5. Kristoff Is Summoned
5
Kristoff Is Summoned
I ’m going to need lots of therapy or a prescription for Valium before we get to my birthday. Probably both, plus some sort of crippling addiction, like alcoholism or gambling or sex.
That last one is wishful thinking. I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been since I came in the company of another human being, although I can say for sure that the protection involved condoms and prep, not a face mask. I went without sex, except solo, during that entire viral shit show, and now I’m out of practice going out and hooking up. Not that I was ever good at it in my prime.
Not that I ever had a prime.
I’m only in my thirties but I feel a decade older. I’m a prematurely grumpy old man wanting pesky kids to get off my lawn.
Not that I have a lawn. I have a condo at the top of a residential skyscraper and a very obliging landlord: my grandmother. When Grandfather died, he left her an extremely wealthy widow along with her large, if not controlling, chunk of Minola stock, several residences and other real estate holdings world-wide, a yacht, a private jet, and her own tiny island in the Maldives.
I live rent-free in my condo as a condition of Grandfather’s will, not that she would’ve charged me anyway. She’s currently the only human being on this planet that I love without reservation. Nonna is all I have left.
I’m told I have attachment and trust issues. No shit, Sherlock. My mother left when I was little and my father packed me up, sent me to a distant boarding school, and largely forgot about my existence. When he did remember me, the result was generally to be sent to another, even more distant, boarding school.
I will admit that I got a world-class education, despite my father shooting me around the globe like a pinball. What I never got the knack of, however, was making friends. I find it hard to be close to people because I’m afraid they’ll leave me or be taken away. It’s not exactly rocket science to figure that out. Add to that a naturally introverted disposition and you get a man who finds most human interaction to be far more trouble than it’s worth.
I will let you down without even realizing it. I’ll forget your birthday, or that we had plans. I’ll never be able to read your body language and know that when you say you want to be left alone, what you really need is a hug. Even if I figure out that you need hugging, I’m not good at it. My touch is never the right amount of pressure—either too soft or too hard. My muscles never learned the knack.
I took to social distancing, however, like a duck to water. Enforced personal quarantine wasn’t the punishment for me that it apparently was to others. I’m uncomfortable at parties and find small talk to be tedious. Hell, people are tedious. I liked working from home and could go weeks without interacting with a single soul except through my phone or computer. Without unwanted distractions, I got so much more work done than I ever had before. Instead of interminable business lunches, I was able to negotiate over the phone or Zoom. I no longer had to fly to have in-person meetings in Asia or Europe. I didn’t miss the unfamiliar hotels, airport lounges, or intrusive drivers.
The only things I missed during lockdown were sex and my grandmother, two things that should never be together in the same sentence. I haven’t dated anyone since the quarantine was lifted, but I’ve got Grindr, so who needs dating? Grindr is efficient. My profile shows strategic shots of my body and is upfront about what I require. I never have a hard time finding someone to get me off, and when we’re done, I can shuffle him out my door and out of my life. Single-serving sex is perfect for me. The only thing more perfect would be a sex robot. When I didn’t require its services, it could be kept in a closet. Perfection.
I am doomed to die alone, eaten by my cats. Although I’ve read that dogs are more likely to eat you than cats are, so maybe they’ll just use my rotting corpse as something to scratch and take naps on.
I like cats. They’re unashamedly themselves at all times—tiny predators who deign to live with us. They either like people or don’t—there’s no forcing a connection with a cat. I provide them with food, warm places to sleep, high places to perch, and immaculately maintained litterboxes. In exchange they sometimes will sit on my lap and purr when they feel like it. Put down in words it sounds like a dysfunctional and potentially abusive relationship, but it’s one that suits me.
When I get off my private elevator, they are there to greet me, acting like they haven’t been fed in decades, even though I know my housekeeper fed them at noon, as she always does. They, however, are insistent that they’re starving and if they could figure out how to use a phone, would put in a complaint with the Humane Society and potentially PETA, then order sushi from Door Dash.
I toe off my shoes and hang my coat in the front closet, all while listening to loud complaints.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I mutter to my pitiless overlords. “Keep your fuzzy pants on.”
I start toward the kitchen and two sets of claws scrabble on the hardwood floor as they race to their food dishes. Falstaff’s days of running, however, are long behind him. He rubs himself along my ankles, threatening to trip me, until I pick his enormous self up and lug his majesty to his food bowl.
Polonius and Laertes meanwhile sit beside their bowls and sing me the song of their people. It’s a borderline hostile song, full of recriminations and threats. I take their prepared food from the fridge, warm it just enough to bring it to room temperature, then dish it out. There is a bit of squabbling between Polonius and Laertes, but all it takes is some gentle nudging and they remember that each one has his own bowl newly filled with food.
With my overlords fed, I look for my own dinner. I never learned to cook and don’t care to remedy that, so my refrigerator contains seasonal fruit, crudités, milk, butter, and two stacks of premade meals—one for breakfast and one for dinner—that are replenished on a weekly basis. I grab whatever’s on the top of the pile and stick it in my convection oven to heat. Then I pour a glass of the pinot gris that’s been chilling in the fridge and allow myself to sit down at my kitchen island.
This is my first time since I entered the Minola building this morning, that I’ve allowed myself to relax. If I’m not careful, I might become unconscious sitting here waiting for my food to be done. I’m more exhausted than I’d been while studying for finals in college.
I’ve been demoted, ignominiously, to a mere assistant. My salary is unchanged but everything else is. I’ve had assistants but never been one, and the past few weeks have been an exercise in frustration. My stepdemon is going out of his way to make my job difficult. I get that, but he’s more than a demanding boss—he’s nonsensical and unpredictable.
I shudder every time I think of Father and my stepdemon being in charge of Minola. The company will crash and burn in less than a year. As it is, I’m going to have to work overtime to keep the company afloat while also meeting the stepdemon’s unreasonable and capricious demands. I take a large swallow of my wine and barely taste it as it goes down.
A timer dings so I rise, fetch my dinner, then sit back down. Apparently tonight is chicken piccata with grilled vegetables and faro. I cut my chicken into precise cubes, stab one to bring it to my mouth, then my phone rings, making me jump and drop my fork.
I think I’m going to have to bribe someone in IT to change the ringer on my office phone before it drives me entirely insane. It’s ear-splittingly loud and scares my cats. Even Falstaff manages a credible amount of speed on his way out to hide under my sofa. He can barely fit under there, and one of the few joys of my life is seeing him wiggle his tubby ass into the small space, but stopping the noise on my phone is currently my top priority.
My lord and master flashes up on my screen and I glare at it then swipe to cancel. I’m off work. Whatever that asshole wants, it can wait until tomorrow. I put the phone down, pick my fork off the counter from where it fell, then bring the bite of chicken to my mouth.
While I’m chewing the infernal phone screams at me again. Again I refuse the call. In response, a text pops up on the screen.
My lord and master: be a good little minion and pick up the phone
Kit: I’m off work
My lord and master: correction – you’re salary I own your ass. Not that there’s much to own
I take another gulp of wine before replying.
Kit: you do realize this is a company cellphone. Anything on it can be used against you in a court of law.
My lord and master: lolololololololol
My lord and master: you’re cute
My lord and master: get your tiny ass over here. I need your assistance
Kit: over where? Why?
My lord and master: you’d know if you answered your phone
My lord and master: now you’ll find out when you get here
Kit: where is here?
An address flashes up on my screen and I shake my head even though the stepdemon can’t see me.
Kit: no
My lord and master: I need your ass
I can feel my eyes bug out.
Kit: absolutely not
My lord and master: your help
My lord and master: that better?
Not even a little bit.
Kit: I just sat down to eat
My lord and master: then the faster you get over here and help me, the faster you’ll eat
Kit: this better be important
Kit: and an actual emergency
My lord and master: would I send for you after hours if it wasn’t important and an emergency? Now get a move on. I expect you here in 20 min
Kit: with traffic? That’s impossible.
My lord and master: this is time sensitive. Guess you better start moving
I pull my Mercedes into the circular drive of the address my stepdemon gave me. I park the car and sit in it, looking up at the mansion with a mixture of competing emotions battling for supremacy. So far the winners are anxiety and dread.
Even at night you can see the house is Americana-perfect. It’s built in the Georgian style with rose-colored brick and a slate roof. The landscaping is perfect, and the lawn is dark and velvety smooth. The house is lit from the outside with subtle spotlights and garden lights that march up the walk to the ornate front door. The house, by contrast, doesn’t seem lit up inside at all, like no one’s home. It’s the opposite of welcoming.
Appropriate, since I was exiled from there after my mother had the gall to take off, leaving me behind.
I sometimes wonder what life would’ve been like if Mom had taken me with her. It is, of course, impossible to know. I barely remember her like I barely remember this house. The wound is decades old and shouldn’t still hurt as much as it does. My therapist says that we can grieve not just for people we’ve lost, but also for lives we never led. I feel, though, that if I started grieving for everything my life should have been but wasn’t, the enormity of it would pull me under like a rip current in Lake Michigan, and I would drown under the weight.
I don’t think I can walk into this house and survive.
My phone makes its horrible air horn notification and I jump, my heart feeling like it’s going to beat right through my ribcage.
My lord and master: get out of your damn car
I don’t type a reply, and I don’t get out of my car. I’m stuck fast, like an insect caught in tree sap. I don’t know what to do.
My obnoxious ringtone screams through my car’s stereo speakers. Without conscious thought my thumb moves and I’ve accepted my stepdemon’s call.
“Why are you still in your car?” Peter asks. “Nice wheels, by the way. It’s a good neighborhood, though. If you get out of your car no one’s going to steal it, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
Being afraid of my car being stolen isn’t anywhere near the top of the list of things I’m currently worried about.
“Come on, Kit,” he cajoles. “I know you’re there. You answered the call, for fuck’s sake.”
I swallow and hope my desert-dry throat will allow me to be heard. “What… why do you need me? My help, I mean.” Maybe it’s something I can do without going into that house.
Now the silence over the line is coming from Peter. That’s okay. I have all night to not talk or get out of my car.
Eventually he says, “The Greenberg proposal. I need your eyes and input before the board meeting tomorrow.”
“Things you could’ve had me do while at work instead of running errands and getting you coffee,” I growl.
Peter laughs and it’s such a carefree sound I want to punch him in the throat. It’s almost enough incentive to leave my car and enter my dreaded childhood home. “Then I needed coffee. Now, I don’t.” His voice changes and becomes serious. “Dad’s not here. He flew to Palermo this afternoon.”
“Jesus Christ, why now?” I ask. Minola has a European headquarters but it’s in Switzerland. “And why not Geneva?”
“Don’t know, dude, but this has been shoved in my lap and is important now. I need your assistance, Kristoff. I need you to do your job.”
My hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel but he’s right. And even if he wasn’t, I want Minola to succeed. Torpedoing Peter right now would be cutting off my nose to spite my face. “Don’t you have Steve’s notes?”
“Steve?” he asks blankly.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Peter. Steve Bennett. Your predecessor, you idiot. Surely he left you all his notes on the proposal.”
Peter’s voice goes frosty. “Watch yourself and your tone.”
“Do you need my help or not?” I taunt back.
“What I want,” he hisses, “is your ass, in this house, fifteen minutes ago, deciphering the hieroglyphics Bennett used to take notes. Nothing is computerized. It’s not even typed and printed out. It’s all in some sort of secret code and while I don’t have Dan Brown to help me out, I do have you, Kristoff. Now get out of your car and come inside and help me. I already told you Dad isn’t here. What the hell is your damage?”
“Fuck you,” I say before I can think better of it.
“Kristoff,” Peter says, his voice still icy but silky now as well. “Are you telling me that you are unable or unwilling to perform the duties of your position?”
Fuck. “No.”
“Good. Then get—”
“But not here. Anywhere but here.” That reveals far more than I’m comfortable with, but I can’t go into that house and still function. “I will do my job, Peter, but not here.”
“Sir,” he says.
“What?”
“While in your capacity as my assistant, you will call me Sir or Mr. Verona. Take your pick.”
I bend my head down to lean it on the steering wheel. “Fine.” It’s not fine but calling him Sir or Mr. Verona won’t kill me. Not if I don’t have to say it forever. “Mr. Verona, I will do my job to the utmost of my abilities but not here.”
“It’s not your decision, as my assistant, to dictate where you think I should conduct my business. Get out of the car and get in this house or there will be consequences.”
“Fine,” I snap out, exasperated. “Fine. I will help you with Steve’s notes and advise you on the proposal. I will call you Sir or Mr. Verona. I’ll take the consequences of insubordination or whatever. All of it. Just bring whatever you have down, and we can go wherever you want. Hell, we can do this in the car. I don’t care. But I’m not entering that house. I won’t.”
Peter grunts in frustration. “Then why the hell didn’t you tell me that before coming here? You’ve wasted at least an hour on acting like a spoiled child.”
It was because I hadn’t realized until I got here how impossible going in there would be. I don’t want to say that to my stepdemon, however. Instead, I sigh. “I apologize, Mr. Verona, for wasting your valuable time. I understand there will be consequences and I accept them. But you can come down here and get in my car or you can watch me drive away and we’ll deal with all of this tomorrow in the office.” He would be within his rights to write me up, but not fire me. He’d need more of a history of disciplinary actions for that. Now I’m the one with the upper hand and we both know it.
Peter hesitates then concedes. “If that’s the way this is going to be, then fine. But it’s on you that you’re letting a little bit of childhood butt hurt to interfere with your job. I can’t say I’m happy with your performance so far.”
Instead of telling him how and where to go fuck himself, I disconnect the call and wait. He must have been right by the front door because seconds later he emerges with a thick file folder in his hand.
After sitting down in the passenger seat of my car, he buckles his belt then says, “Take me to your place. We can do this there.”
I don’t want Peter in my home but that’s a fight I don’t have energy for. And if I’m lucky, he’ll be deathly allergic to cats.