Surreal Estate

Houses just want to be homes. These guys just want to be together.

Sasha Michaels is a psychic with an affinity for houses. And he’s homeless. Go figure. After months of sleeping rough, he stumbles upon an abandoned house, and the lonely place beckons him inside. He’s finally safe . . . until someone comes blundering in to his hideaway.

House-flipper Nick Cooper lost everything in the recession. Desperate to revive his business, he turns to a loan shark to fund his comeback project: flipping an abandoned house full of potential. But it turns out the house has an unexpected occupant.

Nick and Sasha make a deal: Sasha can stay in exchange for helping with the renovation. To both of their surprise, the closer they get to the loan shark’s due date, the stronger their feelings for each other grow. Problem is, Nick isn’t the only one with feelings for Sasha, and now the house doesn’t want to let Sasha go.

For Cassandra—I love you just the way you are.

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home

—John Howard Payne

About Surreal Estate

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Dear Reader

Acknowledgments

Also by Jesi Lea Ryan

About the Author

More like this

Fall

I wasn’t sleeping. No one really did when spending the night on a bench in a seedy park. Too easy to get mugged by a crackhead. Instead, I stared up at the starless Milwaukee night and lamented my lack of four walls and a roof. The three layers of clothes I wore warded off the autumn chill, but I worried what winter would bring. I could wander south like some of my brethren, but at the heart of it, I was a Wisconsin guy born and raised. This was my home, no matter how battered and bruised it left me.

Hey, kid, called a scratchy voice in the dark.

I sat up and saw Willie’s dark figure ambling toward me. The cold must’ve been bothering his trick knee, because he leaned a little too heavily on the shopping cart that contained all of his worldly belongings. He was old and mostly harmless, but I pulled my bag closer to me anyway. You couldn’t be too careful out here.

What’s up, Willie?

The old man sat down next to me on the bench, sending a waft of air, acrid with meth-sweat and filth, up around us. I switched to breathing through my mouth.

Saw you playing your guitar on the bridge today. From the looks of your case, I’d say you hauled in at least fifty bucks.

It had only been twenty-three, but it was always best to downplay any cash I might have . . . even if it was only Old Willie asking. It wasn’t that much, and I spent most of it on dinner.

Well, that’s too bad. I know a guy we could pick up a half gram of crystal from real cheap. Turn around and double our money easy. He gave me the side-eye, checking for my reaction. I forced myself not to clench my teeth as I replied.

No, thanks, man. I’m not into dealing. Besides, I don’t have that kind of cash. I did, but the last thing I was going to do was drop what I had into a half-cocked drug deal. Suddenly, I wanted to get out of here, away from the drug talk. I might be in dire straits, but I’d never turn to dealing. I’d seen the toll that shit could take on not just the user, but their families, their friends, everything they touched. A shiver rolled up my spine.

I stood, slinging my guitar case onto my back and lifting my bag. Nice seeing you, Willie, but it’s cold out here. I’m gonna see if I can find hot coffee or something.

Okay, kid. Try the gas station over on Twentieth Street. They should be open.

I gave him a pat on the shoulder and walked away. It took twenty paces before my nose cleared of his scent. I wasn’t the freshest either, but at least I made an effort.

It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. I crossed the little park heading to the street. A cop car drove past me a little too slowly; the second time I’d seen it that night. At best, the cop would tell me to be on my way. At worst . . . well, I didn’t want to deal with that. I wasn’t drunk or high or causing trouble, and I was so tired of people treating me like a criminal just because I was poor. I needed to get out of this place, with its heavy shadows watching me, and remind myself there was such a thing as normal in this world.

The tiny, no-name city park gave way to nearly empty streets as I cut through the parking lots of gas stations and Asian groceries. The worn concrete buildings and closed corner bars still displaying old Schlitz signs in the windows were echoes of a time when the city had teamed with blue-collar jobs and a hope for the future. No one could be hopeful on this street now.

I rounded the corner into a residential neighborhood lined with mature trees and pre–World War II family homes. It was the kind of neighborhood where parents worked jobs with uniforms and punched clocks, and they trusted their latchkey kids to hold the fort down until they could get home with their buckets of fast-food chicken for noshing on in front of the TV. In other words, a lot like the neighborhood I’d grown up in.

As I walked past the sleeping homes, a soft hum woke up the sixth sense in my mind. When I was young, I’d manifested psychic abilities, and walking down a neighborhood street had excited me. I had an affinity for homes . . . well, all buildings really. And in turn, they had an affinity for me. They always seemed to know I could hear them.

The best way I can describe my gift is that human emotions imprint on the places people live, work, and spend time. The structures absorb those emotions, and I can read them. Mostly, I only sense a low vibration of warmth, affection, sorrow . . . But if the vibrations are strong, well, other things happen.

My range isn’t wide, but in a populous neighborhood like this one, the vibes tend to mix together like an odd, harmonious chorus in my mind. Sometimes a place will resonate more strongly than the others, rising above as if in solo and calling out to me with its story.

As I neared the corner, a house with plastic toys lying in the yard beckoned me closer. I approached the porch steps and rested my hand on the railing, opening myself up to the energy of the wood beneath my palm. My breath hitched as the spirit of the house touched my soul and slowly filled me with its tenderness for the occupants inside.

In my opinion, contentment is a vastly underrated emotion. Happiness, true elation, is difficult to sustain long-term. You’d either cross over into mania or you’d get so used to the feeling that your internal benchmark would shift, making it seem ho-hum. Which is actually sad. Contentment, on the other hand, is like a long feeling of okay. A sigh for the soul. Things might not be perfect in your life, you might have a micromanager boss or a persistent ache in your back, but overall, your life is going swell. The bad moments won’t keep you down, and you retain your capacity for appreciating the good ones.

A light deep within the house came on. Someone getting up for an early shift or maybe just taking a piss. I adjusted the guitar on my back and continued down the street. I passed an elementary school and rounded another block. I was thinking of splurging on an Egg McMuffin when I felt it. A tug in my chest.

I turned to see what had pulled at me. Across a short expanse of overgrown yard was a large, stately colonial. Thick vines climbed the brick and clung to the mortar, giving the home an ominous quality in the darkness. But the sense coming from it didn’t feel dangerous, only abandoned. The house called to me with a mixture of loneliness and desperation. I held my hand out, letting the cool vibrations roll over my skin.

Come inside.

I strode up the walk, unable to ignore the call. The neglect made my body feel hollow. The windows on the lower level were mostly boarded over with plywood. A niggling sense of heaviness on my left arm steered me, causing me to skirt the porch and go around the side instead. There, the vines climbed over the windows and choked the gutters. I reached the backyard with its foot-long grass and giant bushes that blocked the rest of the neighborhood from view. It wasn’t four walls and a roof, but the privacy of the backyard lent a feeling of safety that I’d rarely experienced since taking to the streets.

Come inside.

I stepped up onto the rear porch and the nearly rotten wood gave way slightly to my weight. I opened the rusty screen door and tried the knob on the inner door. Locked tight.

Come inside.

How? I might be able to play almost any instrument set in front of me, but picking locks was not in my repertoire. I could track down Five Finger Felix (not his real name, but he answered to it) and ask him to come back tonight to help me break in, but no. If he knew there was a big, vacant home over here, he’d have it overrun with squatters by the end of the week. No one ever accused Felix of being discreet.

My side felt tingly and weighted again. I let the house steer me where it wanted me to go, stepping off the porch and rounding to the left side.

Come inside.

The heaviness vanished, and I stopped. I glanced down at a small basement window, and then bent to get a closer look. It was tough to see with the dark shadows cast from the lilac bushes, but a barely perceptible, otherworldly haze around the window forced my eyes to focus on it. There was no glass in the rotting frame, only a sheet of heavy black plastic. I pushed on the sheet. It came away easily, the adhesive on the old tape long dried out.

I slipped the guitar off my back and set it on the ground next to my pack. I was thin enough to have no problem fitting through the tight space, but was it such a good idea to venture in? No telling what hid in the black void of the basement.

Come. Inside.

I couldn’t turn my back on the house now. Bad idea or not, it needed me.

I wiggled out of my jacket, not believing I was doing this. Breaking and entering wasn’t my style. Then feetfirst, I sank down on my butt and scooched forward. I sat there for a moment, legs dangling inside, unable to sense the bottom of the black abyss. Then, with a deep breath, I steeled my nerves and dropped in.

Spring

This place is a real shithole.

I cuffed my brother lightly on the side of the head. Shut it, Damey. She’s got good bones. And if all you’re going to do is bitch, you can walk your ass back home.

My excited fingers fumbled with the rusty door lock, while Damien picked at the peeling paint on the crumbling porch railing.

These vines are going to be a bitch to scrape off.

Yeah, it’s not going to be fun, but I can’t have the place looking like the Addams family lives here.

Steven’s gonna be pissed that you bought this place without him. What’s the point of having a brother for a realtor if you aren’t going to use him to take care of these things for you?

The bank auction was today, and Steven’s still in South Beach trying to recapture his youth with the Spring Breakers. I didn’t have time to wait.

Why the hurry? Didn’t think you’d even want to get back into house flipping after what happened before.

The market’s recovered.

But has your bank account?

I ignored the question and pushed open the door of the early 1900s colonial. A waft of musty, stale air and dust motes greeted me. The last rays of the setting sun slanted through the dirty windows, illuminating original hardwood floors and a hand-carved mantel piece. The place was more beautiful than I’d hoped, and my face split into a huge grin.

Look at this! I said, practically bouncing over to the mantel to trace the intricate scrollwork. They don’t make things like this anymore. A little scrubbing and staining, and it’ll be good as new.

Damien kicked at one of the fallen bricks from the fireplace’s facing. Yeah, it’s great.

I’ll have to put a gas insert in. Buyers don’t like dealing with the maintenance of wood-burning fireplaces. Come on! Let’s find the kitchen.

A set of French doors separated the living room from the dining room. Most of the glass panes were broken, but the wood was in great shape. Check these out! They just need some new glass and stain. Don’t think I’ll keep them here though. This wall has to go to create an open-floor plan. But wouldn’t they be nice in the master? I could use them to separate the sitting area from the sleeping area.

We haven’t even been upstairs yet, and you’re making plans for the master bedroom? How do you know it has a separate sitting area?

This place is huge. If it doesn’t already have one, I’ll make one. Use your vision, Damey! Don’t you see the potential here?

Potential for bankruptcy . . . he muttered.

I pretended not to hear him, my mind spinning with renovation plans as I assessed the home’s condition. Damien sneered at the cracked plaster, obviously wondering how his broke-ass brother planned to pay for the repairs. None of his fucking business.

We came to an abrupt halt in the kitchen doorway. All the air in my lungs expelled in a long whistle.

Damn, Nick. That’s not good. Damien groaned.

The ugly remains of a seventies remodel gone wrong was bad enough. The property had been abandoned for several years, so I’d known I’d have to update the place. But the layer of green mold coating the walls, ceiling, and the cabinets was thick enough to mow.

Either a roof leak or a busted pipe somewhere upstairs, I speculated, stepping forward to see if I could spot where the moisture was coming from. I’ll have to get the mold remediation guy out in the morning to test and make sure it’s not toxic, but I don’t see any black mold, so we should be okay.

Damien pulled the edge of his T-shirt up over his mouth. I’m outta here, man. I’m allergic to that shit. See ya at Mom’s Sunday.

Wimp.

Damien waved his middle finger behind himself as he strode out.

I was glad he’d bailed. Hadn’t wanted him to come in the first place, but since he lived right around the corner, I couldn’t exactly have hidden the fact that I’d purchased the abandoned property. Especially once he saw my Cooper Remodeling truck parked in front. The nosy bastard hadn’t even stopped to tie his shoes before he’d come running over. Ten bucks said he’d call Steven within five minutes to tattle on me.

I reached down to switch off my phone. The last thing I needed right now was another brother lecturing me, even if it was out of concern. I wanted time to revel in this amazing house that I’d gotten for a steal.

I let my eyes unfocus a little so I could see past the furry mold and peeling linoleum. The room was huge! I could add an island and still have space for a nice breakfast nook by the large, southern-facing windows. New quartz countertops and dark-stained cabinets, and it’d be perfect.

Off the kitchen was a decent-sized bathroom with hookups for a washer and dryer. Good. An old house like this might have one of those creepy basements with only the rock foundation for walls and home to a thousand spiders. Potential buyers would hate having to drag their laundry all the way down there. A nice laundry area would give me an advantage in selling the house for a profit.

I was about to seek out the basement when a shuffling noise came from upstairs. I paused to listen. Squirrels? It was common for the rodents to nest in the attics of older homes. The yard had several overgrown trees with branches close enough to the roofline to make that possible.

The shuffle noise sounded again, this time accompanied by the soft creak of a floor board.

Could someone be in the house? No way. I’d walked around the foreclosed property and peered in as many windows as I could before making a bid on it. The place had been locked up tight. Must be an animal. Probably a bastard raccoon. I was halfway up the stairs to investigate before I remembered the crowbar I’d left in the back of the truck.

Whatever you are, fucker, you better not have rabies, I called out, hoping the sound of my voice would scare it off.

I reached the top of the steps and peered into the first bedroom. Nothing but yellowing wallpaper.

Then I pivoted toward the next room and came face-to-face with a man.

Holy shit! I leaped back and raised my fists.

The stranger lifted his hands as if surrendering to the police. I don’t have rabies.

Who are you? I yelled, still trying to catch my breath. Why are you in my house?

Sorry. I didn’t think anyone owned the place.

Without taking my attention off the guy, I did a quick scan of the room beyond. It was obvious from the layers of sleeping bags in the corner, stacks of clothes, and neatly arranged personal items that he’d been squatting here for a while.

You armed?

The guy’s eyes widened, and he dropped his hands. No! I have a few plastic knifes over there next to the peanut butter jar, but that’s it. I swear.

Sure as shit, the guy had the makings for sandwiches sitting on a box in the corner.

I eyed the squatter. He was young. Early twenties maybe? Just a kid. He was as tall as me, but thin. I had thirty pounds of muscle on the guy easy. The tension in my neck eased. If he wasn’t armed, the kid was no threat.

Look, I’ll go. I just . . . Let me get my stuff. He ran his hand through the nest of dark hair and narrowed his eyes at his belongings. No way would he be able to carry it all with him unless he had a car.

How’d you get in here? The question came out harsh with the adrenaline still coursing through my system.

Uh, basement window, he said absently, as he slipped into a pair of worn combat boots. The first time anyway. Now I come in through the balcony.

A small balcony at the back of the room looked out on the backyard. The overgrown trees were just right for hiding an intruder from the sight of neighbors, not that there were many neighbors who could see this side of the house. The old Milwaukee neighborhood backed up to a wooded city park. The privacy of the backyard was one of the home’s selling points.

The squatter snatched a large pack from somewhere and began jamming clothes into it. He’d need at least three of those bags for all his stuff.

Not sure what to do with myself, and unwilling to turn my back on him just yet, I studied him. His hair was overgrown and bushy and knotted with curls, and his face hadn’t seen a razor in a while, but he appeared clean enough. The water was shut off in the house, so he must be getting regular showers somewhere else. His face was pale, and he had to keep pushing that hair out of his eyes so he could see what he was doing. Shit, he looked nervous, maybe even scared. I’d seen his type before. Guys who were down on their luck and had few, if any, options. Back when my company was flipping houses all the time, I used to hire guys like this, day laborers, to assist on jobs. As long as they were sober, I’d been happy to throw some work their way.

Hold up. I sighed. When the guy didn’t