Lost King

by Piper Lennox

  12

  “Damn, dude. You would hit on your maid.”

  “Where else is he gonna find a girl? Kid never leaves the house.”

  While my cousins’ laughter rattles my headset, I look around the living room and take stock.

  Over the last nine days, whenever she’s had time to spare after work, Ruby and I have managed to clean the entire first floor. As relieved as I am to see the place looking decent again, the best part has been our conversations. Never in my life have I been able to chat that easily, for that long, with another human.

  The weirdest part is, on the days she can’t make it, I miss the talking. Instead of needing a social recharge, I text her or call, and pick up wherever our last chat left off.

  Downside: for all the great conversations, we haven’t kissed or touched since. I want her to know I’ll go at whatever pace she needs, so I’ve been waiting on her to make the next move. I’m not sure I’ll be able to resist when she comes over tonight.

  “First of all,” I tell them, grabbing my controller as we start a new round, “she isn’t ‘my maid.’ Like, this isn’t a regular thing, where she keeps on coming.”

  They immediately launch a sequence of crude jokes. Should’ve watched my phrasing.

  “And second,” I continue, “I hired her after hitting on her. And taking her on a date. It was just an excuse to see her again, really.”

  A wave of zombies hits the screen. All of us curse at the same time, shooting and stabbing our way to safety.

  “Finally: neither of you assholes can give me hell about how I choose to date. The fact you have the girlfriends you do is all the proof I need that God exists. Actual fucking miracles.”

  “He’s got us there,” Wes snorts.

  Van, still laughing at his own dirty jokes, hits his inhaler before croaking, “Seriously, though: tell us about her.”

  Right away, I think of the pool.

  I’ve replayed that scene at least a hundred times since. It puts me in a fog I never want to snap out of.

  It’s way more than sexual attraction, though I don’t think I’ve ever felt this much for someone. And I can’t even say it’s that I don’t feel socially drained around her.

  It’s something inherent in Ruby herself that I can’t name. I feel like I’ve known her so much longer than this.

  Part of me debates telling this to the guys. I want them to get it. Now that they’ve stopped being walking douchebags long enough to land themselves girlfriends, maybe they’ll drop the shit-talking and give me some advice, the way I’m always doing for them.

  In the end, I decide against it. I don’t want to speak too soon. It may feel like I’ve known Ruby for a while—but I haven’t.

  “So. Thanksgiving.” Wes sighs at his own comment. “What are we doing this year?”

  “Same thing we do every year,” I say. “Not a damn thing. Unless you count the big family group chat where we all pretend we’re definitely, absolutely going to meet up, but then our parents start arguing about whose house, how many days—”

  “And then,” Van finishes with a laugh, “we end up spending Thanksgiving in a bar, just the three of us, while our parents give us shit for not visiting them.” He starts another game. “Speaking of, though, Megan must be nesting or some shit already, because Dad says she’s insisting on cooking this year. And she told Juni and Allison about it, so now they’re all excited....”

  “Which means you have to go and pretend you’re excited too.” Wes sighs again. “Similar thing with us. Georgia and Rylan are renting a cabin and inviting a bunch of the twins’ influencer friends. Sounds like nothing but a long-ass weekend to me, but Clara’s stoked, so.”

  “So,” I add, “you’re pretending you are also stoked.”

  “No, she knows my stance. I’ve been very loud about it. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll have fun with her and Georgia and Rylan. It’s the idea of being with a bunch of strangers I’m not loving.”

  He warns me about a horde closing in on my right. A few bazookas and bullet sprays later, we’re good.

  “Hey,” he says suddenly, “why don’t you go with us? Definitely better than sitting at the beach.”

  “In the winter,” Van adds.

  “Alone.”

  “I don’t know.” I pause. “Dad says I can fly out to the winter house.”

  Van waits for me to elaborate on this promise we all know my dad took care to imply, but not say out loud. Gotta give Gil Durham credit: deceives frequently, disappoints constantly, but never outright lies.

  “And…?” he asks. “Is he actually going to fly out and meet you, this time?”

  “You know he’s not, dude.” Wes’s pity stings. “He’s ditched you the last four years in a row, working straight through Thanksgiving, and then you always have to book a last-minute flight to salvage what’s left with us.”

  “So?”

  “So cut out the bullshit in the middle. Join us at the cabin. Invite that girl.”

  “Oh, fuck no.” Van sounds frustrated that he can’t smack Wes’s head in person. “You don’t invite girls to major holidays unless you’re a couple.”

  “We’re not doing some big Durham dinner. It’s a friends thing. And there’s no rule about inviting girls to Friends-giving dinners, yeah?”

  “I’m sure she’s got plans,” I say. Someone like Ruby probably has a huge extended family just waiting back in Jersey to celebrate. The way she talks about her home, I know she left important people behind when she moved out here.

  “Whatever, then just bring yourself. Because, again: your dad is not gonna come through.”

  “Wes is right, man. I love Uncle Gil and all, but….”

  “But, like…fuck him,” Wes blurts.

  Van cracks up. “Yeah, basically.”

  I glance at the time on the DVR. Ruby should be here soon.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, out of habit. Then I add something I’m shocked to find I actually mean. “It sounds kind of fun.”

  That’s another thing about her: I’m not just happier when we’re hanging out. I’m happier, period. My life feels a lot less boring. Things sound fun again. Even a long weekend in the mountains with strangers, pretending Thanksgiving means something to me.

  We say our goodbyes and sign off. I go upstairs to shower. For the first time in months, I put on some music while I do it.

  A text interrupts a song halfway through. Assuming it’s Ruby telling me she’s on her way over, I rush through my final rinse to check.

  It’s a text from my father’s secretary.

  I’m scheduling him to take off Thanksgiving. Promise. Should I book him a flight to the winter house?

  God bless Kimberly for never giving up hope that my father will A) learn to actually balance his work with a real life, and B) turn all his half-assed fatherly intentions into actions.

  A piece of me really wants to write back, “Him showing up is about as likely as him finally realizing you’re in love with him.” But I can’t stand the thought of breaking Kimberly’s heart any more than my dad already has, even if it’s true.

  “No,” I type back. “Going to a cabin w/ friends. But thnx.”

  Maybe Kimberly has come to terms with how things are after all, because she doesn’t protest. It’s getting pretty hard to come up with excuses by this point.

  She does, however, send me one more message while I’m getting dressed.

  Check your mail.

  I tell her I will, even though I already did.

  The package is still sitting in the foyer closet where I slid it, open but otherwise untouched, where I plan to leave it until I forget it exists altogether.

  13

  “Callum, seriously: you. Need. To. Go.”

  While he spews a few creative curses my way, I grab the television remote from his hand and set it on a high shelf.

  Then I decide that’s too dangerous—I don’t want him doing something stupid, like climbing the bookcase to reach it—and s
hove it in a drawer. He’s very “out of sight, out of mind” right now, so it’s just as effective.

  “And where are you off to? Trying to rush me out while you’re all whored up.” He sways when he rises from my couch, where he’s been since God only knows.

  Finding him strung out and drunk on my sofa after work, his key to my place still in the deadbolt of my wide-open front door, was far from a welcome sight. I spent ten minutes getting ready, bookended with a collective hour trying to get him the fuck out.

  “Come on, Hale, where are you?” I hiss under my breath. I halfway mean it like a prayer.

  It must work, because his Expedition swings into the lot about four seconds later. He leaves the lights on while he runs up the crumbling concrete steps.

  “There you are.” I swing the door wide. Hale is a big guy, in height and weight. Being near him makes me feel like a Polly Pocket next to a Stretch Armstrong: intimidated, but also pretty well-protected. “Come collect your boy.”

  “Not really my boy anymore. Ever since he fell in with those assholes from Doug’s, shit’s been weird with us. Doing this for you.”

  I hug my arms to my chest until breathing hurts. “I know. Thank you.”

  He tips my chin upward and studies me in the kitchen’s watery light. “Did he touch you? Because I’ll kill him.”

  Quickly, I shake my head...glad Hale lacks the X-ray vision to see the bruises on my upper arm, from where Callum grabbed me earlier.

  He didn’t mean to, I reasoned; he’s so out of it right now, he didn’t even realize it was me until I forced some coffee down his throat.

  Nonetheless, a line was crossed tonight. Callum needs to leave. I don’t care where, or how, or what happens once he’s past my threshold.

  All right: I do care where. I care so fucking much where he goes, who he’s with, and what he does that it shreds my soul until it can’t be pieced back together. I just wish I knew how to stop caring.

  “Come on, asshole.” Hale snaps his fingers in front of Callum’s dazed eyes, like that’s enough to get him moving. When he doesn’t, Hale curses, stoops, and throws Callum’s arm around his massive shoulders. I back into the kitchen as they pass.

  “Let me go, you fat fuck.” Callum punches Hale’s chest with no effect. “She wants me here.”

  “Nobody wants you anywhere.”

  I force a smile. He’s just making jokes.

  But I also choke up, because there is some truth to it. A lot of truth. One by one, Callum is losing all his friends.

  As soon as the Expedition tears out of the lot, I open the door again and remove Callum’s key.

  My phone alarm beeps. I’m now ten minutes late leaving for Theo’s. I grab my purse, lock up, and rush for my car.

  Callum was right about one thing. While I definitely wouldn’t say I’m “whored up,” my outfit is one-hundred percent suggestive. Under my cardigan and winter coat, I’m sporting a low-cut tank and even lower low-ride jeans.

  Not that this is a date. We’re cleaning his house, and he’s paying me under the table so Bayside won’t screw me on the rest of my hours this week. They love avoiding overtime.

  It’s definitely not a normal job, though. More like hanging out with a side purpose. Work with benefits.

  The first floor is dark when I arrive at the Durham house, save for a single light in the foyer. I test the lock; it’s open, a risk I’d never take in my neighborhood.

  On the other hand, not only is Theo’s street objectively safer, it’s also totally deserted right now. Not a single car is parked in any driveway. What few floodlights or illuminated windows I spot are undoubtedly running on timers. It’s like Weekend at Bernie’s, but with the corpses of houses.

  “Up here,” he calls from the top of the stairs. I shed my coat and shoes, then stash my stuff in the front closet without looking. I’m more concerned with how my girls look in my bra, and spend most of my walk upstairs repositioning them just right.

  It works: he’s speechless for the first five seconds, then stammering through the next five, before smiling and kissing my cheek hello.

  “You like this better than the jumpsuit, huh?”

  “I can’t decide. You’re underestimating how good you make jumpsuits look.” He winks, then nods at the row of closed doors along the hallway. “Where should we start?”

  I pick one at random. It’s easier than cleaning the downstairs. There’s way less garbage, and all we really have to do is change the linens and vacuum.

  But there’s something else I underestimated. And that’s how distracting it is to strip bed after bed across from Theo Durham.

  Something about a mattress yawning between us, and his muscled arms tearing sheets from the corners (and flipping every mattress by himself), makes me tongue-tied and stupid. I keep picturing him scooping me up and tossing me onto these beds, climbing overtop me, until we’ve thoroughly tested the springs in every last one.

  I blame the other night in the pool, more than anything. Plan or no plan, I can’t deny that it was the best oral sex I’ve ever received, and just about the kinkiest thing I’ve ever done. Of course it’s still messing with my head.

  Not helping matters: the fact I’ve barely resisted touching myself ever since.

  Work was torture today. The seam of my jumpsuit kept hiking up, touching me where it shouldn’t. My imagination took every word I heard, from coworkers or the radio, and twisted it into something dirty.

  I think the final straw was when my last client, a new owner in Sagaponack, asked me to clean the windows of her indoor pool. Staring at that water got my entire body aching.

  So now, while Theo hefts up the edge of a king, I realize I’ve made a grave mistake by refusing to touch myself to memories and fantasies of him. I’d been afraid of conditioning my body to want more. Now I’m thinking I’ve just created the perfect hormonal storm.

  “And...done.” Theo lets the mattress fall with a rush of air. We tuck the new sheets in and ball up the comforter for his dry cleaning service, run the vacuum, then decide the windows in this room are clean enough. Thank God, because there’s about twelve of them.

  “This is a gorgeous view.” I step into the corner where the glass panes meet. It overlooks the bay, jutting out so you can’t see the land below. It makes you feel like you’re floating.

  In the distance, there’s just one lone, flickering light. It’s either one of the few people left in this neighborhood, or a floodlight on a timer. I hope it’s the latter.

  I like pretending we’re the only people on this bay, even if I don’t know why.

  Theo steps up behind me. “This used to be my dad’s office. Now it’s just my cousin’s room, when he visits. I never use it.” He pauses. “I don’t use most of these rooms.”

  Carefully, I touch the glass in front of my face. I block out that glow.

  “My mom used to tell me we need way less space to live than we think we do, and more places to explore than we realize.”

  “She’s probably right.” His breath, all mint and heat, wraps around me.

  I’m two seconds from turning around and kissing him.

  Three seconds from grabbing him through his jeans.

  Four from telling him I no longer care if he gets the wrong idea about me or not.

  But, thank God, it turns out he was only one second from pacing away and announcing, “Wait, I forgot: one room left. Sorry.”

  I exhale slowly, watching it streak the glass. “No problem,” I mutter to my reflection. What a stupid, reckless girl she is.

  Following Theo out into the hall, I hold my breath so I won’t have to drown in the trail of his scent. It’s an amalgam of deodorant, detergent, the scent of his house, pheromones or whatever the hell his sweat produces that’s got me so frazzled, and....

  Lavender. That’s what I keep catching.

  Damn, it smells good on him. Lavender’s always so delicate and airy, but not when Theo wears it. Rising off his skin, it hits me with heavier base no
tes and this deep-woods spin I can’t get out of my head. I want it swimming in there forever.

  “No one really spends time in here but me,” he explains, “so it’s not too dirty, but I spilled soda on one of the rugs a while back. Know a good chemical cocktail?”

  Blinking, I nod and tell him sure, I’ll give it a shot. My mom taught me well: there’s almost nothing on this earth I can’t soak, scrub, or bleach out.

  I’m about to rattle off a list of stain removers when I stop short, frozen in the doorway of the bedroom.

  It’s the same one from before.

  The one where we kissed, and touched...where he filmed me.

  Where he left me.

  “You can come in,” he laughs. “The all-white color scheme is way less intimidating than it looks. I don’t know why my dad picked it. Maybe because he figured it would keep everyone out. Which...I mean, it kind of does.” He motions to me, as if I’m proof.

  As if the fear of tracking dirt into such a pristine room is the only reason my heartbeat’s in my skull, right now.

  Skulls.

  I look to the right. Sure enough, there they are—row after row of grinning, sightless skulls.

  Theo follows my gaze. “Oh, those?” he asks, like I’ve spoken. “They’re from my dad’s zoologist days. He collected animal skulls that labs were getting rid of, because they’d break or whatever, and fix them up to resell or keep.”

  Gently, he flicks a tiny bird skull; we watch it rock back and forth like a cradle. “But mostly keep.”

  “I saw the ones downstairs,” I nod distantly. But those were different. They weren’t front-and-center, like these. “You, uh…you don’t find them creepy?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Unless you like staring Death in the face every day, yeah, I’d say so.”

  Again, he laughs. I force a smile, because it’s the only way I can keep from bolting from this room.

  That, or tearing this entire shelf away from its anchors and burying Theo in the wreckage.

  “I guess I find them…beautiful. Not creepy.”