Manservant

by Shari J. Ryan

  I look at him, irritated, and pull my knee into my chest to stand up, but Liam leans forward and offers me his hand. Obviously, I’m not going to just stand up with his strong arm muscles pulling me from the wraths of the wet tiles I’m resting on. I pull him down too, except he wasn’t expecting it. He’s a lot bigger than I am, and definitely not so graceful as he thumps his chin into the ground. Oops. Shit.

  “Oh no, no, no,” I chirp. “I’m so sorry, are you okay?” I bend forward, getting onto my knees to help him up. “Liam, I’m sorry!” I semi-assist him in getting up off the floor, and when he lifts his face, I see a small gash on the bottom of his chin.

  He must feel it as he touches his fingers to the spot, pulling them away and finding blood. “Shit.”

  “Hold on. Stay here.” I run upstairs to the hall closet and retrieve the first aid kit, returning just as quickly as I left.

  He’s sitting against the cabinet doors, shaking his head with disappointment. “You have zero game,” he says. “That was so close to being hot . . . and even a little funny.”

  I groan because really, what else can I do wrong? “I’m an accident waiting to happen.”

  “Well then, maybe you’re right because you are one accident I can’t seem to look away from.”

  “Holy cheese macaroni,” I snort.

  “Holy cheese macaroni?” he repeats with laughter. “Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?”

  “Me,” I retort.

  “Damn straight.” I soak a cotton ball in alcohol and press it against the cut, watching the lines on the sides of his eyes deepen as he squints from the pain.

  “If you don’t shave, you won’t be able to see it.”

  He nods his head with a wicked grin. “Oh, please, I know why you’d rather I didn’t shave,” he says.

  I grab a Q-tip and squirt some Neosporin onto it. “Please enlighten me on your odd assumption.”

  “I know how women prefer a little scruff for selfish reasons,” he says with confidence.

  In all honesty, I have no clue what he’s referring to, but for the sake of not making myself look like a bigger doofus at this moment, I decide to put on my fake smile and give him an, “Oh yes, I know exactly what you mean,” laugh.

  “You have no idea what I’m referring to, do you?” he asks.

  I place the cotton tip on his chin and smooth it over the half-inch cut. “Sure, I do.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  I blow a gentle breath onto his chin, ignoring his question. He leans forward and crashes his lips into mine, pressing the thick gob of ointment onto my chin. “God, you’re hot,” he says as he pulls away.

  “Patients often fall for their caregivers.” I stand up, feeling my heart turn counterclockwise from the pain it was enduring just a few minutes ago. I pack up the first aid kit and grab a small bandage before closing up the case. Liam stands up, and I peel the wrapper off the bandage, gently placing it over his cut. “There, now you look like a seven-year-old who just fell off his bike.”

  “Perfect,” he smiles, leaning in to kiss me again. “As soon as I’m done soaking the rest of this death trap of a floor, I need to run to the grocery store. Do you need anything?”

  I haven’t even found the grocery store yet. I have no clue where the time is going now that I’ve been here almost a week. “I’m okay, but thank you.” It’s on my list of things to do tomorrow. Sam told me I could help myself to whatever she has, but their organic diet is starting to gross me out, and I need some normal “me” food.

  “Thanks for making me fall head over heels,” he says as I walk out of the kitchen.

  “Anytime,” I holler from the living room.

  This is bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. I have fallen for the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, and it’s going to be so much trouble. I don’t know if I need research this badly.

  Liam’s at the grocery store, and I’m standing in the middle of the living room feeling like I should be doing more to help with tonight, but Liam has this house organization thing down to a science. I’ve never seen such a consistently clean house. A guy that hot, who also cleans . . . is this real, or am I dreaming?

  Checking my watch, I notice Dylan has been upstairs playing video games for far too long, and according to the binder of notes Sam left me, overstimulation can set him off. Today would not be the right day to push that to happen.

  As I head upstairs to interrupt his fun, the doorbell rings. Weird. I don’t think the doorbell has rung once since I’ve been here. The house is sort of secluded. Even though it’s in a development, the houses are far enough apart from one another that I doubt any neighbor would be showing up at the door to borrow a cup of sugar.

  I open the door, finding a mailman standing on the doorstep. “Good morning, young lady,” an older man with a Colonel Sanders mustache and thick black rimmed glasses says while reaching into his bag. “I have a certified letter I need you to sign for.” He hands me a pile of what looks like bills first and then retrieves a small machine from his back pocket, holding it out for me to sign.

  Giving it a quick scribble, he hands me a white envelope in return. “Thank you,” I tell him.

  “Have a good day now,” he says.

  “You too.” I close the door and glance at the certified letter, finding it addressed to Liam.

  Immediately, I place the letter down, not wanting to pry or even ponder what could be inside of a certified letter for him. We’re just fooling around. I have no business knowing his personal secrets. Just walk away, and no one will get hurt.

  Yet, I’m staring at the envelope as if I have the power to make it float from the table into my hand. What if he’s being summoned to court? Or worse, what if he’s a criminal? Would that be in a certified letter? Obviously, whatever is inside is important enough that it needs to be signed for.

  Glancing up the stairs, knowing what I’m supposed to be doing right now, I force myself to take each step one at a time until I spin around and nearly jump down the steps I ran up.

  I grab the letter and hold it up to the sun. See? I’m not opening it. It’s just super bright in here, and when the mailman was handing it to me, I couldn’t help what I saw.

  As I position myself beneath the skylight and the bay window, the light perfectly reflects off the center of the envelope, allowing me to see just a few words. It could have been any sentence or words on the enclosed paper or papers, but of course, these words had to be:

  . . . Lab Test DNA . . .

  DNA test? What the hell? Why do people get DNA tests? Oh no, he knocked someone up. Shit. Shit. Shit! Here I am, being all like, Tee-he-he, hotty Liam, we don’t have to use condoms because I totally believe you’re clean, and yeah, I haven’t been to the gyno in a year, but I’m so totally clean too because no one has stepped within a foot of me since then. Besides, condoms are sooo yesterday. The pill takes care of almost everything, up to a ninety-nine percent chance. (Giggle, giggle.) Fuck me in the ass while you’re at it because we can’t contract diseases or get pregnant that way. Tee-he-he. Fucking stupid, Julia.

  Well, now I have to know. I look down at my watch again. He’s been gone for thirty minutes. I have no clue where the grocery store is here, nor how many items were on his list of things to buy.

  How do I steam this stupid thing? Why am I thinking back to a Brady Bunch episode? Didn’t one of them steam open a letter seamlessly and never get caught? I mean, I’m sure seeing how goody goody they all were, one of them confessed to Mom or Dad about how awful their behavior was, but I’m not Marcia, Jan, or Cindy. Unlike them, I clearly have no morals. Maybe I’m imagining this episode, but I swear I remember it.

  I bring the letter into the kitchen, fill the tea-kettle with water, and turn the stove on. A watched pot never boils.

  I’m not listening to the voice in my head telling me this is wrong. Not listening. I tap my fingertips on the granite countertop nine-hundred fifty times before the steam spouts from the opening. I hold the letter over the steam for a
couple of minutes, ignoring the burning sensation running through my hand. This is so wrong. I should stop. I can’t. I don’t do this kind of thing.

  I don’t need to know what’s inside.

  I mean, we’ve just been fucking . . . for like a day.

  But he has had a finger up my ass . . . that’s something. I should know his deepest darkest secrets now, obviously.

  A finger up the ass is just for fun—it’s not a commitment.

  However, he did cuddle with me. He told me I was beautiful. He obviously likes me, which means my heart is at stake.

  I hear tires crushing the rocks in the driveway. Liam’s back. Shit! I need to breathe, relax, get this fucking thing to cool down, and place it back on top of the pile of mail.

  I blow on it while simultaneously waving it around like a Polaroid picture. Come on, cool down.

  There are footsteps over the crunchy rocks outside, and I’m running out of time.

  The screen door opens, and I’m spinning around like a freaking moron, still holding his letter.

  “Hey, Julia, could you give me a hand?” Liam shouts inside. Hearing his voice trail off as he heads back to the SUV, I breathe a sigh of relief.

  I run into the living room and toss the envelope down on the coffee table. It’s still a bit warm, but by time he’s done bringing in the groceries, it should be completely cool. That was so dumb. I never should have considered opening his mail. It’s a federal offense. What the hell was I thinking? It would have been hard to explain, but probably not nearly as hard as it would be for him to explain if he needs to break the news of a love child, or something of the sort.

  Quickly meeting Liam at the door with more bags, I take as many as I can carry and bring them into the kitchen.

  As soon as I place them down on the table, I realize I never stopped Dylan from playing his video games, nor have I checked on him in an hour. I’m the freaking nanny? And such an amazing one, obviously. God, knowing my luck, he choked on something. Oh no. I need to go check on him before Liam gets up there.

  I run up the stairs. “Julia?” he calls out again. “There are a ton of bags. Where did you go?”

  Ignoring him, I poke my head into Dylan’s room, finding him with bloodshot eyes, staring unblinkingly at his TV like a zombie. “Hey buddy, I need your help putting groceries away. Can you give me a hand?”

  “No,” he says with monotony. “That’s not my job.”

  “Dylan, bud, you’ve been playing video games for way longer than you should be today. I need you to come downstairs with me for a bit.”

  “I. Said. No!” He shouts at me and throws his controller across the room, where it leaves a sweet dent in the dry wall. Shoot. Come on, Dylan.

  “How about a snack?” It’s not snack time, but I’m using one vice to get him away from the another. I should never be allowed to care for another human being, obviously.

  “No snack. I’m playing. Was playing, until you ruined my day.” He’s gritting his teeth and seething with anger.

  “Dylan, now, shut it off.” I raise my voice a bit, and his cheeks turn red. He covers his ears with his hands and shrieks so loudly my shoulders shoot up toward my ears, feeling his voice shudder through my entire body.

  I hear Liam storming up the stairs as I sit here like a child, staring at Dylan having a tantrum, so I move toward him with my arms out, offering to give him a hug. I just want to calm him down. He’s flailing his hands around as I wrap my arms around him, and I quickly realize how strong he is for his size. He’s elbowing me in the stomach and I try to pull him toward his bed while hushing him. “It’s okay, Dylan.”

  Liam runs in, breathlessly. “What’s going on?”

  “I think he played for too long. I asked him to shut it down.”

  Dylan is still screaming when Liam drops down in front of him, grabbing his hands and holding them tightly. “Dylan, look at me.”

  As a rule, Dylan doesn’t really look anyone in the eyes, but he will look at Liam’s face. He’s breathing heavily and groaning, still sounding angered. “I want to play,” he cries out.

  “What happens when you play for too long?” Liam asks him.

  Dylan starts rocking back and forth, unable to control whatever feelings are reeling through his small body. “It hurts.”

  “I know, Dylan,” Liam says to him quietly.

  “Come on, I need your help downstairs.”

  Dylan willingly stands up and Liam wraps his arm around his shoulders. “I have like ten different types of pasta, and I need you to put them in order for me. Can you do that while I unload the rest of the groceries?” He’s so good with him, and I’m such a failure.

  We all head downstairs, and I silently shuttle the bags from the door into the kitchen and begin to empty them as Dylan rummages through the bags for the boxes of pasta.

  “I’m sorry, Dylan,” I tell him as Liam leaves for the car again.

  “Stop saying sorry. You don’t care. No one cares.”

  “Dylan, I care. I promise you, I care.”

  “You don’t know me enough to care,” he spits back. “No one does.”

  “That’s not true,” I argue, knowing I should not be arguing with him after what just happened. I’m so frustrated. I don’t want to hurt him, but I want to help and I have no clue how to do that. Liam just has this magic touch, and I’m like the devil or something.

  Once Liam closes the front door and brings in the last of the groceries, I walk over to him and nod to the living room. “You got a certified letter that I had to sign for. Just wanted you to know it’s on the coffee table.”

  He looks at me wide-eyed as if he were possibly expecting this letter, and of course, the guilt of just knowing a little about what the letter contains is dripping through me like black tar. I’m a terrible person, so, so horrible—and now this is going to eat me up alive.

  “Okay,” he says, sounding winded. “Dylan, keep sorting. I’ll be right back.”

  I’m wringing my hands around my wrists nervously, unsure of what the repercussions will be once Liam reads that letter.

  I hear the paper tear open, and I hope it was quick and that he didn’t notice the envelope had already been tampered with a tiny bit. The sound of the paper unfolding echoes around me as if it were coming from a bass speaker.

  Then everything goes quiet. All I hear is deafening silence.

  I casually walk into the living room, finding Liam sitting on the edge of the couch, raking his hand through his messy hair as he holds the letter in the other hand. It looks like he keeps reading the same line of text over and over. “I hope it’s nothing bad,” I tell him quietly.

  At first, I’m not sure he hears me because his focus is so strained, but after a second, he folds up the paper and looks up at me with no expression—neither happiness nor sadness. Instead, he stands up and jogs up the stairs, followed by the quiet clicking sound of his door closing.

  I shouldn't have assumed Liam would be an open book, not with as little information as I have learned about him so far.

  Heading back into the kitchen, I find Dylan still arranging the items of food. “You’re doing a great job, buddy.” He looks up at me as if I said something offensive, and I think it’s easy to see he’s still not responding to me.

  I sit at the table watching him intricately debate his method of organization, which I find intriguing. If nothing else, I’m going to learn a whole lot about life this summer. Maybe Dylan can help me become more organized. That would be great.

  I pull out my phone and scroll through my emails, looking for anything interesting, but like usual, there’s nothing but bill reminders. This adulting crap is for the birds.

  As I shut down my phone and place it on the table, I hear a loud crash from upstairs, followed by shouting. What the hell? Dylan looks up at me with concern, like I should have an answer for what’s happening up there right now. While I may have a general idea about what’s going on, I don’t know specifics or how Liam is feeling about
whatever he read.

  “Can you take the groceries out of that bag and line them up by size on the table for me?” I ask Dylan.

  He shrugs and squats down in front of the other bag.

  Taking the opportunity to make sure the house is in one piece upstairs; I quietly head up and knock softly on Liam’s door.

  He doesn’t answer. The last time I walked in without an invitation, I was greeted with the unexpected, so, I knock again.

  Still no answer, though. “I’m coming in. Just warning you,” I say through the crack of the door.

  I open the door, finding Liam crouched in the corner on the phone. “You thought you could hide from both of us, you fucker.” Liam doesn’t acknowledge I’m standing here, and I’m not sure he can sense anything other than what’s happening on the other side of the phone call. “Don’t even try to make an excuse. You’re a piece of shit and you know it. Drop dead.” Liam looks down at his phone, and I take the opportunity to back out of the room and close the door along the way.

  “Julia,” he grunts.

  I guess he did see me. I reopen the door. “What are you doing? I’m not blind, I saw you standing there.”

  “I—I was just worried,” I tell him.

  “Well, you don’t have to worry. Everything is fine.”

  Then why are your eyes glossy? Why are you shaking, and why is your face beet red? Why are your knuckles white, and why do I think you could crush your cellphone within your grip right now? “Sorry for intruding,” I tell him.

  He glances over at me, looking through me as if I were a window. “What?”

  I shake my head, realizing I’m in over my head. “Nothing.”

  Feeling like we’re suddenly strangers, I leave his life and close him back up in his room before turning to walk away.

  Another crash hits the wall, sounding like its only inches away from where I’m standing. It causes me to jump, and I think it’s best if I stay away until he calms down. If I can’t wrap my head around any of this, I’m not sure how he can.

  The door flings back open, and he brushes by me and into the hallway bathroom, locking the door behind him, probably to ensure I don’t barge in again.