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Under Her Heel
Under Her Heel 1
Keava (KEE-vah)
Putting the car in park, I glance up at the large three-story house that will be my home for the next two years. The house itself looks nice, but like any other college housing, it has plastic chairs on the porch and many of the windows are covered with what looks like tacked-up sheets or blankets, not the nice, starched linen curtains of my childhood home.
The front door opens, and I watch as two guys walk out, a girl between them. My heart clenches painfully seeing the once familiar faces and I almost regret taking this job. Six years and three days later, I still can recognize them, even though their bodies are no longer that ridiculously skinny, see every bone thin. No, now they are filled out with lean, tone muscles that any girl would be happy to find herself wrapped around. Well, any girl but me.
Thanking God that I arrived later than planned, I hide in my car until the trio turns the corner towards campus. Only then do I push the car door open and walk up to the large double doors. The frat and sorority houses, along with the general non-dorm housing filled up early this year, and I should have been here when they all arrived, to greet them and assert myself as the house monitor. But, per the norm, Mom had some kind of crisis and delayed my leaving.
Luckily my tuition is covered with the scholarship and loans and getting this position as house monitor in College Row rounds out most of my needs. Without those, there is no way I could attend college and find a way to get out of Hicksville- Fucking- Bend. And there is no way that I want to spend my life there, being forced to marry Billy just to be his farm slave, and to pay my mother’s debts.
Shaking myself out of the thoughts that could send me into a spiral, I straighten my spine and rap the custom gold door knocker with the school emblem on it. I know I could just waltz in like I own the place, but in their shoes—it would tick me off. Better to play it safe–
My thoughts are cut off as a Barbie-doll-esque girl answers the door, a lilac-colored top with a deep v tied at her pert, double D breasts revealing toned abs. White Daisy Duke-style shorts make me rethink the Barbie-doll idea. She might have the figure, but she is dressed for dancing on a stripper’s pole...
“Yes?” She glares down at me, taking a sip from the red Solo cup in her hand. Why do frats and sororities always use the red Solo cups? There are more upscale cups that are plastic and don’t cost an arm and a leg.
“Hi!” I wave, then want to smack myself in the head. Dork! “I’m Keava, your house monitor.” I start to edge my way into the door, but Whore Barbie blocks the door.
“Not so fast, Carbie. We have standards here and you,” she stops speaking to look me up and down, a sneer marring her perfect face, “most definitely don’t fit.”
Rolling my eyes, I decide that being polite isn’t going to serve me here, so I use my extra girth and push past her. I’m not going to let her smack get to me, I just have a little extra to hold onto. “Good for me that you aren’t the one in charge, Bitch! Now, how about you tell everyone to meet me in the,” I pause looking around the hallway to figure out the best space. To the left is a large dining area and to the right is a living room with a large Ping-Pong table taking up most of the space. I wrinkle my nose at it, how cliché can you get? “Dining room it is. Ten minutes, oh, and which room is mine?”
The second I ask the question, knowing I won’t like the answer. The job posting had said a private room with ensuite. The look that comes over this bitch’s face is pure evil. “Oh, they had a note on your door, making sure no one took it. I’ll show you right where it is.” Her voice is sweeter than the most noxiously sweet cotton candy, and the only option I am left with is to follow her and see what they have gotten up to in my absence.
We walk through the dining room which has a long table that can easily seat twenty, then into a kitchen that has me salivating to cook. I can’t wait to see if the pantry is stocked and what I can make. A large joint mudroom/laundry room separates my room from the rest of the house, which I kinda dig. I’m not one for parties or going nuts, so being away from all that will be a much-needed break.
“Here it is, Kefir,” the bitch says, she has yet to introduce herself. She pushes the door open to reveal a nightmare. There is no way I can sleep in this room. The smell alone is disgusting, dirty gym socks with a wet dog aroma, but beyond that are the boxes that fill every available inch of space. And to make it worse, a very muddy, large dog is sprawled on his back, paws in the air, snoring. “Happy sleeping.” She laughs, a high-pitched sound that probably has broken a couple of crystal glasses over her short life, a life I wouldn’t mind making shorter.
The sound of her heels clacking on the floor slowly fades as all hopes of a decent year crumble to the ground. The problem with being the last hire is you get the worst of the lot. And now I understand why they recommend you be here before any of the residents arrive.
A tear drips down my nose, and I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palm to stop any more tears. I will not let them see me cry or defeat me. Pulling my contract out, I quickly skim the rules of tenants and a grin splits my face. They want to play games, then games we will play. And I play to win.
