The Landlord's Leverage
"Constance owns the brownstone where Marcus rents. When he falls behind on rent and offers to work it off, the arrangement becomes more personal than either expected."
The brownstone on Stuyvesant Ave has been in my family for three generations.
Four apartments, three tenants, and me on the top floor. I'm Constance Parker, fifty-four, retired school principal, accidental landlord since my mother passed.
Most tenants are easy.
Marcus Williams is not.
He moves into 2B in October.
Thirty-seven, just divorced, starting over. Good references, first and last up front. "I'll be quiet," he promises. "Just trying to get my life together."
Three months later, rent is late.
"Mr. Williams."
He opens the door looking like hell—unshaven, exhausted, wearing sweats that have seen better days.
"Ms. Parker. I know, I know. Can I have until Friday?"
"Friday was last week."
"I'm working on it. The divorce cleaned me out, and the freelance work is slow, and—" He stops. "I don't have excuses. I have problems."
I should start eviction proceedings.
That's what my lawyer would say. That's what my accountant would say.
But I look at this man—beaten down, trying—and I think of my nephew who spiraled after his divorce. Who almost didn't survive it.
"Can you fix things?"
"What kind of things?"
"The leak in 3A. The fence in the back. The list gets longer every month." I pull out my phone. "Work off what you owe. Until the freelance picks up."
He takes the deal.
Shows up the next morning with tools and determination. By noon, the 3A leak is fixed. By dinner, he's started on the fence.
"You're handy," I admit.
"Trade school before college." He wipes his forehead. "Pays off sometimes."
"Clearly."
The work arrangement continues.
He clears his debt, then keeps going—small repairs, painting, the maintenance I've been avoiding for years.
"You don't owe me anymore," I point out.
"I know." He continues sanding the bannister. "Consider it thanks. You could've kicked me out."
"Why didn't I?"
He stops. Looks at me. "I've been wondering the same thing."
The wondering becomes complicated.
I notice things I shouldn't—the way his shirts strain across his shoulders, the intensity when he works, the smile that's returned as he's healed.
"Ms. Parker—"
"Constance."
"Constance." He sets down his brush. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"Depends."
"Why isn't there a Mr. Parker?"
"There was." I lean against the doorframe. "He passed fifteen years ago. Heart attack."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago."
"And since then?"
"Since then I've been too busy being everyone's landlord and principal and neighbor to be anyone's partner." I shrug. "Life happens."
"Life stops happening if you let it."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're beautiful, and smart, and you saved my life when you didn't have to." He moves toward me. "And I've been working on this house for two months trying to work up the courage to tell you."
"Marcus—"
"I know. I'm your tenant. You're older than me. It's complicated."
"It's impossible."
"Is it?"
He kisses me in the hallway of my own brownstone.
Gentle but certain. His hands find my waist like they belong there.
"Tell me to stop," he whispers.
"I can't."
"Then don't."
We end up in my apartment.
Top floor, best light, the same bedroom where I've slept alone for fifteen years. He lays me on my own bed like I'm precious.
"I've wanted this since you didn't evict me," he admits.
"You wanted gratitude?"
"I wanted you." He kisses my neck. "The gratitude was just a bonus."
He undresses me slowly.
Takes his time with buttons and zippers, appreciating each curve revealed.
"Beautiful," he breathes.
"I'm old—"
"You're magnificent." He kisses my belly. "Let me show you."
His mouth on me is worship.
He works me until I'm gasping, until I'm crying his name, until I come harder than I have in years.
"There we go," he murmurs. "Now the real work begins."
"That wasn't the real work?"
"That was the preview." He positions himself. "Ready?"
He enters me slowly.
Fills spaces that have been empty too long. When he moves, I feel tears—not sadness, just release.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More than okay." I pull him closer. "Don't hold back."
"Never."
We make love in my bed until we're both exhausted.
Afterward, he holds me close.
"This changes things," I say.
"Does it?" He kisses my shoulder. "I'm still your tenant. You're still my landlord. We're just... more now."
"What kind of more?"
"The kind where I fix your house during the day and take you apart at night." He grins. "Best lease agreement I've ever had."
The arrangement continues.
He moves from 2B to my apartment by summer. The other tenants whisper, but we're too happy to care.
"People will say I seduced my way out of eviction," he warns.
"Let them." I curl against him. "They don't know anything."
"What do they know?"
"They know Ms. Parker finally smiles again." I kiss him. "And they know 2B is available."
The brownstone gets a new tenant.
The top floor gets a new rhythm.
And I get the one thing I thought I'd lost forever.
A partner.
In every sense.
Lease renewed. Indefinitely.