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Sure. One orgasm will be enough.
My hair is a fucking mess. I let it grow out after the Army handed me a medal and showed me the door, and now it looks…
It looks like it used to when my mom was still alive. Curly, like hers. Sandy, like hers.
Thinking about her is never good on the job, so I fuck with my hair until it’ll at least dry in a presentable way and go in search of Daisy’s laundry room.
That’s off the kitchen, too. Shelves on one side. A stackable washer and dryer on the other. A folding table.
I find detergent and put my pathetic pile of clothes into the washer, then open the dryer out of habit.
There are clothes inside.
Daisy’s clothes.
I make it through cleaning the lint trap before I can no longer ignore thekindof clothes.
“She said not to be weird about the dark. I’m not going to be a fucking jackass about her clothes, either.”
Except only a jackass would lose his mind about folding a few items of clothing, so I do not lose my mind. I take out a set of pajama pants, worn and soft. Fold. A black tank top, also soft. Fold.
A bra with no underwire. Very fucking soft.
Fold.
A pair of black panties.
Fold.
I’m still having a fucking heart attack over the panties while I fold her socks and leave them on the top of the pile on the folding board.
I’m already hard again.
Jesus fucking Christ. How did I ignore this while I lived next door to her?
I didn’t. That’s the answer. I didn’t ignore it at all. I jacked off in the shower and pretended I hated her and avoided her at every opportunity and now I can’t avoid her.
Now I don’t want to.
No, fuck, Idowant to. This is the last place I want to be. ButifI’m going to be here, I should at least be in the same room. That’s the only way I can do my job.
However, she’s given me explicit instructions about not going into her studio. I’ll have to tell her that it’s a one-time thing when she comes out. I don’t have to talk to her to protect her, but I do have to be able to see her.
Back in the kitchen, I do a deeper dive into the art scene people. Nothing I find changes my opinion on them. Every article only reinforces my sense that the art scene is the kind of place where people influence each other with gossip and wrinkled noses, not hit men.
Something Daisy said, though…
That time at the fundraiser. That was it. I can’t imagine he’d have anything to do with this.
It’s not likely for that little prick to be involved, but if that’s the one incident that sticks out to her from school, it’s worth looking into. It’s not like I’ve got any better leads, and Zeus is running down any threats that might have come from her father’s business dealings. I don’t hold out much hope from his end—no one’s foolish enough to go up against Hades with Zeus and Poseidon at his sides. But foolish enough to think Daisy’s an easy target? I thought we’d taught Kenneth Coleman well enough years ago.
I never went into detail with Daisy about all the bullshit that followed Zeus bailing me out of jail. Kenny’s parents were rich pieces of shit who were more worried about their son’s orthodontia than the fact that he’d assaulted a girl. It took them six months to figure out that every refusal to drop the charges against me brought them closer to total ruin.
Zeus made a point of keeping the details mostly between us. An attempt at gaining my trust, maybe. I don’t know.
The only other person who knew what a fucking nightmare they were was Hades, who was pressing charges against Kenneth.
I remember the afternoon it ended because I got home from the fancy-ass prep school they enrolled me in to finish high school to find Zeus in the driveway, blocking Hades from getting into one of the many black SUVs that were in the family. There was so much energy in the air that it felt like static, and it still wasn’t enough to cover the murderous rage coming off Hades. His dog, Conor, sat perfectly still at his heel, staring at Zeus.
