I rush home after another full week of working at the bar, covering more of Steve’s shifts for him. He is so lucky he’s a genuinely nice guy, or I’d have some resentment toward him.
Gus fusses around my feet, complaining loudly as I hustle through setting up his automated feeder. He’s been extra clingy this week during the few hours I’d actually been home to sleep.
“Sorry, bud. But I’m out tonight again too.”
I pull out one of the suits my dad insists I wear when I go to dinner. Honestly, it’s like attending a business meeting every time I go over to his house.
Scraping my hair back into a bun—my long hair is a huge bone of contention between me and my dad—I check my pants for cat hair and slip my feet into my most hated pair of loafers.
Pushing my glasses securely up the bridge of my nose, I give Asparagus one last fuss before I make the drive over to my dad’s house.
I park my car next to one of his many ostentatious vehicles and trudge up the stone steps to the front door. Pushing it open, I am greeted with a warm hug by Rachel, my new stepmother.
“Oh, Junior! It’s so good to see you!” I give her a quick squeeze before stepping back, feeling awkward at her overfamiliarity. “Your father is up in his office. I’m cooking tonight, so I’ve got to get back in there!”
“You’re not stepping on James’s toes, are you?” I tease.
“We gave him a week off, so I’m in charge of the kitchen for once!” She beams, making her way back to the kitchen with a small wave.
I start up toward my dad’s office, feeling apprehensive. I rap my knuckles on the mahogany door, and he bids me enter.
“Junior, my boy!” My dad stands up, walking from behind the oversized desk and grasping my hand. We haven’t hugged since I was about twelve.
“Hey, Dad. Sorry again about missing your wedding.” I hand him a card, which is slightly damp from my clammy hand.
He waves off my apology, gesturing for me to take a seat. “I wanted to talk to you about your upcoming birthday,” he starts, and I stiffen in my seat, immediately on the defense.
“You are only a few months away from your twenty-first birthday, and the deal we made was that you would have three years to ‘find yourself’ before you join me at work. So, I wanted to discuss what your role would encompass in the beginning.”
“I don’t have any interest in your business though, Dad. Why force me into it?! I’m sure one of your subordinates would be a much better fit.”
Unconsciously, I clench my fists. “You can’t continue to control my life!” My voice raises to match his.
We glare at each other for a beat, chests rapidly rising and falling.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, striding to the door and slamming it hard in my wake.
I stomp down the hall to my bedroom and fling open the door, thinking I’ll just hide in there until dinner. I respect Rachel enough to not let my dad’s pig-headedness ruin all her hard work.
Instead of the clean, tidy, white-linen-covered bed I was expecting, I am greeted to piles of drab-looking women’s clothes all over the bed, exploding out of a couple of old suitcases that are lying over the white armchair.
“What the fuck?!”
Seeing red, I gather all the cheap clothing in my arms and kick open the door to the en suite. Standing at the vanity looking shocked is a brunette with her hands buried in silky-looking long curls.
“I take it all this shit is yours,” I snap, dumping the clothing on the floor with a clatter of zips and buttons, and she jumps a little, her mossy-green eyes widening even more. “Keep your stuff out of my room!”
I retreat back into my room, slamming the door, and take a few heaving breaths.
Since I turned eighteen, my dad and I have been locked in the same argument regarding my future. He wants me to join the family business—he owns and runs a chain of hotels—but I want to make my own mark on the world.
I’m not interested in sitting in an office all day long, telling people they’re over budget, blah blah blah. I don’t want to spend long weekends flying to visit our hotels cross country.
I had managed to get him to agree to hold off making me his apprentice until I turned twenty-one, so I had three years to do “normal” things.
I’d been homeschooled, so I had no actual friends, just the kids of other rich businessmen. I’d moved out of my dad’s into my small apartment the day after my eighteenth birthday and had applied for a job at Steve’s bar the day after that.
I didn’t need the money, but I wanted the experience. Steve soon picked up on the fact I had no life skills and took me under his wing a little, one of many reasons I am so loyal to him.
With a deep sigh, I resecure my hair into its bun, clean my glasses, and reposition them on my face before trudging downstairs and taking my place at the dining table.
My father is already sitting at the head of the table, cut crystal glass full of Scotch in his hand.
Rachel scurries around, bringing in serving bowls full of food, which actually smell pretty good. Then we sit and wait for her daughter to make her appearance.
As she steps into the room, I take a proper look at her. The long caramel-colored hair she’d been styling hangs in long ringlets over her shoulders, accentuating her ample bosom, which bounces appetizingly as she walks.
The deep red dress she is wearing clings tantalizingly to all her curves, making the green of her eyes stand out even more against her pale skin, and I shift surreptitiously in my seat as I feel the front of my pants start to grow tight.
Luckily, I don’t have to contribute much to the conversation, as Rachel is more than happy to hold court talking about her and my dad’s short honeymoon.
I can’t keep my eyes off Rebecca, who picks at her food with a frown the whole dinner. As soon as the table is cleared, she mumbles a goodnight to her mom and my dad and slips away upstairs.
“Are you staying tonight, Junior?” my dad asks me.
“Um...yeah. I was planning to.”
He nods, picking up the decanter of Scotch and tilting it my way. I shake my head, and he fills up his own glass again.
I hang out watching TV with them for another hour or so, but there’s only so much trashy real-life drama I can stomach.
“Thanks for dinner, Rachel,” I say, standing up. “I’ll see you both for breakfast.”
“Goodnight, son.”
Rachel just gives me a warm smile from where she is tucked up under my dad’s arm.
Almost as soon as I lie down in bed the stomach cramps start. Rachel must not have known to use lactose-free creams and milks in her cooking. My stomach starts to hurt with the familiar bloating I get after eating dairy.
I leap out of bed and dash into the bathroom, already tugging down my sweatpants as I make my way across the floor. I vaguely register the sound of water sloshing as I throw up the toilet lid and sit down on the cold seat.
“Um! Excuse me?!” A slightly alarmed feminine voice comes from the direction of the bath.
It’s too fucking late; my stomach is gurgling and groaning, and the contents of my ass are gonna make their entrance imminently. I want to curl up and die as I feel her eyes on my vulnerable predicament.
I feel my cheeks grow red as I shout at her, “Get out of here!”
“I’m...I’m naked here!” Her voice is high, her cheeks as red as mine must be, as she tries to cover her naked body.
My stomach cramps again, severely, and I clutch my stomach, nearly doubled over on the toilet.
Her bedroom door slams shut, and I breathe out a sigh of relief before the cramps force another groan out.
Vile smells—like something died inside my ass—fill the bathroom, and it’s like someone has turned on a gushing tap of shit-colored water in my anus. I cringe as the gross water splashes up from the bowl onto my cheeks and balls.
Fifteen minutes later, the cramps have finally stopped, and my asshole has stopped heaving.
I gingerly clean myself up, washing my hands and lighting a match before I push open the small window. Hopefully, by the time she has to use the bathroom herself, the smell will have dissipated.
