Newbie Read online

  Newbie

  Copyright © 2014 by Jo Noelle

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in print, scanned, electronic or audio means or other means without the prior written permission of the publisher: Little Box Press, LLC.

  First Edition

  Newbie is a fictional story. The events, names and characters are fictitious, and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Bret Henderson

  Interior Design: NovelNinjutsu.com

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  FIRST QUARTER

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fiteen

  SECOND QUARTER

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  THIRD QUARTER

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  FOURTH QUARTER

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Sample Chapter from Lexi’s Pathetic Fictional Love Life by Jo Noelle

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Lust. Someday it will be deep and abiding love, but today it’s just surfacey infatuation and need. I lust this car.

  I still feel like I’m cheating on Gustavo, my old Ford Focus. We had a good run together—college years, spring flings to St. Louis and Miami, weekend jaunts to Santa Fe, Phoenix and Vegas and struggling to start my career. Good times, but I think he’s been holding me back for the last year and a half.

  We’ve grown apart, and my goals have changed. I need a career car, and this car says success. This car says I can go as fast as I want. I feel liberated and sexy again. Maybe we could take a road trip to Seattle. I could open it up across Wyoming. No one else would know. It would be our little secret—our first secret together. Turning off Pike’s Peak Avenue into the parking lot, we park gracefully between an Escalade and Collin’s Hummer.

  Carla squeals when I walk into the reception area. “You have another new suit! Come here—let me see.” I’m just finishing a slow pirouette when I notice Gary, the super-agent, sales-contest-winner frequent flyer, the one person I will look in the eye when my winning total is announced this week, talking with a client in the next room. Even with the client’s back toward me, it’s not hard to imagine the rest of him just based on the fit of his shirt and the way his hair is strategically messy. I wish I had taken the call that brought Hot Client into this office.

  Behind me, I barely hear Carla. “Uh-hum, figured you’d notice him soon enough.”

  Although I’m only watching through the large window between the reception room and the conference room, my hands automatically smooth down my skirt, either to ease out the creases from sitting or to dry my palms. My pulse kicks up a bit when the men stand and move my way. As he rounds the corner, our eyes meet and he smiles, an easy but disarming smile. My breath stops momentarily—I could have a moment with that smile.

  “Sophie.” My boss’s voice rings out from the other side of the room.

  Hot Client is standing close enough that I reach out, his hand wrapping snuggly around mine. “Liam,” is all he says before Collin barks my name again. We have strict rules about moving in on each other’s clients in the office, which I get and totally agree with, but I’m not interested in him as a client. I’m interested in him.

  As if Gary senses my interest, he places his hand on the guy’s shoulder to guide him toward the door as I turn to acknowledge my boss. Behind me, I hear, “Well, Liam, this should close in two days. Everything is in order.” Then he practically shoves the guy out of the office.

  Before I can rush to my car…for…I don’t know—something I left out there and must have right now…Collin, our real estate broker and manager, steps from the hall into the reception room, walking toward us.

  Gary turns toward me like he’s smirking that I’m in trouble—juvenile—but I smile back thinking about our sales meeting today. Fine, keep your client to yourself, ‘cause I’m about to be announced as Top Agent of the Week. Not you, me, Sophie Kanakaredes. I’ll be modest, but when the total is announced, even Gary will be shamed that my sales dwarf his. Collin will make a big deal of me spinning the wheel for a prize. Ooh, maybe I’ll win the two-day ski vacation in Vale. Then he’ll dismiss the meeting, and I will walk the gauntlet with all the agents congratulating me.

  “Sophie. Office. Got a fax,” Collin says, pointing down the other hallway. “You can forget the $12,000 commission on the Boyd home.”

  “Oh, haha, Collin. You’re such a tease. You think I’m falling for that? I won the challenge for sales meeting this week.”

  “Bankrupt,” Collin says, handing me a piece of paper from an open file on his desk. He doesn’t look like he’s kidding.

  “Bankrupt?! What? What do you mean? Who’s bankrupt?”

  “Smythe-Adams Community Bank. Instead of sending funding instructions, they faxed this letter. Sorry, Sophie.”

  He missed something or misread it. I reach for the page and scan from the letterhead to the signature. What? I read it again, slower.

  Pikes Peak Title,

  Abstract & Escrow

  Dear Potential Customer,

  We regret to inform you that our funding capabilities have been suspended. Our warehouse line has been closed, and we will not be funding the Buchannan loan, #1004LP0395, with the closing dated June 28, 2007. We hope to be of service to you in the future.

  Residential Loan Department

  Smythe-Adams Community Bank

  “But Collin, the deal closed yesterday. The buyer signed. The sellers signed. Done deal.” I bought a car last week, wiping out my savings for the down payment. Gustavo was the trade-in. My eyes scan the fax again, “Not be funding…Buchannan loan.” Crap, crap, crap. I have to return the white Chloe handbag, those cute Michael Kors boots, my car—oh, my car! I haven’t even named him yet.

  “Collin, the owners moved out two days ago. What do I do now?”

  Taking the fax from my hands, he turns away and places the paper in a file. “Focus on the deals you have in your pipeline and pick up new listings. As for this deal, I heard from the other agent’s broker, and the title company sent them the same fax. Since the loan failed, make sure you get your buyer an earnest money release. Tough break, Sophie. Serve the clients in your pipeline and move on.”

  Collin shuts the door before I realize he walked me back into the hallway.

  During our sales meeting, my brain wrestles with the failed Buchannan home. It closed, the sellers signing mountains of paperwork transferring the home. The buyers signed even more to satisfy loan conditions. Since when does a business transaction close and not fund? And why would a bank send documents for a closing one day
, but file bankruptcy the next?

  At the end of the meeting, Collin announces Gary as the top sales agent for the week again (again!), with commissions totaling $3,100. Three thousand one hundred? That’s the winning total? What did he sell—a parking space? Usually, it’s more than ten times that amount. Gary spins for a prize. Ha, good—a coupon book of ten free car washes. The Vail vacation is still mine.

  June is over with the conclusion of the meeting—a new month inspires me to regroup my business. I spend a few minutes at my desk, taking inventory of my expected income. The Sherman condo is okay, as is the Davis home. The Perez home is still early days, and we don’t have a loan prequalification yet, but it should come soon. The Thomas lot is a sure thing—cash offer but not much commission there. And I turned in a full-price offer for the Wallace’s yesterday. That one’s a good commission. With those deals intact, my income will still hit around $9000 this month. I’ll be fine. Like Collin said, I just need to focus on serving the clients in the pipeline and pick up new listings.

  “Mina, it’s a Phish Food day,” I call out, trudging through the house to my bedroom. After throwing my purse on the floor and my keys on the nightstand, I return to the front room. My roommate, Mina, sits on the couch holding an extra spoon, digging Ben & Jerry’s from the carton. Her long, honey-blonde hair and thick fringe bangs fall forward as she digs. Mina is a creature of change. I love how she’s always starting a new project or job, effortlessly adapting to different situations and people. She has a degree in interior design and a minor in photography, and she does those on the side. Her everyday jobs are (though she hardly does them every day) a cross-country ski guide, the field coach at the high school (high jump, long jump—that sort of thing), and a property manager for one of her dad’s investment properties, a beautiful four-bedroom home, which we’ve lived in for the past four years. I rent two of the rooms—one for my bed and the other for an office.

  She’s mining a thick vein of marshmallow cream running down the middle of the tub when I collapse beside her. “Well, Soph, it’s not like I need an excuse for chocolate, caramel and dark chocolate fishies, but what happened?”

  I tell her the long, horrible story—okay it’s not long but it is horrible—as she shoves bite after bite of ice cream into her mouth. Her willowy figure never gains an ounce no matter how much junk we buy. Just as I begin to worry that I’m talking more than eating, Mina’s hand flies above her left eye. “Ow, brain freeze.”

  I snag a spoonful of marshmallow while her eyes are closed. A part of me hopes she won’t catch the inference—since I didn’t get paid, I can’t pay rent yet. Another part of me chews me out for being a lousy friend.

  Mina presses her thumb against the roof of her mouth for a moment to warm up her brain faster. “Tho, what are you goin’ to thoo?”

  Good question—what am I going to do? It doesn’t look like Mina is waiting for my answer. She’s quite occupied with tunneling out more marshmallow. After a long pause for more phishing, and serious avoidance behavior, I confess, “Mina, I won’t have the rent.”

  Licking her overturned spoon for a moment, she answers, “Um, ‘s okay. I’ll cover you until your next check comes. You’ve got other deals, right?”

  Yes, I’ll have other deals, but not until later in the month. How could I do this to Mina? She trusts me to hold up my end of the rental agreement. Not only am I withholding income for one bedroom in the rental, I have two. If I can’t pay, I’ll have to move. My eyes are tearing up, and I swallow hard to regain my voice. “Yeah, I do.”

  “It’ll be fine. Let’s look at your bills, and when we’re done, you’ll see—you don’t need to stress this.” Mina pulls out a notebook and turns to a fresh page.

  Oh, she means write it down, on paper, like make a real budget. It feels a little awkward, as if I’m a freshman in college just learning to manage money. I haven’t done this since my real estate career started making more than I spend. My casual stance toward accounting is sort of to watch my bank balance online and mentally keep track of the outstandings.

  After drawing a t-chart, her pen hovers above the page. “Income?” she asks, poising the pen above the left column.

  “Let’s see. Sherman’s commission will be about $1600, Davis’s $3800, the Perez home $3700, the Thomas lot $175, and the Wallace home about $9000. Oh wait. Scratch that one. It won’t close until August.”

  “Total income looks like $9275. Let’s do the expenses now.” She writes as I estimate. “You want $600 for eating out?” Mina squeaks.

  “I think that’s about what I spent last month.”

  “Let me ask this in a different way. Why do you need $600 a month for eating out?”

  “I have to network with clients, other agents, title company officers, and developers. We go out for lunch or dinner to talk about deals.”

  She looks at me as if there should be more to my explanation, but I don’t know what it would be. After a pause she nods, and we continue jotting down more expenses. “That total is about $3900.”

  “I feel a little better seeing it written down.” Okay, my income will still be more than my expenses. It’s bad now, but it will all be fine by the end of the month. “Thanks, Mina.” I can commit to a budget. I’ve done it before, in college. I can do it again until this little setback is over.

  Mina points at the two totals. “See, you’re fine. Your business is taking off now. You’ll build back your savings before the end of the year.” She looks into my face. “It will all be fine. Okay?”

  “Thanks, Mina. The Sherman house will close on July sixteenth. I’ll pay you back then. Promise.” I lean onto her shoulder, feeling relief, and give her a quick hug. “Here, you have this last fudgey fish.”

  The next week, I drive to the real estate office as an invited member of the advanced training cohort, Peak Performers. A binder with my name on it sits on the table beside Jenn, at the far end of the oval table in the conference room. Agents file in, and each seat is filled before Collin enters the room. I look around, noticing everyone invited has been a top weekly producer this year. Well, except me, and I was robbed.

  Collin begins. “Our purpose for Peak Performers is simple, increase sales by applying the basics.” We study the first chapter about converting FSBOs, for sale by owner, into listings by canvassing neighborhoods and contacting potential clients.

  We plan door approaches, then practice them with a partner by trading roles, trying to throw each other a curve. Finally, we make a video of our pitch to critique before lunch.

  At break, I grab a Diet Coke and check the messages on my cell phone. “This is an automated message from. . .” No, I don’t have time for an important political message. I punch the three on the keyboard with some passion and listen again. “Message deleted. Next message.”

  “Sophia, it’s Mom. Call me when you’re free. No, call me tonight. Talk to you later. Love ya.” She sounds happy. “Message deleted. Next message.”

  “This is a message for Sophia Kevel. . .Kere…well, this is Chris Sherman. I made an offer on a condo in The Heights. I just got the inspection report back showing termite infestation and damage, and I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want it fixed so I can buy it—we just don’t want it anymore. Call me and tell me how to get my earnest money back. You have my number. ‘Kay, bye.”

  What’s happening? How can this many deals drop dead at the same time? Mentally reviewing the budget from last night, I scratch out Sherman’s $1700. My stomach wrenches from just thinking about breaking my promise to pay Mina. “Message saved. Next message.”

  “Hi Soph.” It’s a message from Mina. “It’s my turn to cook tonight, but could you pick up chicken for dinner on your way home? The photo shoot for the Miller-Jackson engagement is running a bit long. They have a nightmare Pomeranian who escapes after shots to nip at my sandals, so I won’t have time to cook for us. Thanks, ciao.” I push the button. “Message deleted. There are no more messages.” Our break is over at the same
time as my last phone message.

  On the way home, I pick up a rotisserie chicken and some potato logs from the deli, a twelve-pack of Diet Coke, three packs of peppermint gum and another tub of Phish Food, which I drop on the kitchen counter to dig in my purse for my ringing phone.

  I check the caller ID and take a calming breath. “Hello, this is Sophia.”

  “Hello, Sophia. It’s Mrs. Davis.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Davis. How can I help you?”

  There’s a long pause. With the kind of day I’ve had, my mind quickly reviews real estate law. Be tough Sophie—they signed a contract. If they back out, they still owe me the commission. I’ve lost enough today. I square my shoulders and my stance.

  She cuts off a sob, then quietly says, “Sophia, my husband and I are divorcing.” Another long pause. My squared shoulders slump a bit. “This house was going to be a place where we could start over, but it’s not working out that way. I’m going to quit my job and move back to Nebraska to be close to family. Our loan officer said we wouldn’t qualify for the loan when I do. I’m sorry.”

  How do I respond? She’s getting a divorce, moving to another state and starting over, and she’s telling me she’s sorry. My heart is breaking for her. With my elbows leaning against the counter, I swallow hard before I speak. “Oh, Anna, I’m glad you have family to help you through this. When your loan officer faxes me the denial letter, I’ll take care of the paperwork. You don’t need to worry about the contract; I’ll void it.”

  When I disconnect the call, I lean my head into my hands, letting it soak in, feeling my chest rise and fall with long slow breaths. Even when, or if, the last two purchases close, I won’t have enough money to pay my bills this month. I’m broke—this little thought feels like a stone dropping to the bottom of my stomach.

  I go home after the class, and tell Mina I’m a loser and can’t pay rent. I don’t know what else to say, and it’s quiet for way too long.

  “Don’t worry, Soph. I’ll cover it. Don’t pay me back for July—you’ve helped me loads of times. Maybe you should see what else there is, though. Real estate is pretty rocky right now.”