Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Flynn
“Ya ever thought about renovating this place?” I ask as we climb the split staircase to the second floor.
This house looks like it should have velvet ropes and plaques that explain its dull history.
Everything is hand-carved wood, stone, and decorative moldings.
No carpet, just huge Oriental rugs and marble steps that echo every time his polished shoes hit them.
I slow my pace, neck stretched toward the stained-glass dome skylight high above the stairs.
“This was one of the first houses built in—” Rupert begins the history lesson.
“Modern society?” I ask, cutting him off.
The artwork on the walls feels like fifty different variations of the Mona Lisa. Perhaps his rich wife is a descendant of Mona, and these are photos of their bloodline.
He glances over his shoulder just as we reach the second floor.
“One of the first houses built in this area. Most owners have extensively remodeled their homes. Some have torn them down and replaced them with new construction.” He continues down the wide hallway lined with more paintings and a few narrow tables holding vases and sculptures of naked people with no heads.
Where’s the television? Foosball table? A treadmill? It’s hard to imagine something as modern as a golf simulator in the basement.
“Originally, I wanted the house next door. But the son of a bitch stole it from me when my father died. Even in death, my dear old dad screwed me over. Anyway, I bought this house just to fuck with my neighbor. My wife has allowed very few renovations.”
I hang back several steps when he grips the ornate brass knob on the paneled door of the room at the end of the hallway. The chances of me liking this guy are slim, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling a little respect for his buying this place just to fuck with his neighbor.
“Sweetheart, I have someone I want you to meet,” he says, cracking open the door and poking his head inside the room before nodding for me to follow him.
There’s nothing cozy about this museum. Who sleeps in a four-poster bed with claw feet?
And why is there a wood fireplace in a bedroom?
There’s also an antique looking desk, a light blue velvet bench at the end of the bed, a turntable, and a high-back cream chair (that resembles a throne) by one of the four grand windows.
Sure, it’s impressive, but it’s not homey. It’s cold and lifeless.
The twiggy woman eyes me from her throne as she slides a bookmark into her novel, then rests it on her lap.
She removes her gold-framed reading glasses, blue-eyed gaze lifting, offering me a tiny smile as she combs her pointy fingernails through her silvery blond hair sharply angled at her jaw.
I once had a math teacher who looked like her.
She sent me to the nurse’s office because I wouldn’t stop scratching my head. Lice.
Mrs. Rawlings is pretty, just like my math teacher. If she doesn’t like sex, Rupert must not know what he’s doing.
“Callie, this is Flynn. He needed a job, so I hired him to be your muse. Also, the gallery called, and your painting is done. Flynn will drive you to pick it up,” Rupert says with his back to her, gazing out the window.
Callie blinks at me several times. Then she wets her lips and stares at her hands, fiddling with her rings.
“Questions?” He turns away from the window, hands in his pockets.
I focus on her. Surely, he’s not asking me. Of course, I have questions. At least a hundred.
They have a stare-off which ends in her rolling her eyes toward the ceiling and releasing an exasperated huff.
“Great. I’ll let you two sort out the details and decide when you want to leave.” He adjusts his loose tie, like he either never committed to wearing it or he abandoned the urge to remove it. Then he rests his hand on my shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before leaving me with his wife.
She eyes me up and down, letting her gaze linger on my feet. I wiggle my toes. Both socks have holes and are white in name only. Grungy jeans with torn knees. And an orange Howard’s Mobile Detail shirt with mink oil stains. I look like a guy most people would remove from their home by force.
Callie stands and adjusts her white, loose-fitting tank top over her long, flowing skirt; gold necklaces dangle with pendants from her slender neck. Again, she eyes my attire and smirks while stepping past me toward a dresser with doors, where she pulls out a gray cardigan and slips it on.
I clear my throat. “This is my first muse job, so feel free to give me pointers.”
Rolling the long cuffs of her cardigan, she laughs and mumbles, “Men.”
I’m a man, so how do I respond?
“I told that big oaf he’s uninspiring, so he hires me a muse who needs pointers. Where did he find you?”
“I detailed his car.”
She glances up. “So you have a job and he stole you?”
“I took his car for a joyride, then he offered me a job.”
Callie squints for a few seconds, then she relaxes. “You’re working for him so he doesn’t have you arrested.”
“Something like that.”
“Good grief.” She jerks her head toward the bedroom door while walking to the bathroom. “Go home.”
Is it that easy? He hires me. She fires me. All is forgiven?
I doubt it.
“What if I take you to the gallery, and you wait to fire me? Maybe I’m a natural at this muse gig.”
Click.
The door closes behind her.
Great. Is she slitting her wrists? Downing a bottle of pills? Who gives someone like me the job of keeping their wife alive? He must want her dead. And when it happens, he’ll blame me.
I glance around the room, coming close to sitting on the edge of her bed before rethinking what’s on the backside of my jeans and how it might rub off onto her white bedding.
Instead, I sit on a padded footstool beside the bathroom door, which might be too small to hold my six-foot-two self.
But now that my butt has landed on it, knees hugged to my chest, I feel committed to the stupid idea and stay in this cramped position.
There are angels and clouds painted on the ceiling. I knew they must be related to the dude who painted Mona. I chuckle and shake my head.
As the door clicks open, I wipe the smile from my face. Callie steps past me and jerks her head toward the hallway. I jump up and fall in line behind her.
“Maybe you should put a leash on me,” I say.
She halts, then turns. The top of her head reaches my shoulders, and she tips her chin to look at me. How does she make me feel this small with one look? Oh, that’s right. She’s so rich that no matter how tall I am, it will always seem like she’s looking down on me.
But then, she snorts, eyes sparkling with amusement before her lips purse and she shrugs like the leash is a possibility.
I instinctively stroke my neck as if I can feel the collar tightening like a noose, which makes her grin swell a little more before she pivots and heads downstairs.
Like an obedient dog, I follow with my tail between my legs.
She leads me through a formal living room, a library, and a laundry room with dark cabinets, a brass chandelier, and an arched stained-glass window. So weird. Who puts a chandelier in a laundry room?
They have a six-car garage with carriage-style doors and iron hinges, shiny epoxy floors, and four vehicles: the infamous joyride car, an older, burgundy red Porsche, a white Bentley, and a black Tesla—which is the one she leads me to.
“A Tesla because it’s self-driving?” I ask, opening the driver’s door.
“It’s quiet,” she says. “The world has enough noise.”
I close the door and glance right while reaching for the seat belt. “Is it locked?” I holler, looking for the locks while she stands at the door. Then I step out of the car and peer at her over the roof.
“Manners matter, Flynn.”
Shit.
I jog around the car and open the door for her.
She smirks, sliding into the seat. After I return to the driver’s side, she studies me while fastening her seat belt.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
We pull out of the garage and take a right onto the one-way street as she types the address onto the screen. It’s an address in the North Loop, the Warehouse District, which is a hub for entertainment, dining, and shopping.
“Do you have kids?” I ask.
She doesn’t reply. Maybe she didn’t hear me.
“Do you have—”
“A son,” she says.
I nod several times. “Does he live at home?”
“Not anymore.” She stares out the window.
“What does he do?”
Before answering, she takes a deep breath. “Whatever he wants.”
Spoiled rich kid.
“Well, that must be nice,” I say without trying to sound too sarcastic.
“Nice?” she whispers like an echo. “I suppose it is.”
“How old is he?”
Her lips twist for a second. “Twenty-eight. Do you have siblings, Flynn?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Interesting answer. Tell me about your parents,” she says.
“Can’t. Well, my mom had long, black hair.”
“Your mom died? Or she no longer has black hair?”
I shrug. “She disappeared when I was three.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I guess. But if she left me, how great of a mom was she?”
“Who raised you?”
“I did.”
Callie turns toward me, but I don’t look at her. Pity is my least favorite emotion.
“I mean, there were others. People who were supposed to be responsible for me, but I think they just wanted the money. Ya know, those who think fostering kids is a good side gig?”
“Sorry to hear that. I know plenty of good people who have fostered children, and the stipends don’t cover everything, but they don’t expect it to.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t experienced that.”
“What?”
“Good foster parents.”
She doesn’t respond, but after a few miles pass, she touches my wrist with her freakishly icy hand. At first, it startles me, but then I realize she’s trying to still my hand—my fidgety drumming of it on the steering wheel.
“Sorry,” I say.
“I need a calm muse.”
I need to search up the meaning of muse. But calm? No. I’ve never been calm. What does that feel like? I’m not even a calm sleeper. My roommate says I talk in my sleep.