myself a good reference.
"Nope." Mr. Chic shook his head. "Can't think of it yet, but it'll come to me."
Hopefully, I'd be at home with a lease agreement in my pocket by then because if I slept with him and forgot — although I was pretty sure that didn't happen — I wasn't sure it was a story I could confess to Lily. Also, fairly certain I'd never been into blondes of any shade, I was sure that couldn't be it. Not one hundred percent sure, but, you know, fairly certain.
"I know!" blurted Mrs. Chic, looking up, "You're the private investigator. I saw you in the newspaper!"
"Who? Me? No, I don't think so." I stepped back, shaking my head vigorously.
"Yes! It was you! You shoot people!"
"I do not!" Well, not often. Sometimes I just stab them, but only when my life is in danger, which justifies it just fine for me.
"That sounds dangerous," mused the realtor, edging away from me and closer to the Chics . "I think I've read about you. You were at that hotel convention. The one with all the weirdoes killing each other."
"I'm not dangerous," I assured him, with my best ditzy smile. Also, exaggeration. Much?
"She's really dangerous," Mrs. Chic insisted to no one in particular. She focused on the clipboard and began to scribble furiously, as if submitting the form first would definitely give her an edge. "Guns. Murderers. Snooping."
"I don't think the landlord will like that," Mr. Chic said, cottoning on to his wife's massive hints that I would not make a good tenant. He sidled next to the realtor, adding in a low voice, "I work in IT and my wife's a kindergarten teacher. Two very safe professions."
The realtor looked from me to them, clearly weighing up who was more likely to blow up the apartment and his commission. With a sinking heart, I realized I could not come out on top in the race for this
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