Chapter 2: My Shot at the Table

I had the inside scoop on a low-priced seller. This guy had bought into a celebrity barbecue chain, took the city franchise, and opened three restaurants at once. Everyone knows how expensive it is to get into a celebrity restaurant chain—he put in $700,000 for three locations.

This wasn’t just some guy off the street. He’d bought into one of those celebrity chef barbecue places that make the local news, and he didn’t do it halfway—he grabbed the franchise for the whole city, opened three spots in a single year. Just the buy-in alone was more money than I’d see in a decade.

Then the pandemic hit, lockdowns everywhere, and his business was about to go under. When things finally reopened, he could work again but had no cash flow. After all that investment, now that the lockdown was finally over, how could he just let $700,000 go up in smoke?

COVID hit and everything went dark—no customers, no cash, rent piling up every month. By the time the city opened back up, the guy was drowning. But you don’t just walk away from three restaurants after putting your whole life on the line. I could see the desperation in his eyes—he’d rather sell an arm than lose it all.

So he wanted to sell an old apartment he owned. It was old, but in a top school district—eligible for Lincoln Elementary. Even though it didn’t have an elevator, the appraisal was $300,000.

That’s the thing about the Midwest: you can still find old brick walk-ups in a good school district. This one was nothing fancy—no elevator, a little run-down—but if you had kids, you’d kill for an address zoned to Lincoln Elementary. The appraisal came in at three hundred grand, which is big money for a small town like ours.

He asked me how much he could get if he wanted to sell immediately. I told him straight: the pandemic wrecked a lot of people, and cash is tight. If he really wanted to sell fast, he’d have to list it for $200,000, and he’d get full payment in a few days.

He looked at me, bags under his eyes, and just asked, ‘How much, if I want it gone yesterday?’ I didn’t sugarcoat it. I told him two hundred K, cash, and he could be free by Friday. He didn’t even blink—just nodded. That’s the power of desperation.

He agreed. The stress of the business was driving him insane.

He signed the listing paperwork with hands that couldn’t stop shaking. He didn’t care about market value or playing hardball—he just wanted out. For a second, I felt bad for him. Then I remembered what was at stake for me.

I could barely keep my hands steady. This was it—my shot. I called up my best friend, Mikey, who always seemed to have a little cash lying around from some side hustle or another. We hashed out a deal: his money, my know-how. The deed would go in his name to make things smoother, and we’d split the profits—sixty-forty, him taking the lion’s share, but I was just happy to be at the table.

Trust is a funny thing. I’d heard stories—guys getting cut out the second the ink dries. But Mikey and I, we go way back, high school football, beer runs at Sheetz, all of it. If I couldn’t trust him, who could I trust?

We went together to buy the house, put it in his name. Then I asked the branch manager if he could help connect us with the mortgage company for my buddy’s new house. The manager was surprised—he’s the most ruthless flipper in our office, probably didn’t expect someone like me to play this game.

Walking into the branch office, I could feel the stares. Everyone knew Mikey was the real deal—he’d flipped more houses than I’d sold in my whole career. The manager, Mr. Olson, was a legend for cutting deals and making things happen. When I asked for his help with the mortgage company, he raised an eyebrow. Maybe he saw a little of himself in me that day—or maybe he just smelled the money.

Olson smiled, slipped me a business card, and made a couple of calls. In this business, a good bottle of bourbon or a prepaid Visa card goes a long way. Everyone knows the drill—nobody talks, and the wheels keep turning.

It’s all smoke and mirrors. Make a few payments, keep up appearances, and by the time anyone gets wise, you’re already clear. Mikey didn’t even hesitate—he was in, all the way.

With all the connections set up, the paperwork went to mortgage company headquarters for approval, and the loan was approved. After deducting all the connection fees and giving the manager a gift card, I made $35,000, and my buddy got $55,000.

We greased every palm along the way—everyone got their cut. When the wire hit, I stared at my bank app for a full minute, barely believing the numbers were real. I almost dropped my phone. For the first time in years, I ordered a ribeye instead of the cheapest burger on the menu. Thirty-five grand, just like that. Mikey walked away with fifty-five, a new record even for him.

I had it easy: money in the bank, nothing to do but keep my head down. Mikey had to wait out six months, sweating the mortgage, but everyone knew he’d walk away clean in the end. It felt like we’d cracked the code.

Damn…

I made $35,000 in a month.

I stared at my phone, thumb hovering over the screen, wondering who I should tell first. I’d never made that kind of money so fast—legally, anyway. I treated myself to a steak dinner that night, sitting alone in a booth, watching families with kids laugh and not caring for once that I didn’t belong.

Most people think flipping is about buying a whole block, raising rents, screwing over the little guy. But the real game is speed—how fast you can flip, how quickly you can move the money before anyone catches up. The tricks, the loopholes, the rush of watching zeroes stack up—it’s like nothing else.

Mikey and I, we hugged right there in the parking lot, both of us sweaty-palmed and wide-eyed. I thought about the first time I ever held a hundred-dollar bill—this was a thousand times that. My chest hurt from holding my breath, my hands ached from clenching the steering wheel so hard on the way home.

It’s true what they say—money doesn’t change people, it just shows you who they are. I could feel myself already plotting the next deal, the next shortcut. I wasn’t sleeping, just lying awake staring at the ceiling, heart racing, mind spinning.

Some nights, I’d scroll through the MLS app, looking for the next poor soul with a for-sale-by-owner listing and a desperate price tag. The world felt upside-down—guys like me getting rich off other people’s bad luck. I told myself it was just the way things worked, but it never really sat right.

A hundred grand sounds like a fortune, until you realize you’re still just a small fish. The real whales drop that kind of cash on a new kitchen remodel. If you want to play with the big boys, you need more—much more. No loans, no partners, just stacks of green.

But then came a big opportunity.

I didn’t sleep for two nights straight, waiting for the next big one. When it came, it felt like fate knocking at my door, loud enough to shake me awake.

Nobody with real sense buys a McMansion. The smart money goes for condos in a hot school district with a view, the kind of place everyone wants and nobody can afford. This one was massive—over two thousand square feet, full river view, walk to the best schools in town. The owner pulled up in a Porsche, gold watch glinting, all swagger and no worry. But I’ve learned: the flashier the car, the bigger the debt.

We’d seen it all before—guys with high-end SUVs and empty bank accounts. I just needed to make sure the title was clean, the taxes paid up, and I didn’t care if he owed money to every bookie in Ohio.

It was a fire sale: six hundred grand, no contingencies, no time to blink. That’s a tall order for most, but if you could scrape the cash together, it was a goldmine. I ran the numbers in my head, knew it could work—if, and only if, we moved lightning fast.

Mikey’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. He started texting his sister and buddies before I even finished the pitch. The guy’s a born gambler.

Between my money, Mikey’s, and what we could scrounge from the couch cushions, we were still two hundred K short. No bank was going to float us that fast—not on a handshake.

Mikey grinned, told me his sister, Jenny, had been saving up and wanted a piece of the action. The plan: put the deed in Jenny’s name, with Mikey as her backup. It felt risky, but what choice did I have?

I raised an eyebrow, called him out. Everyone in our circle knew Mikey was mortgaged to the hilt. One wrong step, and he’d be living out of his Jeep.

He got flustered, swore on his life that he’d never let me get burned. The split changed—thirty percent for me, fifty for him, and twenty for Jenny. It stung a little, but it was still real money.

Sixty grand. That’s more than my wife’s whole yearly salary. That’s new shoes for my kid, a working car, maybe even a real vacation. It’s enough to make anyone desperate.

One good flip, and I’d have the seed money to do it all solo. No more middlemen, no more partners taking the lion’s share. I was ready to risk it all.

We barely looked at each other before shaking hands. It was set. Jenny would buy it, Mikey would sign as backup, and I’d do all the legwork. I didn’t even stop to think—just wanted in.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I ignored it the first time. But then it kept buzzing. My gut told me something was wrong, but I pushed it down, told myself it could wait. I was wrong.

When I picked up, her voice was ice-cold. She asked where I was and told me to come home right now.

She never talks to me like that—voice flat as a frozen lake. I could hear the panic in her words, the anger boiling underneath. My hands started to sweat.

The minute I tried to brush her off, she broke down, her words tumbling out between sobs. I’d never heard her cry like that before—not even when her dad died.

I could hear my in-laws shouting in the background, the baby crying. I told her I’d be home as soon as I could. Meanwhile, I flagged down Lisa from the office to cover the meeting. My mind wasn’t even in the room anymore—I was already halfway home.

The living room was chaos—suitcases stacked by the door, my kid wailing, my wife’s mom pacing back and forth. My brother-in-law, Tyler, stood in the hallway, red-faced and yelling. He called me every name in the book, waving a printout of the demolition check like it was a court summons.

I tried to talk over the noise, telling my wife it was just a short-term investment, that it was all for us, for our future. My heart was pounding. I’d never felt so small.

Tyler stepped closer, jabbing his finger in my face, voice dripping with contempt. He’d always hated me, but this was a new low. My wife just sat there, silent and shaking.

I knelt beside her, ignoring Tyler, just focusing on her. I promised her I’d fix it, that I’d make it right, even as her shoulders trembled. Our daughter tugged at her sleeve, crying louder, the whole room spinning with noise and panic.

Her voice was so small, it broke my heart. She looked me straight in the eye, searching for any sign of the man she thought she married. I couldn’t hold her gaze. My mouth went dry, and for a second, I wished I could disappear.

I reached out, took her hand, squeezed it. It was all I could do.

She let the words pour out, years of frustration in every sentence. I had no good answer. All I could do was listen and nod, feeling smaller with every second.

I tried to spin it, talking about Lincoln Elementary, better futures, how this was a calculated risk. But I could tell she wasn’t buying it—not yet, anyway.

Tyler started in again, cursing me in front of everyone. I clenched my fists, tried to hold back.

I lost it—years of being the family punching bag finally boiled over. My voice came out louder than I meant, trembling with anger and fear.

I stared him down, wishing I could wipe the smug look off his face. For once, I wasn’t going to back down.

I did the math in my head—if everything went right, this was my chance. Finally, I could shut them all up for good.

He looked at me like he expected me to fold. For once, I didn’t.

I threw down the gauntlet. If I failed, I’d have to leave town anyway. But if I pulled it off, I’d finally be free of their judgment.

She stared at me, tears frozen on her cheeks, trying to figure out if she should believe me or not.

Tyler huffed and stormed out, slamming the door. I heard him cursing me on the porch as he left.

She sniffled, voice soft. She said she’d never seen me so sure of myself. But I could hear the fear in her tone—she was terrified of being let down again, of having her whole family see her humiliated.

I looked her in the eye, squeezed her hand again, and promised her I’d come through. I meant every word, even if I wasn’t sure how I’d do it.

She managed a weak smile, the kind that made me remember why I fell in love with her in the first place. I felt hope flicker inside me for the first time in ages.

That’s what makes her different from the rest. When the chips are down, she’s the only one who’s ever had my back.

I slipped out into the hallway, phone pressed to my ear, waiting for good news to save the day.

My blood went cold. My coworker said Mikey and the Porsche guy were both gone—just like that, deal dead.

My heart hammered in my chest as I dialed Mikey’s number, over and over. No answer. Each ring sounded like a countdown to disaster.

When he finally called, his voice was barely above a whisper, like he’d aged ten years in an hour. He asked to meet up—said he couldn’t explain over the phone.

I grabbed my jacket and keys and headed out, not even telling my wife where I was going. I was running on pure adrenaline.

The place was half-empty, soft jazz playing over the speakers. Mikey sat in the corner, slumped over his cold coffee, eyes red. No sign of Jenny. The chipped Formica tables, the burnt smell of old coffee, and the low hum of the fridge behind the counter made the place feel colder than ever.

He could barely get the words out, hands shaking. I’d never seen him like this before.

He explained the agency wanted their standard cut—twelve grand. Jenny said she knew a guy at the mortgage company, thought they could save the money by going direct.

I leaned in, voice barely controlled. The stupidity of it hit me like a brick.

He just looked at the floor, face burning with shame. I wanted to scream.

I realized we’d been played, and the full horror of it hit me. My stomach twisted up inside me.

I could barely get the words out. Even Mikey looked shocked at how furious I was.

He tried to defend himself, saying the guy had all the right paperwork, seemed eager to close. He’d set up the meeting at the civic center, even brought a briefcase of documents. It all looked legit—until it didn’t.

Right after the money changed hands, the Porsche guy said he needed to use the restroom. Mikey thought nothing of it—just followed him into the coffee shop’s back hallway, checking his phone while he waited.

Mikey told me he could hear the guy’s phone blaring TikTok videos through the door. At first, it was funny. But then five minutes passed, then ten. The same sound, looping over and over. Mikey started to sweat.

So my buddy started knocking—no answer. He kicked the door open and found the window had been forced open. The owner had escaped through it, blood all over the windowsill.

Mikey ran out into the parking lot, but the Porsche was already gone. He was shaking, barely able to hold his phone.

He looked at me, eyes pleading for forgiveness. I just stared at him, numb.

I felt my face flush, fists clenching, rage boiling up. I nearly punched the table.

I let loose—cursing, shouting. People stared, but I didn’t care. Mikey just sat there, taking it. He knew he deserved it.

The number spun in my head. A hundred grand, vanished in an afternoon. I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut.

All that time, all those dreams, snatched away by one stupid mistake. I pictured my wife’s face, the way she looked at me when I promised her the world. I’d failed her—again.

My throat closed up. I blinked back tears, afraid to look weak, but unable to stop.

I demanded answers. Had they called the cops? Where the hell was Jenny?

Mikey said the police were on it, but Jenny was gone—scared I’d lose it and come after her next. She wasn’t wrong.

I wanted to scream, to throw something, to make her feel the loss the way I did. But none of it would bring the money back.

Twelve grand. That’s what they tried to save, and it cost all of us everything. I couldn’t believe it. Jenny always acted so smart, but this was next-level dumb.

If I’d learned anything, it’s that guys who pull a stunt like this don’t stick around. By now, he was probably halfway to Canada, or maybe already on a flight to Vegas. I doubted the police would even try.

If we wanted even a chance, we had to move fast. I rattled off orders like a drill sergeant—Mikey at the civic center, Jenny at the bus and train stations, every friend with a car on highway watch. I still remembered the guy’s plates—figured it was worth a shot.

This was all hands on deck, every favor I’d ever been owed. I didn’t stop to think, just acted.

Mikey nodded, grabbed his coat, and sprinted out the door. We were all in, hearts pounding, hope fading with every minute.

I sat in the back of the rideshare, jacket pulled tight, knuckles white. The world felt too bright, too loud. Every breath felt sharp as glass.

A hundred grand. For most people around here, that’s five years’ salary. For me, it was everything. I thought of my wife, my daughter. All the dreams I’d had, wiped out in a single afternoon.

I covered my face, shoulders shaking, letting the tears come. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, but I didn’t care. It was too much to hold in.

He tried to make small talk, maybe thought I was drunk. I just told him to keep going, voice raw and hoarse.

All her sacrifices, all her patience—it was all for nothing. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the disappointment in her eyes when she learned the truth.

She never complained, never asked for more. And now I’d let her down in the worst way possible.

I tore through the terminal, the smell of Auntie Anne’s pretzels and jet fuel making me sick. My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as I checked every face, hoping for a miracle. I bought the cheapest one-way I could find just to get through security. Nothing. He was already gone, or maybe he’d never even come here.

One by one, the messages rolled in. No luck anywhere. It felt like the world was closing in, tighter and tighter.

I slumped down on a bench by baggage claim, staring at the scuffed linoleum and trying not to throw up.

I knew, deep down, we’d never see that money—or him—again.

I texted everyone, told them to head back. Mikey said to take it easy on Jenny when I saw her. I wanted to scream, but I just sat there, numb.

I closed my eyes, took a shaky breath, and tried not to think about what I’d have to tell my wife when I got home. There’s nobody left to blame. Just me, sitting in a plastic airport chair, watching strangers come and go, wishing for a second chance that’ll never come. And knowing I’ll have to go home and face the one person I never wanted to hurt.