Rage

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Levi

W ell, mission accomplished. I weaseled my way into the Havre mansion. Adam played right into my plan.

I expected we'd "accidentally" lose track of time fooling around in the shower. What I didn't expect was the raw, emotional moments we shared. He'd cried— sobbed —when the release his body was experiencing triggered something more. Something deep and painful. I felt it in my gut, his pain radiating through my bones as if it were my own.

There was a good chance any sort of ass play was going to set off his deep-seated internalized issues about his sexuality. I was expecting that on some level. But this felt different from the meltdown he had after the first time we kissed, or the way he'd freaked after I jerked him off the first time. The hair pulling, muttering to himself, falling to his knees to pray for forgiveness—I understand where it’s all coming from. Fortunately, the more that happens between us, the more he seems to come to terms with it. Not that I see him coming out anytime soon. Or ever.

Hell, I'm not out to my family. My mother has always been highly religious. I'm sure my father would be rolling in his grave if he knew his only son likes cock. I'm out at school, at least. And my sister knew. Before.

Thinking of my sister gets my thoughts back on track. Worrying over the gut-wrenching acceptance I felt like a hit to the chest won’t help the situation. Adam may never forgive or trust me or speak to me again after I'm done with his father, and I need to be okay with that. He's collateral damage, an unwilling sacrifice on my path to avenge the one person I love above everyone else.

He'll be fine. Maybe he'll even be more willing to find a way to live his truth now that he's had some positive experience. I could still be helping him.

That's what I tell myself, like a mantra, as I tiptoe up the stairs. Adam said no one is home, and I should have a little while before they come home to change. On Sundays, his father stays well after the services for official church business meetings, and those get pushed later on potluck Sundays. It's just after 2:30PM. He expects them to be home around 4:30PM, take an hour to get ready, and then be gone until close to midnight. Sunday nights are their weekly country club get togethers, where they rub elbows with the important people and talk about how to take over the world and what they're going to do about the brown people, queers, and dirty poor folks trying to bring them down. At least, that's how I imagine it. I'm probably not very far off.

Adam expects to be home by six, so I can’t just wait until after they leave. I’m not exactly prepared, but I’m still going to take this chance to explore. I didn't think I'd get in here so easily. If I can get here once, especially as easily as I did, then I can do it again. And if Adam isn't willing to bring me back after today, I know the Havre's are away from their home most of day and night on Sundays. This is a good start and more than I expected to have after only six weeks of flirting with Adam while trying to avoid his father's attention.

I nearly trip over the too-long sweatpants that Adam loaned me, stopping to roll the bottoms up to my calves and cinch the waist as tight as I can. I don't need to be distracted by my pants falling off until later, when I'm hoping Adam will be the removing them himself.

The house is deathly quiet, and cleaner than an art museum. It feels empty while still being over the top and lavish. Everything is crystal and ornate gold. Massive gilded frames decorate the walls, and the furniture looks like it's never been sat on. The plush carpets are stark white and there are perfect diagonal vacuum marks across each room. I skip all the main rooms, not wanting to tread through in even my socked feet in case I leave behind prints. I stick to the marble tile floors in the hallways, kitchen, utility room, and foyer. The stairs are marble as well, so it's not until I get upstairs that I have to worry about my feet sinking into the plush fibers. Thankfully, it's obviously been walked on this morning, but out of an abundance of caution, I try to only step where someone else has stepped.

Senator Havre's footprints are easy to pick out, since they're much larger than Mrs. Havre's and it seems like she wears heels in the house. Which isn't surprising, she seems like a Stepford Wife if I've ever seen one. A sad, broken Stepford Wife. I wonder if she'll get some freedom when I ruin her husband, if she'll be happier even if they lose this house and all the pretty things they own.

Mrs. Havre almost never speaks, keeps her head down, and does what she’s told. I’ve never seen Senator Havre show her any kindness or affection. I wonder if Adam even notices, or if he's conditioned for the women around him to act that way. As kind as he is to all the ladies at church, I can't imagine that he's okay with how his father treats his mother. That wouldn't be the Adam I've come to know.

Interestingly, but also not surprisingly, the footsteps seem to deviate to different rooms. I follow the larger footprints to what must be Senator Havre's room, which is enormous with ornate crown molding and floor to ceiling windows. The bathroom is the size of my mother's living room and has an actual sauna. Everything is marble and chrome, and I'm careful not to touch anything in case I leave smudges. Back in the bedroom, I use the bottom of my borrowed t-shirt to cover my hands to open the closet, which is unsurprisingly the size of a normal person's bedroom. Everything is so meticulously organized and clean, there's no real hiding places for anything interesting, but I’m able to steal a pair of soft leather driving gloves.

The bedroom is much the same. Even his underwear is folded into neat, starched squares. Who starches their underwear!? Honestly, that should be enough proof that the guy is a criminal.

The bedside table might as well be in a hotel. There's almost nothing personal in there at all, aside from some sleeping pills, a loaded handgun, and a journal. My heartbeat picks up when I see the journal, but there's not much of interest in there aside from a couple of nearly illegible notes. Most of what I can make out are numbers. There's a phone number, some scribbling that might be an address, and what looks like possibly a date and time. Then there are some random numbers jotted down that have no explanation:

200 of #1

800 of #2 24-48 hours

I take a photo of the writing before fanning through the pages to make sure I didn't miss anything else. A small bronze key falls out, clattering against the bottom of the drawer, the sound causing me to jump. It breaks me out of my concentration, and I hear a car engine outside.

Quickly, I put everything back as I found it, aside from the key, which I pocket for the time being. The way it was hidden makes me think it might be important, and I need to examine it more to figure out where it came from.

Careful not to touch anything or muss the carpet, I fly down the stairs just as I hear car doors shut. Voices get louder as they move nearer to the front door. Or rather, one voice. Senator Havre is pissed off about something.

Shit shit shit shit shit!

Just as the doorknob turns, I scoot into a dark hallway and hide in the first room I see. I don't have time to worry about where I am, nearly falling on my ass as I slide into the room, slipping on the polished floors in my socks. I scramble up and silently close the door. Thank fuck the Havre's seem to go straight up the stairs, by the sounds of Senator Havre's voice echoing through the house. I don't dare breathe until I’m sure his loud voice is far enough away to be muffled.

Breathing through my nose to calm my nerves, my eyes adjust to the dimly lit room. I'd assumed, incorrectly, that this little hallway would lead to a butler's pantry or something else unimportant. But as the faint smell of cigars hits my awareness, I realize I'm in an office or study.

The room is large and ornate like the rest of the house, but the abundance of large, heavy mahogany furniture and leather sofas fill the space and make it more cozy and lived in than the other rooms. And unlike his bedroom, there are a lot more personal effects in this room. There are framed photos of the senator meeting all kinds of important people, from politicians to foreign dignitaries to the one and only Jeffery Epstein. Gross. And in a place of pride, next to an award that I can't quite read the text on, there's a picture of Senator Havre shaking hands with everyone's favorite convict president-elect. I roll my eyes so hard, it's a wonder I can't see my brain matter.

Keeping an ear on the voices and movement from above, I search through the room. There are several locked shelves and file drawers, but none of them match the key I found. Nor does it match any of the desk drawers. Well, fuck. Maybe it's because it's the only interesting or out-of-place item I've found so far, but this key has to go to something important.

In the top drawer, I find some paperclips and an eyeglass repair kit that includes a tiny screwdriver. The desk is pretty old, likely an antique. The locking mechanisms might not be too hard to pick. Chewing on my lip for a moment, I decide it's now or never. I'm here now, and who knows when I'll get the chance again? I feel in my gut that there's something here.

A few minutes later, I manage to get the first drawer unlocked, and nearly deflate when I see it’s filled with nothing but bills and mundane files. It seems Senator Havre has yet to embrace technology when it comes to his records.

But there's something off about the drawer. After pulling it open and closed a few times, it feels like the weight isn't right, and the size of the drawer versus the storage capacity doesn't match. On a hunch, I empty the drawer completely and inspect the edges, which are uneven and slightly discolored from the rest of the drawer. There's a false bottom.

I have to use a letter opener to pry it open, but once I get the false bottom loose, I know I've hit pay-dirt. Several file folders, a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and a small metal lockbox are hidden beneath the panel. When I put the key into the lockbox, it fits. A rush of excitement makes the blood roar in my ears, almost muffling the sound of footsteps stomping down the stairs. Fuck.

After replacing the now broken false bottom as best I can, I put all the files and bills back the way I found them, or hopefully close enough that the differences won't be immediately noticeable. Then I close and relock the drawer just as the door opens and a light turns on.

Oh, shit.

There are no less than four loaded weapons in this room alone, not including whatever is in the big fancy gun cabinet against the wall near the door. If Havre sees me, I have no doubt I'll be bleeding out on the plush burgundy rug I'm currently belly down on. If he can't see me yet, he'll surely hear how loudly my heart is beating. It's thundering against my eardrums, thumping so hard I can feel the movement of my chest against the floor. I can't hear anything above it, but I can see Senator Havre's feet in the half-inch gap between the floor and the desk. He walks over to the sidebar, and then backtracks, yelling out the door for Mrs. Havre.

"Rachel! Where's my fucking ice?!" He shouts angrily.

Mrs. Havre's small voice sounds from farther down the hall. The senator stomps out of the room, and I take the opportunity to find a better hiding spot. With the contents of the hidden compartment clutched tightly to my chest, I make a run for the closet. I pull the door shut just as Senator Havre comes back into the room, muttering something about being married to a "good for nothing, barren whore".

I hear the tinkle of ice, followed by a satisfied sigh.

"Let's get the hell out of here. I need to talk to Murphy about a certain VISA appeal letter. That idiot is soft. If I don't get him under my thumb, he'll let these illegals run all over us…" His voice trails off as the Havre's make their way out of the house. I wonder fleetingly if Mrs. Havre actually listens to any of the senator's racist drivel.

I don't dare move from my hiding spot until it's abundantly clear that they're gone and not coming back. A quick glance at my phone shows I still have about an hour before Adam is due back. His parents were much earlier than he thought they'd be.

With my prize in hand, I head directly to the opposite side of the house, through the kitchen, and back down the stairs to Adam's living space. Only when I've turned on the kitchen light and spread my findings across the kitchen island, do I take a proper breath. A breath that promptly gets knocked from my chest the moment I open the lockbox.