5. Dec

Chapter five

Dec

(There's a problem with sexual harassment in this house, and I have unfortunately discovered a new kink)

A fter a week of referencing the binder that Arcan made, I finally feel like I'm beginning to work out the rhythm of this job. It helps that Mr. Simms has a pattern of behavior that mirrors the schedule Arcan suggested in his binder. I meet Mr. Simms in the kitchen in the morning, feed him, and eat my own meal. So far, I've eaten breakfast with Thoren every day except for Jax's days off; Mr. Simms started joining us on the third day.

After the morning meal, Mr. Simms and I start our chores. We begin with a trip to the office where Mr. Simms chews on his rawhide while I check the day's calendar and prepare a mental schedule and reminders on my phone for any specific deviation from the routine of the day. Today, a contractor is coming to power wash the outside of the house, so I make a note to remind Maggie since she's the one who directs the maintenance staff.

After half an hour preparing for the day in my office, Mr. Simms gets up and herds me upstairs to Maxime's bedroom, where I open the curtains and greet him, prepare his clothing for the day and help him with anything that he requires. He usually dismisses me no more than an hour later, and Mr. Simms accompanies me down to the back door, where he refuses to leave via the doggie door and instead requires me to join him on his bathroom break.

After I clean up his mess, we stop in the mud room for Mr. Simms' daily brushing, which is our bonding time. Mr. Simms loves the attention, and I completely adore him. His company all day makes the work pass quickly.

Once Mr. Simms is clean and I've straightened up the room and vacuumed the excess hair, it's on to the daily chores. Today I'm inspecting and cleaning the art in the house. It's a full day's work and requires my entering everyone's bedrooms, but the binder assures me that the family knows that the first Wednesday of the month is art day.

As I make my way to the utility closet, I run into Ethan, who's hanging out by the servant's staircase. When he sees me, his eyes widen for a brief moment, but he straightens and smiles. Unfortunately, on his weaselly face, the smile looks insincere. The poor guy just got the genetic shaft; I'm sure he's not as untrustworthy as the biases taught to me by entertainment media would suggest.

"Good morning, Ethan," I greet him with a slight bow of my head.

Ethan glances up the servant's stair before giving me his full attention. "Good morning, Dec. How's it going?"

"I'm well. The binder that Arcan—oh, I'm sorry." I cut myself off because of how badly everyone reacted the last time I mentioned their last butler.

Ethan waves my faux pas off. "Fuck that guy. You don't have to walk on eggshells around me. I'm pissed at him for fucking off like he did, but I'm not so angry about it that you can't mention his name in my presence like Faulkes."

I freeze at the venom in his tone. I understand that every grieving process looks different, and that anger is a natural response to the death of a loved one, but this seems like Ethan is talking about Arcan like he's still alive. "Sir," I start, searching for a delicate way to address my confusion. "Did something happen that would have an impact on my work?"

Ethan frowns, shaking his head. "Nah. Well, maybe. Arcan was with us for a decade, and the one time one of us trusts him with something out of the ordinary, he faints dead. Poor Faulkes was traumatized by his reaction. How would you feel if you told your best friend your deepest secret and they do something like that? I realize that Faulkes probably pushed the employer-staff boundary, but c'mon, Arcan was with us for so long. It was inevitable we'd get attached to him."

I'm slightly more confused than I was when we started this conversation, and as I ask the follow-up question, Drew, one of the housekeepers, comes bounding down the stairs in full fantasy armor that covers him like you'd expect from the oversexualized female characters in some fantasy games.

"Was there something wrong with his heart?" That's the only reasonable explanation for why the previous butler would die so suddenly.

Ethan snorts, watching Drew as he retreats down the hall toward the utility closet. "Obviously. No one with any kind of heart would do something like that. Faulkes wants us to forgive him, but until he stops crying every time the man's name is mentioned, I'm inclined to stay angry."

I'm not usually so bold, but I reach up to Ethan's shoulder, stepping in close even though that means I have to look up at him. "It's ok to be mad at the people who've passed on, but it sounds to me like Arcan died at an inopportune time, and that's not his fault."

Ethan's eyes widen in surprise. "Arcan's dead? Who told you that? When did he die?"

I step back just as surprised as him. "I—I thought he was? Everyone's acting like he died. You said he fainted dead!"

Ethan blinks at me and laughs, putting a hand on his stomach and huffing in amusement. "Oh fuck, you had me in a panic. Arcan didn't die. He ran away. He packed up his shit in the middle of the day and fucked off with Uncle's little truck. He left it at the airport and was gone. We have no idea where he went, and it's caused Faulkes a lot of distress because he feels abandoned by his best friend, but also because he thought Arcan loved him as much as he loved Arcan, and it turns out that the loyalty and feelings were one way."

Oh my god. I need to ask more questions. This situation is completely different than I thought it was. "Thank you for explaining, Ethan. I was operating on a lot of wrong impressions."

Ethan laughs again and claps my shoulder just as hard as his uncle does. "I'm glad we got that cleared up."

The door to the utility closet opens and closes, and we both glance that way, watching Drew walk back toward us with a bottle of water in hand. He shoots Ethan a flirty grin and heads back up the stairs. Ethan watches him until he disappears around the corner, then he smirks. "‘Scuse me," he says and jogs up the stairs, chasing the housekeeper.

I sigh, mentally adding a meeting with Drew to tomorrow's agenda. I can't have the housekeeper getting harassed and not reporting it for fear of losing his job.

First, though, a meeting with Maxime to make him aware of a possible problem. I pull my phone out of pocket and send a text message to Maxime alerting him of my need for a short conversation at his earliest convenience. I don't get a reply back immediately, so I set to the task of getting the cleaning supplies for my chore for today.

"You mind grabbing that for me?"

The question comes just as I spot the tarot card on the floor directly in front of me. I stare at the card that looks like a dark version of the one in my pocket. He keeps dropping this specific one: a gargoyle drawn to look humanoid with bat-like wings walking in the void of space backlit by a bright star, smiling as they traverse space with a rucksack and an animal companion that looks like a mix between a ferret and a bat. It's a beautiful card with silver foil, and I wonder where he bought it. Not that I want or need my own tarot deck. I don't really believe in that kind of thing.

After picking it up, I turn to find Thoren staring at my ass, like he always does when his cards mysteriously drop out of his pouch (snort), and despite myself I blush. He looks so good. The size difference between us just does it for me, and the butterflies in my stomach take flight all at once when he holds out his hand. The barbells in his nipples have silver chains hanging from them today, and fuck do I want to pull on them. I bet he'd follow me anywhere if I got a grip on him like that.

Shut up, Dec. No thinking about Thoren like that!

I hand it back to him and back up, hiding my butt from his perusal as I walk backward toward the utility closet. I will never admit what knowing his eyes on my ass do to me. Ever. "You should keep better track of those," I suggest.

"They seem determined to drop every time they see you." The tiny smirk that lives at the corner of his mouth, guarding what I think might be dimples if he ever gave in and smiled fully, makes me blush as much as what might be innuendo in his words.

I don't know; maybe he's being suggestive, but he sounds so earnest that I don't know if he's teasing me or not. "Try putting a rubber band on them."

Thoren shakes his head. "I would never. I want these cards to like me."

"So you're really into Tarot then?" I glance back, reaching out to grab the handle of the utility closet.

He shrugs. "It's a good focus. We chose Tarot because it was one of the better tools available to us when we—well, that doesn't matter. I'm thinking Dec is short for Indecent." He waves at my ass like that's at all appropriate.

Of course my stupid brain thinks it's wonderful to get sexually harassed by the hottest man alive. Not that brain, the one that lives in my pants.

I shoot Thoren the dirtiest look I can call up. "I think I would have chosen to shorten my name to Indie if I'd been blessed with such a name."

As soon as the words leave me, I slip into the utility closet and shut the door quickly, locking it just in case he thinks he should follow me in here.

Good god, he's way too sexy for his own good.