21. Ciaran

21

CIARAN

W hen I stumbled down to the kitchen in the morning, a woman was humming a tune under her breath while making breakfast and brewing coffee. She was facing away, or else she would have spotted me right away.

The patio glass panels were thrown open. It was a gray, rainy day, which suited my throbbing head. I had an epic hangover. Glaring lights or loud sounds might short circuit my brain.

The fresh scent of cheese omelets and buttered toast mingled with her coffee concoction. To the right of the stove, a bowl of pineapple and mango chunks offered a bright contrast to the ash-gray granite counter.

"Hazelnut coffee?" I asked, my voice groggy. The idea of eating actual food turned my stomach, but I'd take coffee any day.

The short, redheaded woman twirled, a kitchen utensil still in hand, which she promptly put down.

"You startled me." Her smile was instant, radiant, and powerful enough to banish shadows. I immediately felt like I was in the company of a genuinely good person. "I was about to stab you with my trusty spatula. You must be Ciaran. I'm Franky," she babbled before moving around the island and forcing me down into a squishy hug.

My face was shoved in her unruly red hair and she smelled of coconut oil, fresh cut fruit, and cooking spray.

Who needed the sun when Franky was nearby? She looked to be twenty-five, give or take.

"Nice to meet you, Franky." I sat on a stool at the counter, feeling useless while she worked. "I'd offer to help, but I'm barely standing upright."

Franky chuckled as she poured black liquid into a cup and slid it over to me. "You know your coffee. It is hazelnut. My own blend."

The coffee was hot, smooth, with an excellent nutty, bold taste.

"This is perfect," I said after several sips. "This may sound strange, but do you know how I got home last night?"

I scrubbed my face and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. It didn't escape my notice that I said the word "home."

The corners of Franky's eyes crinkled. "You went to a beach party last night, didn't you?"

"I…think so? I remember being in the car with Matthias. We met Joan…somewhere." Memories of a bonfire came to mind. Music. Dancing. But that was it. The clothes I woke up in smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, campfire, and vomit. "How I got from there to here is a mystery."

I massaged my knuckles. They were red and bruised, as if I'd punched something—or someone—last night.

"I'm sure Matty brought you home. Sure, he can be as nice as an ax to the head, but I don't see him leaving you stranded."

"I'll take your word on that since you've known him longer. To put up with Matthias Vaulteneau, they must pay you well."

"Matty's not horrible to work for, unlike a few of my former employers." Franky pulled a carton from the fridge and poured a green goopy, soupy liquid into another cup. "Drink this," she said, offering it to me. "It will help with the hangover."

"Another one of your concoctions?"

Franky beamed. "You bet."

"How horrible were the other bosses?" I ventured to ask.

She finished preparing the breakfast, divided everything between two plates, and placed one before me. She ate from the other one.

I wondered where Matthias was, but didn't want to ask.

"I'd get yelled at for things that weren't my responsibility," Franky started, ticking things off finger by finger. "I'd have to pay for stuff when they wouldn't reimburse me, like when picking up their groceries. Rich people can be the stingiest people on the planet. A few bosses were creepy and thought that by hiring me I owed them sexual favors. Here, though," she added with an appreciative look on her face, "I work directly for Matty. He only asks me to be on hand on the weekends and a few days a week. He's never, ever looked at me suggestively. The estate paid off my credit card debt, I have a 401k, and as long as I get a passing grade, they pay my college tuition, too."

The nasty boss part was horrible, but I was impressed by how the Vaulteneaus paid their employees. Maybe I'd been a bit too harsh toward Matthias.

"I'm sorry you had to go through all that." I sipped the green liquid and wished I hadn't. I was relieved to know that Matthias didn't abuse his employee. "I am surprised, however, to hear that Matthias doesn't have a torture chamber hidden away. No regular beatings in the courtyard?"

Franky finished chewing before answering. "That depends. Who's doing the beating? Am I beating Matty, then definitely. I am a task manager. No one has ever dared lay a hand on me since I started working for the Vaulteneaus, even people not connected to the family."

It sounded like a long mafia-type reach.

"Are the Vaulteneaus that powerful around here?" I drank as much of the green goop as I could swallow. It tasted like seaweed, anchovies, and some other mysterious ingredient, as the lumps went down my throat.

She assessed me. She either thought I was an idiot or completely clueless. "Not just around here. Try the entire West Coast. They are royalty, Ciaran. They have holdings in media, publishing, real estate, and other things I'm hazy on. Matty says they invest in a lot of tech start-ups, and he's pushing his dad to get into conservation efforts."

"Like, ‘save the whales' kind of thing?"

"Maybe." Franky shrugged. "He's pretty tight-lipped about it, to be honest. I see it being connected to water resources, the bay, endangered animals, and national parks, that kind of thing."

Matthias having a noble cause was at odds with how I saw him, especially after last night's escapade at the airport. I decided it would be weird if I pressed too hard on that topic. "What are you going to school for?"

"I have a bachelor's degree in nutrition. I'm now working toward earning my MBA. I want to own my own business. Along with being Matty's assistant, I've been helping him develop a nutrition plan to maximize his athletic pursuits. I like coming up with healthy recipes and assisting others reach their goals. It's a work in progress, so to speak."

"If your hazelnut coffee is anything to go on, you'll be very successful." I collected the plates, cups, and put everything into the dishwasher. "Breakfast was delicious, Franky. Thank you. Even the green goop helped. My headache is gone. You'll make a fortune on that alone if you set up shop in a college town."

"Thanks," Franky said. "I'll keep that in mind. What are your plans for today? Do you need help with anything?"

I looked outside longingly. "I suppose a dip in the ocean isn't in the cards. I heard something about an Olympic pool? I wouldn't mind swimming laps. Where can I find it?"

Franky informed me that it was in the third basement level of the main house. "Go through the servant entrance, then take the first stairwell on the left."

"The same stairwell that leads to the garage?"

"The same. The pool is on the bottom level. It has showers, towels, everything you might need. Just bring your swim trunks and you're all set."

I ran upstairs, feeling more like myself, to collect my swim trunks and goggles.

Inside the main house, I took in the graceful architecture, the round arches over each entryway, the marble statues interspersed with other artifacts, like Mayan-inspired clay tablets that depicted warriors in battle. One of the sitting rooms possessed a gigantic fish tank, with a glorious array of colorful fish going about their daily lives.

Along the way, I encountered a few of the staff, and I felt the need to explain myself, that I was headed down to the pool. They'd murmur a, "Very good, Mr. Galbraith" before resuming their path.

I found the stairwell and in no time I was down on the third level. The strong, familiar scent of chlorine met my nostrils and my anxiety evaporated like dew on a hot sunny day.

I'd never be an Olympian-level swimmer, but I'd been on my high school swim team and competed well at previous meets. My best ever one-hundred-meter freestyle came to one minute, eight seconds.

That was nowhere near Olympian levels where those who were qualifying could make that distance in under fifty seconds. I was curious to know Matthias's heat times.

The pool before me was a crystal-clear aquatic blue and from all appearances, a true Olympic size pool at fifty meters in length. Set up in the competition style, with yellow lane dividers stretched down the pool into ten race lanes.

The changing rooms and showers appeared to be in the far corner, so I made my way there.

I heard noise from within, but assumed it was someone cleaning the spaces.

When I opened the door, a lone figure was standing there.

Matthias.

The space was misty, as if he'd taken a very long, hot shower, and was now standing in the middle of the changing room.

Matthias was…completely naked.

Okay that wasn't entirely true.

He was using a white towel to dry his hair.

Which meant Matthias didn't realize I was standing there.

Gawking.

His shoulders were slick and gloriously domed, like the muscles were awake after a strenuous swim. His chest and V-cut abdominals were so well defined that I knew Matthias trained hard.

Of course my eyes traveled lower.

Matthias was mostly hair-free with a shaved pubic mound while his glorious cock hung in a semi-erect state.

It didn't take long for my mouth to water.

There was a chuckle and my eyes snapped up.

Matthias was not only aware of me, but had been for some seconds. He was holding the towel on ether side of his head, a lopsided grin on his face.

What does one do in this situation?

Flee? Apologize? Pretend sudden blindness?

It wasn't uncommon to see other guys in the shower, but it was another thing to, well, leer at them.

I wasn't a leerer …at least, not until now.

Then I noticed his split lip and wondered if it had anything to do with my bruised knuckles.