HUGE HOUSE HATES: Chapter 8

Maggie is right. The naked thing – or rather semi-naked in my case – is genius.

Before I walk into the kitchen, the Carltons are laughing raucously and talking in booming voices. As soon as I stroll in wearing my prettiest black lace underwear, they are rendered mute. Literally not a sound is uttered, and I ignore them whilst I make my sandwich.

Oh my God, the crazy rush of power I feel sends a surge of heat between my legs and straightens my spine.

Five men are brought to their proverbial knees by little old me.

It’s the first time I truly understand what it must be like to be Maggie. One woman is at the center of multiple worshipping men. It’s a drug that would be hard to give up.

Eating my sandwich, I glance at the grocery bags resting in the corner of my room. It’s not ideal to store fish outside of the refrigerator, but I don’t want to risk the men downstairs realizing what I’m up to, or worse, using my ammunition against me.

And it’s only one night. Tomorrow, when they’ve all left for work and college, I’ll be able to put the next stage of my retaliation plan into effect. They might have enjoyed the lace underwear and curves, but they’ll be less happy with the smelly fish in their closets. I can’t wait to see their stupid, smug faces.

By ten o’clock in the morning, they’ve all left for their day, wearing the shoes I’d hidden the day before. I’m sniggering as I emerge from my room. I’m late for work, but as I’m my own boss, I have the option to put my revenge plans first.

As I look both ways, knowing full well that only Ross or Mrs. Henderson could catch me, I dash into the bedroom next to mine. It’s Mark’s room, and, as expected, it’s neat and tidy. He makes his bed before he leaves for work, and all his laundry is placed tidily into a hamper in the corner. Mark’s room has an adjoining shower room, a huge widescreen TV, and a neat wooden desk with a sleek black leather chair pressed underneath it. I scan for evidence of him, finding that I want to know what makes each of my enemies tick. I tell myself that this will help me find chinks in their armor. Of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that each of the Carlton brothers looks like a different Greek god.

Danny would be Adonis, too perfect for his own good with a face made to break hearts. Alden has a Zeus-like air to his features, with a straight nose and a thick beard. I could imagine him tossing thunderbolts with precision. River would be Ares, the god of war, with his fierce eyes and lips that form a harsh line whenever he looks at me. Mark is most like Hermes, with his leaner build, and Tobias is most like Atlas. With his thick muscles and strong jaw, he could totally hold the world on his shoulders.

But all of them might as well be Cerberus, the three-headed hound of the underworld, snarling and snapping at whoever approaches. They want to drag me down to their level, and they seem to have succeeded all too easily.

For a flash, a surge of heat spreads over my face. I look down at the grocery bags in my hands and wonder how the hell I got here. A week ago, I was living with my mom, the picture of normality. Now I’m stooping to previously inconceivable levels, filled with bile and hatred and a hunger for revenge that I don’t fully understand.

Mark has so many accountancy books on his bookshelf. I guess he’s the numbers nerd of the family. He also has a photo of him as a child, perched on his mother’s lap. In the image, his arm is hooked around her neck in a sideways embrace, and his smile is so broad, that his gap teeth are out in full force. I swallow as I find myself wondering about the pain that they all experienced when she passed away. I lost my father in a way, but at least he’s still alive. We might be estranged right now, but there is always the tiniest flicker of a belief that we may talk again in the back of my mind. Knowing he’s out there means that I haven’t fully had to grieve his loss.

Blowing out a breath and shaking the thoughts from my head, I stride toward Mark’s closet, pulling the fish from the packet and sliding it into a shoebox resting on the top shelf. The smell is already rank, and the fish is still relatively fresh. After a full day out of its packet in the warmth of the room, it’s going to be ripe!

Tobias’s room is next. Unlike his brother, he maintains no order in his space. Discarded clothes hang over his chair, and his bedsheets are so disheveled I can imagine him thrashing around in a nightmare. Books are spread open on his desk in evidence of his studying, and trophies spread like a shiny parade across his shelves. A board displays around twenty retro-style photos of Tobias and his brothers and friends. There are women in the snaps, sometimes with their arms draped around his shoulders or their lips pressed to his cheeks. They look like the kinds of photos I have stored on my phone from my final years at college. Days when I used to hang out with all the football players and cheerleaders, pretending I loved the drinking and the backstabbing, trying to keep up with everyone, so they didn’t think I was a weirdo who enjoyed pottery more than I enjoyed dancing and hooking up.

Maggie wasn’t like that. She was the one person in my life who I would have considered confiding in, but then she had a fling with our mutual friend’s ex-boyfriend and ended up pregnant. By the time I found out about what was happening, she’d already left and moved in with her foster brothers. The rest, as they say, is history.

Tobias also has a picture of his mom on his nightstand, as though he’s placed it close, so she’s the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep.

Fuck.

Why the hell do these assholes have to be so human?

Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe all these pranks are pushing me too far? But as Maggie said, it’s war. They started this. Is it so terrible for me to try to finish it?

Tobias’s closet is as messy as his bedroom, so hiding the fish is easier, and I continue through Alden’s room, which is filled with art that makes me stop in my tracks, to River’s and Danny’s. In each, I find myself having to ignore the masculine scent that lingers in the air and all the things that make them less two-dimensional.

By the time each room has a fish in the closet, my chest feels hollow, and there’s a lump in my throat. None of this feels right to me. I don’t want to be an enemy to anyone, but my family has done nothing but take the misery inflicted by the Carltons. So now, they need a taste of their own medicine. It doesn’t matter how much it feels uncomfortable. It doesn’t matter how much I need to push through and pretend all of this is water off a duck’s back for me. If I have to act as though I’m enjoying the retaliation, I will. I’ll make them believe that I’m a woman who can’t be walked all over. I’ll show them that not all Hortons lie down and take it as my dad did.

When I’m done, I grab my purse and jog down the stairs. I don’t want to risk eating anything in this house because the risk that they’ve tampered with the food in retaliation is high, so I leave by the front door, vowing to buy coffee and a croissant on my way to my studio.

As I’m pulling out of the driveway, my phone rings. The screen reveals it’s my mom, and I answer it quickly, knowing she’ll moan if I don’t pick up the first time.

“Hey,” I say. “How’s Antigua?”

“It’s great,” Mom says. “The house is so lovely, and we’ve already invited the neighbors for drinks, and they’re all so friendly. I feel as though I’ve been here for years.”

“That’s great,” I say.

“And what about you? Are you all settled into Randolph’s home? Are the boys making you feel welcome?”

As I blow out a quiet breath, my hands grip the steering wheel, turning my knuckles as white as bone. How the hell do I answer the question without lying because I know Mom won’t want to hear the truth? She’d blame me for the issues or tell me I should be the bigger person and try to resolve them. I don’t want to get into an argument that will trawl up our past and rend open our wounds. She’s too far away for that. “The house is awesome,” I say brightly. “And I’m all settled into the master suite.”

“That’s great,” Mom gushes. “And the boys?”

“They had a party the first night I got here,” I say.

“Wow…that was so nice of them to welcome you and introduce you to all their friends.”

“So nice,” I agree.

“Well, it’s a big relief to know you’re all settled. We probably won’t head home for a few months, so it’s good to know everything’s going well. And what about business?”

“It’s slow,” I say softly. “I’ve designed two new ranges, and I’ve been trying to meet with buyers, but it’s hard. There’s lots of competition.”

“There is,” Mom says. “There is always competition, so you have to be tenacious. You know you have talent. You know what you’re making is great. Believe in that, and things will fall into place.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so,” she says smoothly. I’m never sure with Mom if she gives me these rousing speeches because she truly believes in my talent or is just hoping it’ll work out so that I’m not a burden to her.

“I sold three vases on my website,” I say. “The customer was across town, so I delivered them personally. They’re decorating an upscale restaurant.”

“See?” Mom says. “I told you. Just keep pushing, honey.”

“I will.”

“Okay. Well, I’ve got to go. We’re heading to the beach and then for a seafood lunch with some of Randolph’s friends.”

“Living the dream, Mom,” I say as the memory of the fish at Casa Carlton flashes through my mind. My life is more of a nightmare right now, but at least I’m bringing the rest of them down too.

“It’s been a long time coming,” she says softly.

We say our goodbyes, and thankfully, the traffic is moving in my favor today, so I arrive only thirty minutes late. My studio is at the bottom of an old building that hasn’t been renovated for over fifty years. It was in bad shape when I secured the lease for a ridiculously cheap rate, and I did a lot of work to make it usable. I’ve started subletting workspaces to other artists, which is helping to keep my head above water financially. Charli is a painter who works mostly on commissions. Naomi produces pieces from fabrics, using quilting techniques to make elaborate wall hangings and human-form sculptures. It’s fascinating and inspiring to see their work, and I’m also grateful for the company. I love what I do, but it can be a lonely profession.

The sound of Naomi’s sewing machine is audible through the closed door. She’s gotten an early start because she’s due to deliver a fabric bust to an office opening across town. It’s oversized and made from rough navy-blue material, interspersed with golden threads. Yesterday, she debated adding a kind of toga over the shoulders, but she wasn’t sure. I guess she’s made her decision.

As I push through the door, I see Naomi’s mass of black curls bent over the sewing machine and her hand clutching navy-blue satin fabric.

“Hey,” I call, so I don’t make her jump.

She doesn’t stop immediately, but when she’s gotten to the end of the seam, she reaches into the air, stretching her inked arms high. “I wondered when you were going to show up,” she says, her eyebrows arching. “It’s not like you to be late.”

I hold my hands up, palms forward. “I know. I had something to do.”

“Something more important than work?” she asks, standing and holding the fabric up so she can study her stitching.

“I had to put fish into closets,” I say, dropping my bag onto the counter and grabbing my apron from the black iron hook on the wall.

Her chin rises, and her brows form a quizzical V. “Fish in closets? What the hell is that?”

“Five annoying house-hates plus five stinky fish equals five stinky closets and much retaliation.”

Naomi blinks twice before spluttering with laughter. “You seriously put fish in their closets?”

“I did. And I switched out the cream from Oreos and put ranch dressing in their milk, and I even walked around in my underwear and ignored them last night. The battle is heating up!”

A rush of breath leaves her mouth as she shakes her head. “I would pay good money to come home with you today to witness the fallout!”

“I will take your money,” I say. “Things are getting very tight around here.”

“Tell me about it,” she says. “The starving artist stereotype feels like it was based on me.”

“But you’re getting paid for that,” I say, waving in the direction of her almost-completed bust.

“Yes, and then the pipeline of work is dry,” she groans.

“I feel your pain,” I say. “I really need to get someone to take my dinner sets.”

“We need to exhibit our work,” she says. “It’s the only way to get our stuff in front of people.”

“But how would you get people to come to the exhibition?” I ask.

“Champagne,” she says. “And maybe walking around in your underwear wouldn’t hurt.”

We both snicker, and I pull out my camera, ready to take some images to upload onto my website. “If I’m getting my tits and ass out, you are too.”

“Tits and ass,” a deep voice says from the doorway. “What the hell did I miss?”

“Charli,” we both croon in sync. His broad grin and bright green eyes flash with affection. He calls us his girls, which we love because he says it in a tone that drips with affection. If he weren’t dating a hottie called Brad, I would have a serious crush on him. As it is, we flirt relentlessly, both comfortable in the knowledge that it’s not leading anywhere at all.

“Why are you talking about the good stuff without me? No fair!” He drops his bag on the floor by his workstation and unzips his black hooded jacket. Beneath, he’s wearing his favorite band tee, that’s splattered with paint, and shredded black jeans that are as tight as a second skin.

“We’re talking about earning more money,” Naomi says, throwing her hands up. “We’re getting desperate enough to be talking about using our fine bodies.”

“Things must be bad.”

“We’re not all successful artists like you,” I say, sticking out my bottom lip.

“You’ll get there,” he says brightly with absolute certainty. “You both make beautiful commercial art. There’s no way you’re not going to be successful. It’s just about getting it in front of the right people. It’s all about connections, like everything else in this world.”

“And I have none.” The bitterness that creeps into my tone isn’t lost on my friends.

“With your sunny personality, everything will work out,” Charli says. He crosses the room to lay his tattooed hand on my shoulder. Heavy with silver rings, it’s a comforting weight. “Have some faith.”

“The guru has spoken,” I say, but my smile is watery. It’s as though their kindness has touched a nerve, and suddenly, all my bottled emotions are ready to spill over.

“And if all else fails, you’ll make a killing selling this sweet ass.”

I’m so shocked at his ridiculous crooked smile that I splutter with laughter.

“She’s been giving away looks at that sweet ass for free,” Naomi says. She begins to drape the bust with the fabric, and I can already see how good it will look.

“Whose eyes do I need to tear out?” Charli asks, and it’s enough to bring me out of my funk.

I spend the rest of the day working toward my dream. I’ll keep pushing on, and maybe Mom and Charli will be right. Maybe it’ll work out in the end. For the few hours that I’m in my happy space with my friends, life doesn’t feel so strange.