Reviews for DJ Jamison

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CamdenI shimmied my hips, which in turn shook my moneymaker.

Sadly, I wasn’t on the dance floor, swishing for attention. I was wiggling and jiggling to reach my phone, which was inconveniently positioned in the waistband of my briefs.

The phone rang — and vibrated — turning my shimmy into a spastic hop.

People stared. Though that might have been caused by the hot dog costume encasing me in a sweaty, straining mess rather than the bun action going on. (See what I did there? Bun action. Ha, ha. No, seriously. My life is a joke.)

The sidewalk baked under my feet, and the thick, humid heat of Kansas summer hung heavy in the air. A fan inside the costume kept me from heat stroke, but sweat still poured from my body. The phone slipped and slid against my skin, evading my grasp.

My shoulder twinged with pain, but I managed to pull the dang phone free.

“You’ve reached Camden Lewis,” I answered breathlessly.

With luck, I sounded at least a bit professional. I didn’t intend to be the hot dog in Dogs N Stuff’s marketing campaign a minute longer than necessary.

I had already launched my new venture, as a real estate agent, but business was a little slower getting off the ground than I’d hoped. And my safety net — i.e. my well-paid boyfriend, Austin — was no longer a viable option.

Thus, the humiliating, poorly paid work.

“You’re the real estate agent?”

“Yes!” I responded with a little too much excitement. Clearing my throat, I tried to rein myself in. “Yes, sir, I am. How might I help you today?”

“My name is Reid Bishop. I inherited the place on Ivy Lane, owned by my great-uncle, Robert Winters? Have you heard of it?”

Nope. “Yes, sir. Are you looking to sell then?”

Please please please!

“I am. I live out of state, and I have no idea what condition the property is in presently. I need an agent I can trust to go check out the place and advise me on any steps I need to take to prepare it for market. I will be coming to town in a week or two. I’m not sure of the timetable just yet.”

Score!

“I can absolutely help you with that, Mr. Bishop. There’s some paperwork to get the process started, even if you’re not ready to go on market. I could fax that to your office?”

A loud, nasally voice interrupted my surprise sales call.

“Cam! I’m not paying you to talk on the phone!”

Damn. Dogs N Stuff’s manager, Mike White, who thought supervising a fast-food restaurant made him hot shit, was crossing the street at a jog.

“Fax works. Should I give you the number now?” Reid Bishop asked, his deep baritone smooth ¬¬¬¬¬as coffee in my ear.

I could listen to that voice all day. But I didn’t have all day, or even all of a minute. Edging down the sidewalk, I put more distance between me and Mike while talking fast.

“Actually, Mr. Bishop, I’m driving. On my way to a showing. You know how it is, all work for us busy real estate agents! But if you want to text the info, I’d be happy to get everything started when I get back to the office.”

“Sure, sounds good. I normally do more homework and check reviews, but I’ve got my hands full.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Bishop. If you’re not satisfied with my work, you can withdraw the listing and work with another agent. There’s very little risk.”

“Well, you sound like you know what you’re talking about. Thank you.”

Yesss. Score 1 for the art of bullshitting.

“Thank you. Talk to you again soon, sir.”

I ended the call not a second too soon.

“Cam!” Mike bellowed as he grabbed my arm. “I pay you to work, not take calls. Hot dogs don’t have cell phones!”

I turned an irritated look on him. “Hot dogs don’t have legs. Do you want me to cut off my legs?”

“What? No—”

“It was an emergency call. It won’t happen again.”

God, please let it happen again.

If someone else called, maybe I’d finally have enough clients to leave the hot dog business.