There’s a fucking smiley face after her entire message. What a bitch. I pick up my phone, sending Kenzie a quick text. Hell, she may even be in the house. Fuck if I know. I find her contact information, typing in Nerd, and our text conversations pop up.
Me: Are you fucking for real? Moving in with that creep? What the fuck? I thought we’d stand together.
I hadn’t realized I was so upset—not until I started this conversation with my stepsister. The dots appear immediately.
Nerd: Are you kidding me, Riv? We never talk, and you know Isaiah. He won’t give us enough to live on. It’s for six months. I’ll be on my way to Los Angeles, and you’ll be in San Francisco. Suck it up. Deal with his shit, and we’ll be done. You’ll never have to see him, never have to see each other.
Wow, sis has a bite, too, after all. She’s always been so subservient, agreeable, and a pushover. Why the hell does this cause my cock to strain against my pants? I've never found her to cause or stir me in this way. Sure, I knew the lady with the painted face was hot, but Realtor Barbie was hot and didn’t do a thing for me under the belt.
I don’t respond to my stepsister/adoptive sister or whatever the hell I should call her. In the next hour, she’ll deflate my hard-on by something stupid that comes from her mouth, or a text she’ll send me with a long scientific rambling about why alcohol is better for those with fully mature bodies or how an eighteen-year-old’s body is still growing. Oh, wait a second, she’s already done that. In my memory, though, it does nothing for my raging boner. I push to my feet, throwing shit I’ll need for the next couple of days in my duffel.
Passing Realtor Barbie, I place a note of my own I wrote before leaving my room for the last time.
Send my stuff to that fucker’s house. And while you’re at it, go get fucked.
I even took five minutes drawing the middle finger to perfection. If I have to live with the devil himself, I’ll have some fucking fun while doing it.
The butler is at the door, holding it open. More and more of Christmas has exploded around the house. Fuck, this year will be so different from those of the past. Mom was obsessed with decorating. She’d wake up the morning of Thanksgiving super early or probably never went to sleep. We’d wake to the smell of turkey wafting from the stove and half of the house decorated. She’d wait until after Thanksgiving supper, and the four of us decorated the tree together.
As was the norm, I had one part of the tree, and Kenz had the other part. Our decorations never touched, and we never talked. Mom and Dad tried everything to get us on speaking terms. I never had time for her, and I guess she just learned to live with it.
“This way, Mr. Hanson. I’ll show you to your room. It’s in a different part of the house from Mr. Woods. You and Miss Hanson will have your own space.”
The whole Mr. Hanson shit is getting old with every second. “Hell, call me River. I’m not a mister. Do I look like a fucking mister to you? Man, what’s your name?” I ask.
He doesn’t reply at first. I know it’s because of my language, but I’m not finished.
“I’m Charles, sir.” He’s English, and it just adds to the cliché of a butler.
I had to have heard him wrong. “Charles? No shit? Well, Chuck, it’s nice to meet you.” I think of the silly eighties show Kenzie loved to watch, Charles in Charge, and I begin to chuckle.
“Charles will suffice, sir.” He’s undoubtedly a cantankerous son of a bitch, with his English accent, but I plan to have fun with him, too.
“Lead the way, Chuck. After all, you are in charge.”
He lets out a billowy flat laugh. The man understands sarcasm, after all. “Good one,” and he’s not joking. “I’ve never heard that one before, sir.”
I’ll change Chuck’s stuffy exterior if it’s the last thing I do. And after all, it should bug the shit out of Isaiah.
I follow him up the main steps, only to encounter more stairs at the top. “This set of steps leads to Mr. Woods’ part of the house. There is no need to be in his space. If you need anything, you ring me or Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Potts.” I stop him right there. “Please tell me there is a Mrs. Potts that works here.”
“Her name is Mrs. Phillips, and I’d be careful with your sass, Mr. Hanson.”
“Ah, Chuck, the name is River, don’t forget it, man.”
He turns to the other side of the steps. We climb the short stairwell, and I continue to follow the stuffy butler. “Here is your room, Mr. Hanson. Miss Hanson is across the hall.” He points to the closed door behind me.
I faintly hear classical music playing in her room. Yep, it’s Kenzie, for sure.
“I’ll have your stuff moved into your room, and I’ll unpack your boxes as per Mr. Woods.”
Of course, Isaiah is controlling enough. He’s most likely already told Chuck to catalog all my shit and dispose of any contraband. Fuck him. I’ll be sure to keep my marijuana hidden.
“Yeah, Chuck. Don’t touch my shit. I’ll unpack.” I make sure to stare at the butler in his eyes. I’m not playing, not this time.
“Very well, as you like, Mr. Hanson.”
Very well, my ass!
“Anyway, let me show you more of your part of the house.”
I follow him down the long hallway, opening another door.
“This is your personal space; use it as you will if you want a game room, a study room, art room. Whatever hobby or activity. I’ll order what you need to make it yours.”
“Does that come out of my allowance?”
He stops, turning around, an almost warning in the stern glance he shares with me. “Mr. Woods is a very generous man; the best one I’ve ever worked for. You’ll be sure to remember you could have it a lot worse. And no, this is part of making sure you and Miss Hanson are comfortable here. Miss Hanson has a similar room across the way and has already picked her items and what she’ll use it for.”
No doubt something nerdy.
“Okay, follow me; we’re not done.” The next door he opens has two desks, two laptops, a printer, and bookshelves. “This is where you can study. You’ll have to share with your sister, but let me know if you need anything else. I’ll make sure you have it.” He opens the door across the way. “This is the laundry room. Mr. Woods feels you and your sister can do your own laundry. He also expects your rooms to stay tidy.”
Of course, Mr. Woods expects this.
“One last area, Mr. Hanson.” We walk ahead to an open room, no door. There has to be an eighty-inch television mounted to the wall, a large sectional, a couple of arcade games in the corner, and a large pool table in the back part of the room. “This is your common space. You can use any part of the house, but Mr. Woods is very particular; we thought you deserved a space to entertain friends. Now, Mr. Woods would like your presence at dinner tonight to go over other rules and such.” He hands me what looks like an old-school beeper. “If you need me, page me with this, for now. Mrs. Phillips has some snacks made for you downstairs in case you’re hungry.”
He doesn’t say anything else, turning on his heels like he’s been taught this move in the military or maybe butler school. He leaves, nothing for me to say to him. Fuck, this is fancy. Did Isaiah go out of his way for us, or is this a very seasoned butler, understanding what to do with two lost kids? Fuck if I know, but for now, it’ll be fun, fucking with the bastard.