Don Bruns - Stuff to die for

“Maybe we should make her a partner?” I couldn’t believe James said it. He’d only had one beer.

“James, I would never partner with you on anything. Never. Not if you were the last job in the world.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Pretty girl like you might attract a lot of customers. Of course your attitude would turn ’em off.”

She gave him the finger.

“I’ll call you and let you know when,” I said.

Em got into her ’Bird and drove off, a slight squeal to the tires when she hit the open road.

“Let’s go up to Pep Boys and get a quart of oil. It seems to drink a little of that. Fifteen hundred dollars, pardner. So if we could do fifteen a day-”

“James, the girl in there-”

“Nancy. Part-time. Once in a while.”

“I never met her before.”

“You and me, Skip. We’re not cut out to be in long-term romances. At least not right now. Hell, we’ve got tomorrow to think about.” He reached up and raked his hair down, giving me a wide-eyed stare. “Dude, we are sucky boyfriends.”

“Ashton Kutcher, Dude, Where’s My Car?”

“Wow. One try. You got it.”

“Man, you are scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

I F YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE HOMES in the North Bay Road area, get on the Internet and find the Coldwell Banker Web site. They usually have some pictures of these $25,000,000 mansions. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like Jackie Fuentes’s house.

Emily led the way in her T-Bird past the North Bay Road mansions, past their heavy stone walls covered in ivy and bougainvillea, where we could catch glimpses through wrought iron gates of palatial estates of pink, yellow, and aqua stucco. Parked in circular driveways we could see gray Hummers and mint green Astin Martins, race yellow Porches and silver Volvos, like modern sculptures adding to the landscape of these waterfront properties. We stopped at the gate on La Gorce Circle and each of us had to show a photo ID. The uniformed guy came out and made us open the back of the truck. I don’t know what he thought he’d find, but he spent a good thirty seconds gazing at the empty bed. Then we drove down the pine-lined winding road, finally pulling in the service entrance at the rear of the sprawling home. Sprawling means probably 20,000 square feet. The house featured an eight-car garage and a pair of tennis courts immediately to its right.

“Come on around to the front. You won’t believe this.” Em grabbed my hand and James followed close behind.

We got to the far corner and she said, “Close your eyes.” I did, and she tugged me out front.

When I opened them, there was a long, deep blue, glistening pool of water that seemed to stretch out forever. The pool was lined with palm trees stretched out perfectly down the length of each side. A marble-tiled patio led up to the house where the porch was supported by eight massive pillars that appeared to be made from the same marble as the patio. Streaks of purple, green, and earth tones meandered in a swirling pattern through the elegantly shaped structure.

Four glass-topped tables sat on the porch, each with a pitcher and glasses as if a lemonade party were about to begin.

“Jesus.” I looked up and up at the towering home. Two and three stories high and about ten miles wide. I exaggerate, but at least ten different roof levels looked over the pool. There were angles upon more angles and orange-tiled rooflines that went every which way. I remembered our home, with the one angle where the garage met the house. Flashing was laid under the tiles so the water would run down into the gutter, but it leaked every time it rained, no matter how much caulking Dad put on it. If the angles on Jackie Fuentes’s house leaked the mansion would flood.

The white stucco gleamed, and through wide-open windows gauze curtains fluttered in a mild breeze.

“Come on, you’ve got to see this waterfront.” Emily took my hand again and pulled me down to the pool and beyond. I glanced over my shoulder and James was following along behind, looking in every direction, obviously as impressed as I was.

Fifty yards farther we were at the water’s edge. A sand beach that seemed to run forever stretched out on either side. Blue-green water lapped at the shore, and the soft sand felt so fluid under my feet I was tempted to take off my canvas Sebago shoes and run barefoot as far as I could. The three of us stood there, two of us simply awestruck by the view. No one said a word for sixty seconds. Finally, James opened his mouth.

“Dude.”

I know, on the surface it’s not the most expressive term, but it summed it up for the moment. Its deeper meaning was, “Have you ever seen anything this impressive in your life-other than that unbelievable house up there?”

That’s what’s nice about “Dude.” It’s just one word, but it conveys a whole lot more than just one word

“Hey, you guys.”

We turned around and there was this gorgeous little brunette, maybe five feet tall, in a black bikini bathing suit. She had a grin that almost stopped my looking any farther, but that would have been a shame because the rest was awesome.

Jackie Fuentes was put together like a Playboy model. Ample-sized breasts, the halter top barely covering her nipples, and a narrow waist with a diamond stud in the belly button. The thong that hugged her crotch let every feature show through. I’d never seen a woman who was completely shaved. There was no doubt about this one.

“Dude,” I said. I looked at James. He didn’t say anything this time.

“James, Skip, this is Jackie. Put your tongues back in your mouths.” Em gave us a stare.

Jackie Fuentes laughed. “Thank you so much for coming. I will be so glad when his things are out of the house.” She motioned to the mansion. “Follow me and I’ll show you where everything is.”

We would have followed her anywhere. So this was what trophy wives looked like. I couldn’t begin to imagine how beautiful and sexy the blond he’d left her for was. Em is one good-looking woman, but Jackie Fuentes was unbelievable. Maybe a little Latin and Italian and just plain gorgeous thrown in together.

Her cute, almost-naked butt led the way back to the house. She picked up a short robe from a chair by the pool and threw it around her shoulders. An attempt at decency, but the indecent part was already burned into my mind.

She opened the door and walked into the foyer. Marble tile continued from the porch and a huge living area spread out in all directions. I glanced up and saw the largest chandelier I’d ever seen in my life, even in a picture. Shining brass and hundreds of bulbs in a free-form fixture cast shadows below.

She escorted us down a wide hallway, carpeted like an expensive hotel. All right, the only expensive hotel I’d ever stayed in was when our high school swim team went up to Gainsville and I beat Fred Rea in the 100-meter breaststroke. But that was a pretty fancy hotel and this carpet reminded me of it.

“That’s the theater there.” We passed a room with five rows of seats and a large screen mounted on the wall. “And over there was,” she said the word in a chilly tone of voice, “his weight room. I hope you guys are up to moving his weights.”

James finally got his voice. I’d never seen him so awed. By the house, by the ocean view, and by Mrs. Jackie Fuentes. “Mrs. Fuentes, we’ll move whatever you have.”

She stopped and looked back at him, smiling a delicious smile. “It’s James?”

“It is.”

“And I’m Jackie. Not Mrs. Fuentes. I never want to be called Mrs. Fuentes again.”

“I never meant to offend you.”

“You’re cute, you know that?”

Em rolled her eyes.

At the end of the hall we entered a large room with boxes piled eight feet high. Clothing hung on wheeled aluminum racks, and in the far corner someone had set out his weights, a bench, and several barbells. I hadn’t lifted weights in six years. I’d like to think that I’m still in shape, but I don’t condition anymore, my diet isn’t exactly the best, and the number of beers consumed each week seems to increase at an alarming rate. What the hell, there were two of us. We could lift them.