A couple hours later, I parked my banged-up truck next to my motorcycle—both purchased with my own money after summers of hard work in galleries—and noticed the orange glow of the fireplace in our living room through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I ran my hand over my dusty hair and cursed under my breath.
We had company.
I hated company.
Striding toward the entrance, I saw a shadow loitering in the rosebushes. The leaves danced above the sunbaked ground. I crouched down and whistled low.
Empedolces emerged from the rosebushes, strutting his ass like a Kardashian in my direction. I’d named my blind black cat after the Greek philosopher who discovered the world was a sphere. This cat, like the philosopher, thought himself to be God. He had a fierce sense of entitlement and demanded to be stroked at least an hour a day—a wish that, for a reason beyond my grasp, my sorry ass granted him.
It was by far the most human thing I ever did, being pussy-whipped by a literal pussy. Emp brushed past my dirty boot. I picked him up, rubbing the spot behind his ear. He purred like a tractor.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea for your blind ass to roam outside? These hills are full of coyotes.” I walked into the house with him in my arms. Kicking the door open, I heard the sweet laughter of my mother, my father’s deep chuckle, and a gruff, male voice with an English accent I instantly recognized.
A toxic smile spread on my lips.
Time to rock n’ roll, motherfucker.
Glasses clanked, utensils cluttered, and soft classical music seeped from the dining room. I put Emp down in the kitchen, dumped a sachet full of wet food into his bowl, and advanced into the dining area, my boots thudding against the marbled floor. When I appeared at the doorway, everyone stopped eating. Harry was the first to dab the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
He stood, opening his arms with a shit-eating smirk. “I believe congratulations are in order for my favorite prodigy.” He gave me a little bow.
Expressionless, I walked into the room, eating the distance between us. He went in for a hug, but I slid my palm into his and squeezed hard enough to hear his delicate painter bones cracking.
He extracted his palm from mine and massaged it lightly.
Mom and Dad stood up. I kissed Mom’s forehead. Dad clapped my back.
“Harry was in town visiting Edgar and his nieces,” Mom explained. “I thought it’d be nice to invite him for dinner. I just bought another piece from him. I’m planning to put it right in front of your room. Isn’t it exciting?” She turned to grin at him.
“I can hardly fucking contain myself,” I said dryly.
Considered the most critically acclaimed expressionist painter in modern art today, Harry Fairhurst usually sold his paintings for $1.2 million a pop. Not a bad gig, considering his half-assed day job as a board member and professor at Carlisle Prep. Mom, of course, would hang anything he made, including his turds, for everyone to view and admire. His paintings were all over our house: the foyer, my parents’ bedroom, the dining area, the two living rooms, and even the basement. She’d gifted some of his paintings, too.
I couldn’t escape the fucker, no matter my continent. His art chased me like a rotten fart.
“It’s a breathtaking piece, Vaughn. I can’t wait for you to see it.” Harry exhibited the modesty and humility of a newly moneyed rapper. If he could have physically sucked his own cock, his mouth would always be full.
“That’s exactly what this house needs. More Harry Fairhurst paintings—oh, and rooms.” I yawned, checking the time on my phone. We had eighteen rooms. Less than half were occupied. Emp loitered at my feet, giving Harry the stink eye. I picked him up again, scratching his neck.
“I’m off to the shower.”
“Have you eaten? I thought you’d at least like to join us in the drawing room for some port?” Mom cocked her head and smiled, every nerve in her face full of hope. “Just the one, you know.”
I loved my mother and father.
They were good parents. Involved, on top of their shit, supporting me ruthlessly with everything I did or pursued. My mother didn’t even mind that I wasn’t normal. She took it in a stride, probably because she was used to my father, Lord McCuntson himself.
Me and Dad, we had a lot in common.
We both hated the world.
We both watched life through death-tinted glasses.
But sometimes we pretended to be different, for her sake. Like, right now, I knew my dad would have preferred to stab his own crotch with training scissors than entertain the flamboyant, self-centered Fairhurst. Love made you do fucked-up shit.
I was glad I’d never catch it.
“One port,” I stressed.
Dad slapped my back again, his form of saying thank you, and we all settled by the fire, pretending it wasn’t fucking California and downright stupid to put fire to anything that wasn’t a joint or Alice and Arabella’s retina-insulting wardrobes. Harry sat back and pressed the tips of his fingers to one another, staring at me, the orange glow of the flame casting his face like a crescent.
Half angel, half devil.
Mostly devil, like the rest of the world.
With his sandy hair slicked back, tall frame, and greyhound-lean physique, he looked like an asshole salesman—the kind of man you wouldn’t trust with a toilet paper roll. I eyed the fire, ignoring Graham, our servant, who came in with a silver tray and gave each of us port.
“Thank you, Graham. Please take the rest of the night off. I’ll do the dishes.” Mom squeezed his arm with a warm smile.
Always such a softie for the help, this one.
Awkward silence stretched among us. I put the port to my lips, but didn’t drink.
“How’s the single life treating you, Harry?” Mom broke the tension with small talk.
He’d married a Croatian male model three years ago, but the marriage went down the shitters after he cheated on Harry, took half his shit, and ran off with a backup dancer for a pop star.
Harry’s head snapped in Mom’s direction.
“Oh, you know. Playing the field.”
“Hopefully with a pre-nup intact this time,” I muttered.
Dad snorted. We shared smirks under our breaths.
“Vaughn.” Mom scoffed.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“You weren’t supposed to say that.”
Dad gave up on taking any interest in the conversation and began openly answering emails on his phone.
Harry tapped his finger on his knee and toyed with his tie. “Lenora is devastated she didn’t get the internship.”
I smirked into my drink. I wondered how she hadn’t connected the dots yet—why she hadn’t gotten in, why I did. She didn’t strike me as completely stupid. Perhaps a little slow.
And a lot annoying.
“Heard from her father just before I came here. Positively crushed, that one. I do hope she’ll take the role as your assistant,” Harry continued.
My eyes snapped up. “She’d be stupid not to,” I fired out, the first real words I’d spoken to him.
His chest caved visibly under his crisp, powder-blue dress shirt. He looked relieved, as if he’d been waiting for some sort of participation from me to prove a point to my parents—that we were on good terms.
“She is a proud girl.”
“Pride is just a synonym for stupid. It leaves room for error,” I retorted.