My my, how the tide changes when fuckers learn to not be such snobs.
Brooklyn used to be borough non grata with Remy a couple years ago when he thought it was all hipsters and young twentysomethings, and now it’s one of his favorite parts of the city. It also just so happens to be the one area where I hold a lot of rental properties. I dove into this real estate market about fifteen years ago, when everything was just on the cusp of booming but you could still buy properties for relatively low prices. As a result, I got a leg up on a lot of the revitalization crowd, and my properties generate a substantial portion of my income.
“What have you been up to anyway?” he asks. “I feel like I haven’t talked to you since Vegas. Hell, I feel like I didn’t talk to you all that much in Vegas.”
Oh, you know, just sending in immigration applications for my wife—that you don’t know about—and making arrangements for her to move to New York so we can keep up our relationship fa?ade for the big interview in a few months…
“You were all too drunk in Vegas to talk clearly to anyone.” I shrug and make a point to change the topic of conversation to something that doesn’t make me have to lie to my brother. “How’s the market looking these days?”
“The market?” Rem looks up from the fresh plate of burger and fries the waitress just dropped off at our table, and his face turns amused. “Oh, so this lunch had stipulations.”
“Not stipulations,” I correct. “Multiple motivations.”
Rem laughs. “I should’ve known when you of all people suggested lunch, there was more to the story than shooting the shit.”
He’s not exactly wrong. Out of all of our siblings, I’m the least likely to make plans for lunch just to catch up. And it’s not because I don’t like spending time with my brothers and sister—I do. They’re my favorite people I know, actually. I just fucking hate small talk.
“I take it you’ve got some profits you’re wanting to dump?” he asks around a bite of French fries.
“Possibly.”
“How much are we talking?”
I pull my cell out of my pocket and shoot my accountant a quick message.
Me: What’s our excess for 2nd quarter?
He gets back to me pretty quickly.
Allen: $500,000.
I meet Rem’s eyes. “A decent amount.”
He sighs. “A decent amount can be anything, you fuck. How many figures we talking? Four, five, six?”
“Six.”
“Damn, bro. I should’ve invested in real estate when you told me to.”
I grin, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t think I’d dump it all in the market right now,” he says, switching from teasing brother to sage investor. If anyone knows the stock market, it’s Rem. “How much risk do you want to take with it?”
I shrug. “Moderate.”
“All right, I’ll look at a few things and email you some options I think will give the most return on your money,” he updates, but then he pauses, meets my eyes for a long moment, and laughs. “And to think, you went through all that college to become an engineer, and here you are…asking me about fucking stocks.”
“I still do engineer shit.”
“When exactly?”
“Whenever I go to my office.”
He laughs. “So, almost never.”
I just shrug and take a bite of my burger. He can think what he wants about my work life. I don’t really give a shit.
Truth be told, for the past six years, my passive income from real estate and investments has made it so I don’t have to work full time as an engineer, but I spent so much time building the company that it aggravates me too much when I think about walking away from it all. As long as I’m able, I’ll keep doing both.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to find three new messages from Daisy. The first two are pictures of a lamp and a couch, followed by What about these? Should I bring them?
We’ve been playing this game for the past forty-eight hours, and I know it at least started as a way for her to breach the text message barrier formed by where we left off—with me telling her to use her fingers like my cock to stroke herself.
Her sending me pictures of random things in her apartment and me telling her she doesn’t need to bring them is a way to keep the lines of communication and evidentiary support for USCIS open and flowing without having to address the dripping wet pussy in the room.
Me: No.
Daisy: Are you sure? Because I could easily hire movers to transport from LA to New York…