I manage. I stop in front of the car he’s leaning against. It’s another ostentatious two-seater sports car. Go figure. Makes me wonder if he’s trying to make up for his lack of a personality . . . or maybe even a micropenis. I smirk to myself imagining that God cursed him with a teeny weenie as a way to keep him humble with his East Coast money and frat-boy good looks.
“Here’s half of it,” I say, dropping the stuff on the concrete and turning around to get the rest.
“What the fuck is this?”
“My stuff. You wanted me to move in with you, yes?” I pause. “I’m going to need clothes if you don’t want me walking around your house naked.” I continue on, getting the rest of the stuff I packed.
By the grace of God, we manage to squeeze into the car that’s loaded down from top to bottom with my bags. I have bags under my feet that keep my knees in my chest. I have bags on my lap so high that I can’t even see where we’re going. There are bags stuffed into the trunk and up between us. I can’t see a thing from behind all of my belongings, but I have a feeling it’s for the best, because it feels like he’s driving like a bat out of hell.
He jerks the wheel and makes a fast, sharp turn that has the tires squealing off the pavement. One of the bags between us falls into his lap.
“What is this shit?” he asks, grabbing the bag and tossing it out the window.
“Hey!” I yell, trying to turn back to see which bag it was so I can remember what was in it.
“Trust me, whatever was in there isn’t worth the hassle. I’ll replace whatever’s gone,” he promises, and knowing his taste, it dawns on me that the items that come up missing will have brand-new designer replacements. I smile as I start to think that maybe this isn’t such a bad deal after all.
“You ever heard of littering, asshole?” I say, gripping the bag on my lap for dear life.
We get to his place and I’m surprised to find he lives in a penthouse suite. The building is nicer than anything I’ve ever been in, but for some reason, I was expecting some Bruce Wayne mansion hidden away behind impenetrable brick walls. We each grab several bags and silently make our way to the elevator. I notice he doesn’t push a button but instead scans a key fob as the elevator smoothly makes its way to the top floor.
When the doors open to the grand foyer, he steps inside and leads me through the living room and down the hall to a bedroom. “This will be your room. You have a bathroom through there,” he points at a door. “And that’s the closet.” He points at another door. “Dinner is prepared and on the table by 7 p.m. nightly, and you are to attend. That’s when we’ll get to know each other.” He turns and heads for the door. “See you in an hour. I suggest you unpack and get cleaned up.” The door closes a little too loudly, sealing my fate as I live out the rest of my miserable life.
As doomed as things seem, I can’t help but feel a tiny bit excited with this predicament. No sense in treating this as a punishment. I have a bedroom the size of my apartment, and a luxury marble bathroom full of bubbles and oils. I’m going to enjoy every minute of making his life miserable. I smile as I throw myself back on the bed. It’s thick and soft and hugs my body like it was made for me.
I unpack some things—leaving most of it in bags because it’s stuff I never use, then I freshen up for dinner. I leave my room at 7:02 p.m., just because I know it will drive him crazy. As expected, he’s already at the table with restaurant-quality place settings. I take my seat and place a cloth napkin on my lap.
“I specifically said dinner is at 7 p.m. on the dot. It’s two minutes past. How the hell can you be late when you don’t even have to go anywhere?” he nearly yells.
I shrug and offer a smirk. “Real talent,” I say, only pissing him off more.
He flexes his jaw and I can tell he’s doing everything he can to hold back his anger, but instead of saying