3. Dec

Chapter three

Dec

(Being a badass butler will be a thing going forward)

I am in love. I know it's early and too soon to be making those kinds of declarations, but no one said I have to follow a specific protocol for love declarations.

Wherever Arcan Pearson is, I hope the universe thanks him on my behalf, because the man is an organizational miracle. The butler's office is situated in a small but cozy room in the staff wing of the mansion. Everything I need to succeed is written in meticulous detail in an organized binder that the house manager, Maggie Fenton, pulled from a small safe in here after she gave me the code to memorize.

The binder has the schedules of each member of the household written in it and the tasks needed to ensure that their days flow smoothly. It has a list of all the household bills to pay, when the autopayments go through, and how to check that the autopayments reflect the billing. It has checklists for tasks to perform each day/week/month/year. It is a beautiful work of organizational art, and I am fully in love with the creator. Even his personal comments attached to the pages on sticky notes are exceedingly useful. It's clear this was his professional diary, and it's so lovely.

I could never have come up with something like this, but I'm damn glad someone did. If I ever meet Arcan in real life, I will probably kiss him or buy him a puppy or whatever people do to show their gratitude these days. BJs? Maybe it's BJs. I don't know, I haven't kept up with cultural changes. That requires interest in social media, and I'm more of a bridge night than a night out type of guy. I'm not interested in watching other people live their lives, and no one would want to watch me live mine. What would I even post?

Today I cleaned the banister. Look at that shine!

Somehow, I doubt there's an audience for how to get oak to shine. Even if there is, I don't think anyone wants to get their tips from me.

Movement in my periphery causes me to look up from the binder just before Maggie knocks on my open office door. "Knock, knock," she says with a voice that wouldn't be out of place as the mom on any animated kids TV show. There's a certain quality that all the moms in animated kids shows have, and somehow, she exemplifies it. I hear her, and I think "good mom," and I don't even know if she is a mom.

I can't really tell how old Maggie is; she's older than me but not old. She has big hazel eyes and buzzed red hair. She has tattoos covering every inch of skin from her neck down and quarter-size spacers in her ear lobes. She wears full baby doll makeup and dresses in the style of a modern witch with corsets over linen shirts and open-front skirts over skin tight pants. She's the house manager and the person directly under my supervision. She's been doing her job and mine since Arcan left, and she told me when I met her this morning that she's so glad that Mr. Staiano finally hired someone to replace Arcan.

"What can I do?" I ask her with a welcoming smile.

"Maxime wants to introduce you to the whole family, and everyone is home right now. They're in the library."

I stand, pulling up an image of a map of the mansion in my head and reminding myself of the route. Maggie already gave me a rundown of the family, and the binder has a current face shot of each person with their schedule, but it will be good to meet each person properly. There are eight people in the family and six members of the staff that live in the mansion. I met all the staff early this morning, and they're all unique individuals. Mr. Staiano's dress code for his employees is, "Your clothing should be a reflection of your inner divinity."

I don't even know what that means, but the gardener wears a kimono, her assistant wears a lot of black with spiked jewelry and a rather distinctive codpiece, one of the housekeepers wears what looks like the skimpy armor designed for female characters straight out of fantasy video games, and the other housekeeper wears a rainbow leotard, black leggings, rainbow leg warmers, and ballet shoes. He dances everywhere he goes in the house.

I knock on the door to the library, receiving an invitation to enter before opening it and stepping in.

"Ah, Dec! Good. Let me introduce you to my family," Mr. Staiano calls as soon as he sees me, beckoning me over to him.

Before I get two steps into the room, Mr. Simms, the dog, leaves his side, trotting up to me for pets. I lean down and give the adorable dog a thorough scratch behind his ears and slip in a tiny treat from my pocket that I found in the butler's office with a note from Arcan who said that Mr. Simms could have one of those treats every time he greets me sweetly.

Since he's a sweet dog, I think I'll be giving him many treats.

Once he has his treat, I continue toward Mr. Staiano, but as I approach he suddenly stills. "Whatever are you wearing, my dear boy?" he asks, scanning me head to toe.

I try not to react to his audible distaste as I pass through the room, ignoring the seven pairs of eyes watching me. "It's a suit," I reply evenly; it's just a black suit with a white shirt and black tie. Literally nothing special except that I had it tailored to fit me.

"Yes, I do see that, but did no one tell you of the dress code? Here at Chez Gargouille, everyone wears clothes that reflect the majesty of their inner divinity." He pulls me to his side with his arm over my shoulder. Today he's wearing a three piece white suit with huge roses splashed over the fabric in a way that reminds me of blood spatter. It's almost a travesty of an outfit, but for some reason it fits the man as well as the plaid from yesterday.

"Find your inner god and live in clothing that displays that to the world. You are amazing and your clothing should show us the wonder of you." Mr. Staiano's voice rises and falls with the cadence of a man preaching his truth to a potential convert.

The men in the room with us mostly nod in agreement, and they are living embodiments of the clothing philosophy. They are also all just so fucking big. I don't know how it's possible that every man in this family is so big, but they are all at least twice as broad in the shoulders as I am. Mr. Staiano is the only one in the family that's average size like me.

"I've never considered clothing as a showcase of my inner divinity. It might take me some time to figure out what clothing would fit for me," I prevaricate in a soothing tone, hoping to turn the conversation away from my practical and perfectly acceptable suit. Is it possible to convince them that badass buttling requires a suit just like the five in my closet that I bought specifically for my career? It would be a waste of money to replace them before they wear out, dammit. I'm not hurting for money, but I'm still on a budget.

"Please do, and of course, we take the uniform budget seriously here, so be sure to order your clothing using the appropriate account." With that Mr. Staiano bangs his cane on the floor with finality. "Now, let me introduce to you my nephews." He waves in a broad arc toward the seven other men in the room.

I recognize them all, and I've met Ethan and Thoren, but now I get a proper introduction to the rest. Each of the nephews has the Staiano surname, and they are all as unique as their uncle.

Greeley dresses like a pirate, including the eye patch, sword on his belt, and heeled boots. He greets me with a saucy wink—well, it could be a blink since I can only see one eye—and then takes a swig out of an old fashioned, brown glass bottle labeled "Rum."

Reeves wears a white suit with black trim that would fit in well in the Big Band Era of music. His wing tips shine like he just buffed them, which means I need to look at his entry in the binder to see if that's part of my weekly chores. He up-nods me, and then his attention turns to a folder in his hands.

Hawthorn looks like a cowboy outlaw complete with a gun belt and guns. His black hat is dusty and well worn, and he's rocking brown chaps over khaki colored jeans. His button up was probably crisp when he put it on this morning, but he's clearly been outside since then, and there's mud stains on both cuffs all the way up to his elbows. His broad smile is missing both of his front teeth, but there are dimples, and that makes me see him as cute rather than a hillbilly hell serial killer.

"How ya doin'." It's not a question, just a greeting, and Mr. Staiano introduces his next nephew without giving me the chance to reply.

Walker sits with one leg up on the arm of his chair in a relaxed pose that's definitely more for show than comfort. He wears furry white pants and absolutely nothing else except a pair of black horns that curl back from his hairline. He looks like a fawn, and I'm pretty sure that's what he's going for when he greets me with a tune blown into a panpipe that he whips out of nowhere.

Faulkes Staiano peeks out from behind Thoren (who's wearing the same pants as yesterday with a slightly different blood red vampire shirt open to display his impressive pecs). Faulkes is covered head to toe in what looks like a blanket made to look like unicorn pajamas, complete with the hood up and a horn sticking up. He's bigger than the others, but based on the body language that the others exhibit, I suspect he might be the one they at least treat like the youngest. He gives me a shy wave and ducks back behind Thoren.

After introductions, Mr. Staiano tells them all about me and then asks them to go easy on me while I get acclimated to the job.

Thoren's smirk distracts me, and I know what he's going to say before the words pass through those extremely kissable lips.

Dammit. No. He's not kissable.

"What's ‘Dec' short for? We're all curious."

Without even thinking about it, because I have apparently trained my brain for snark, I pop off, "Dec nuts" like I don't know Mr. Staiano is fully capable of firing me.

Thoren scowls, and the rest of the faces in the room light up.

"Woah, butler got sass," Walker, the one wearing furry pants, announces as my face flames.

"I-I apologize. I'm not—" I don't even know where to go with that sentence. My name is no one's business except the government's and the people who need to know for tax purposes.

"Nah, you said what you meant," Ethan laughs.

Mr. Staiano turns to me with a weird expression on his face. If I'd seen him looking like this in any other context, I would think he's looking at a cute pet he found. "Do you have anything else to say to the boys?"

"The boys" look at me expectantly, except for Thoren, who's staring at me in a way that makes me want to back up a bit, and maybe also get on my knees, but that's a ridiculous reaction, and I definitely put it firmly in the No-Go zone in my head. Why would he even want me, anyway? Especially after I just sassed him in front of his, uh, cousins? Brothers? I'm not sure how they're related. Regardless, I can't help but notice that "the boys" are all bigger and probably older than me. If Mr. Staiano thinks of them as boys, he must think I'm an infant.

"I apologize for my outburst. I'm truly happy to be here. Your previous butler was some kind of angel and has left me with a great system that will be easy to step into. If you have questions, concerns, or critiques, please let me know so I can help; that's what I'm here for."

There's a sniffle, and then Thoren suddenly hisses and reaches behind him to bring Faulkes forward onto his lap. The huge man in unicorn pajamas dwarfs Thoren as he sits across his lap, and he buries his face in Thoren's shoulder, sobbing softly.

I immediately pull a handkerchief from my pocket, offering it to Thoren.

"We're still grieving," Thoren explains with a dark look, taking the handkerchief from my hand and shoving it in Faulkes's face.

"I do apologize." I manage to get that out around the lump in my throat as Faulkes honks into the handkerchief and then throws it on the floor with enough force that it sails past me.

I rush to pick it up, turning back to find all of the Staianos frowning at me.

"Sincerely, I'm very sorry, Mr. Staiano. No one mentioned the sensitivity of this subject," I apologize to my employer, hoping not to lose my job. No one told me Arcan had died! I thought he'd moved.

Mr. Staiano sighs and rolls his eyes. He turns me toward the door with his arm around my shoulders. "Don't worry about it, Dec, and for the love of Pizza Margherita, please call me Maxime. There are eight Mr. Staianos in this house, and I refuse to be called something so common."

"Yes, sir. Uh, Maxime," I stutter, stalled out on the pizza thing. My uncle used to say that exact phrase too. I wonder if it's a thing from when they were young.

He pats my back and opens the library door. Mr. Simms darts out ahead of us, then Maxime pushes me out. "It's fine, but let's give the boys a chance to calm down before we do anything else."

He shuts the library door behind me, and I'm left staring at the dog, who looks up at me with a wagging tail and a smile. At least I didn't offend him .