His Pretty Little Burden: Chapter 3

THE OLD TELEVISION BOX MOVES, the entire unit slowly gliding towards me, in a way it might if on wheels.

It’s upon me.

Then I’m inside it.

‘Wake up.’

My back arches off the bed, rising me with it, pulling me from my tormented slumber as my muscles fight to flee but barely move at all. A nightmare, I think.

‘Wake up.’

I sit up with a start, clutching at the sheets, endorphins and fear like a spiralling entity consuming me, eyes wide with panic, mind lost while trying to comprehend the day, the time, reaching for my most recent memory so that I can place myself somewhere. Anywhere. Desperately, I search the large unfamiliar space around me. Where am I?

As my eyes land on a girl sitting beside me, I scoot to the opposite end of the enormous bed, kicking the sheets as I go to create a barrier between me and the stranger. ‘Who are you?’

She holds her hands up by her face. ‘It’s okay. I’m Jasmine. I won’t hurt you.’

‘Why, why are you in here?’ Here? Where is here? I dart my startled gaze around the room, bouncing it off the lamp dotted walls, the reverie of yesterday slowly tumbling into my tired, confused mind. I’m staying here a few nights, I remind myself. The mansion. Henchman Jeeves brought me to this room. I laid down on the bed for a moment and then… I fell into the television again.

‘Mr Butcher told me to sleep in here with you,’ she says, a soft English drawl to her accent. ‘On the roll-out.’

My heart slows to a normal rhythm once I remember I’m safe, that my father will be here soon to collect me. ‘His property,’ is what the man said. I didn’t mind that at all. No one has ever wanted to own me before… And most people look after their property, find a place in their world for it, and take responsibility. I like that a lot. ‘Mr Butcher?’

‘Yes, my boss.’ She nods. ‘Didn’t you meet him?’

‘I, ah, yes,’ I recall, rubbing my dry eyes to life and relaxing my offensive stance, sliding my knees up and hugging them, the sheets like a little fort around me. ‘The man with the blue eyes?’

She laughs, a hue of pink lighting the pales of her cheeks. A blush, in fact. I get it; he’s hot. ‘He does have particularly striking eyes, doesn’t he? Don’t you know who Clay Butcher is?’ She slides further onto the bed, crossing her legs, settling in. I drop my gaze to her pink button-up sleep shirt and drawstring shorts, outwardly young and hip apparel. I think she is about my age, perhaps a year or two older.

‘What time is it?’ I squint around the room again, scarcely able to see much beyond the lamps emitting a low glow on the walls. The shadowed corners are pitch-black; the curtains are blackout. It is seemingly night-time. ‘Wait,’ I say, meeting her hazel eyes again. ‘What do you mean, ‘Do I not know who he is?’ Should I know who he is?’

Finding her drawstring, she fiddles with the ends. ‘Well, yeah. I guess you don’t watch much television. His brothers are like the District Kardashians. They’re rich and beautiful. Everyone wants to know their business, ya know? And Mr Butcher has recently been…’ She ponders the correct wording. ‘Knighted? Crowned? I dunno, become the mayor of Connolly.’

‘Mayor?’ Surprised by that, my mind reaches for understanding. ‘He is in the Mafia, Fawn.’ My mum’s words throw me further into bewilderment. So my mum was being her eccentric self when she thought my father was associated with the Mafia. His involvement in the political world instead makes far more sense as to why she didn’t want to reach out to him, a man whose image I imagine is pristine. A bastard daughter is probably the worst kind of publicity. I feel pride skip through my heart, imagining my father giving speeches and organising citizens. A man of impeachable character—

Fuck.

The skip abruptly halts. The main reason I’m here is not possible if he truly is a man of impeachable character. I remember the way darkness lurked below Mr Butcher’s practised veil of professionalism; he can’t just be a politician.

That’s not what I want.

I shake my head, deflating.

Still, taking the baby and giving him a place to belong, with food and love, will release me of that burden. The rest, I can figure out on my own… Even in theory, it’s laughable. Or maybe one day, I’ll just remember.

‘Who are you?’ Her words draw me from my thoughts, planting me back onto the bed with the strange girl. ‘To be able to stay here, in his house?’

Startled by her question, I say, ‘He never said?’

‘He told me you were his guest and to stay by your side until he comes for you. But Bolton is outside your door, so that means you’re not just a guest.’

Given her tone, I suppose that isn’t usually done. If my father is an influential man, then it would make sense that Mr Butcher would want to keep me out of the media and prevent me from conversing with other people. I don’t mind. I don’t want attention, anyway. ‘I’m trying to find my dad. Dustin Nerrock. Do you know—’

‘Yes. I know him,’ she confirms, sweeping her long chocolate-coloured hair to the side. ‘He was an associate of Mr Storm. I met him a few times when Mr Storm was still alive before his son-in-law, Clay, erm, sorry, Mr Butcher and his daughter Aurora came to live here.’

I beam, wanting to know more about the man who is partly responsible for my existence. ‘You know him? My dad? What’s he like?’

‘Rude,’ she says with a laugh that isn’t malicious, but I still feel my spine tighten, not liking her admission. ‘I know powerful people, been around them my whole life, and they are all rude. Mr Butcher can be very… curt, but he is kind in a cold way too.’

She can’t know him that well. She’s young. ‘You’re my age? How long have you worked for them?’

‘Since I dropped out of high school, so like, three years. I’m a maid, usually, but this is just for now because I need something to do. But I suppose he wanted someone your age to be with you. See, that was thoughtful. Sort of.’

I nod, liking that I didn’t wake up alone in here, but still unsettled given she’s sitting on the bed with me. ‘So you’re being paid to just hang out with me?’

‘I’m being paid a lot to hang out with you.’

Not a bad gig.

My hollow stomach contracts, a groan reaching out, the sound outward and loud. A blush hits my cheeks. ‘Hunger is unbecoming.’ My foster mother’s words sound in my ears.

‘You’re hungry,’ she says, jumping to her feet, eager to act. ‘You missed dinner. What do you want?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, the gurgle of my stomach fighting against my words, rendering them lies dangling in the air. ‘Okay, sorry. I am hungry, but I don’t want to eat his food.’

She clicks the side lamp on, lighting the room further, allowing my eyes visibility. She shimmies her slippers on. ‘Don’t be silly. You’re a guest. Want ice cream?’

I slide from the mattress, looking down and seeing I’m in the same shirt and jeans, reminding me that I really should go back to the motel and collect my things. I adjust my clothes because the material feels rough compared to the luxurious, soft sheets I was touching with my fingers. ‘Ice cream?’

‘Yeah! You’re pregnant, though. Do you feel like ice cream? Or cake. They have the best cakes downstairs. I sneak slices when I’m on the late shift, cleaning up after a party or something.’ Her bright eyes and beaming smile cause the corner of my lips to twitch upwards and a flake of excitement to settle inside me. I lock away my wariness.

‘Yeah. Cake sounds amazing.’

‘Cool.’ She twists around, bounding towards the door. ‘I’ll go get us some.’

‘Wait,’ I blurt out, stepping towards her and the door. ‘Can I come?’

‘Ah…’ She pauses, her eyes wide in thought. ‘I don’t see why not. Everyone is asleep anyway. It’s past midnight.’ I trail her from the room, and she makes a little hmm sound in her throat. ‘Looks like Bolton has ducked out. I thought I’d have to convince him to let us go to the kitchen.’

I sneak after her down the shadowy hallway where most of the lights are off or dim. The walls are bare, with not a picture frame in sight, no indoor trees or ornaments.

Twisting around to view the direction we came from, I see several doors heading in that direction. We turn and she descends a wide staircase with another hallway continuing in the opposite direction. I would most definitely get lost if I were alone.

At the bottom of the stairs, we take a door behind them, and Jasmine flicks a switch. The room comes to life under the strip lights on the ceiling. Woah. It’s a kitchen. A large commercial-style kitchen, set in chrome, sterling silver, glass, and white splashback tiles. Nothing like the small kitchenette in my foster family’s house, but I suppose that is to be expected as I imagine Mr Butcher has a full house of staff.

His staff probably have staff.

I stay by the door as she bounces towards the double fridge. Gripping a cake box, she appears, bringing it towards me. She cuts two pieces and then lifts herself onto the workbench, sitting up there and taking a bite. ‘Come have some. It’s orange and macadamia.’

I slide up beside her, eagerly grabbing a slice of cake and taking a bite. My tastebuds burst under the sweet and tart flavours, the playful but delicate tones. ‘Fuck, this is so good. I feel like we’re being naughty or something.’

‘Nah. Bolton has a camera on him at all times, so he knows we are in the kitchen and Mr Butcher told me to make sure you eat, and, anyway, I can get away with pretty much anything.’ She takes another bite, talking around her mouthful. ‘So, you’re trying to find your dad? Why? Because you’re knocked-up?’

Her lack of a filter only brings a bright smile to my lips, liking the friendly, no-bullshit approach she has with me. We share this flaw in tactfulness. I stare at the cake, wishing I could create something this magnificent. Wish I had a skill. Wish I was worth more than my appearance. ‘You may feel good about yourself now, while you’re young and pretty, but when you’re my age, you’ll be nothing.’ The bitter words of my foster mother fill my mouth with bile, the truth in them hard to keep down. I’m not good for much, not good enough to be a mother, that’s for sure. I won’t let this baby struggle with me through life like my mother did, and I can’t let it be raised by the system like I was after her suicide. So, giving Dustin the baby makes sense… ‘I want to give Dustin the baby. I can’t look after it. I’m not made of the right stuff to be a mother.’

‘What about the father?’ she asks, finishing her slice and staring longingly at the remaining wedge, her internal debate clear in her eyes. ‘Doesn’t he want the kid?’

The reverie of an old black-and-white television show flickers behind my eyes, provoking my heart to shudder, to move low into the pit of my stomach with the surprise baby and the delicious cake. Benji… I want to say it’s Benji’s. That the baby was made in a loving moment, but then she might ask questions. Want details. Then I would have to lie, and I’ve twisted the truth enough today. I’m exhausted by the weight of all my omissions. ‘I don’t know who the father is. Not for sure,’ I admit, taking another bite, filling my mouth with more joy and coating the bile with sweetness. The word slut is probably echoing in her ears.

‘Oh.’ She dusts the sugary shaving from her fingers. My confession thickens the air, an awkward silence hangs between us.

Slut. Slut. Slut.

‘What about you?’ I say, finishing my slice before sliding off the countertop, needing action and a distraction from, well, slut. Cringing inwardly, I walk to the fridge and open the door. As the frosty air radiates out, I ask, ‘What’s your story?’

‘My story? Where do I start?’ She laughs, before bouncing to her feet, outwardly indifferent to my predicament. I sigh my relief. ‘I have so many stories to tell. My parents are always travelling for business,’ she says. ‘They are really important. I’ve been to almost every country with them. But when I turned eighteen, I wanted to experience something real. I’m sick of stuffy galas, ya know?’

I blink at her. ‘Um… Sure. I know.’

‘The house looked different when I started. Mr and Mrs Butcher have slowly been renovating.’

I lean my hip on the counter, thinking about the way Mr Butcher made me kneel between his knees, about my body’s response to his scent, proximity, and domination. I shake the memory away, as the words Mrs Butcher repeat. He has a wife, and I’m little more than a stray pet who might be growing someone worth something to someone important, maybe.

‘How did Jimmy Storm die?’ I ask.

‘Cancer, but it was sudden,’ she says, walking over to the kitchen, a subtle indication for us to head back to the room. ‘Like, one minute he was breathing and the next’—she chokes herself, making a theatrical gagging sound—’his lungs gave out. Just like that.’

As I wander past her, she flicks the light off, engulfing my back in black as we exit the kitchen.

Approaching the room, I feel my face burn, shame like a furnace heating my cheeks. Under the unimpressed gaze of Henchman Jeeves, I trail Jasmine. She adds a prance to her step, proving his scrutiny is ineffective, to one of us, at least. He straightens, waiting for us, his arms folded over his chest, foot tapping slightly. I’ve never been minded like this before. Most of the time, my presence goes unnoticed.

He raises an eyebrow at her. ‘Next time, a heads-up would be nice before you go wandering around.’

She laughs. ‘Why? You hungry?’

‘A little, yes.’

Back in the room, I strip down to my underwear and make myself comfortable on the king-size bed while Jasmine snuggles into the roll-out mattress.

I think about our conversation. One part, actually.

Mrs Butcher.

Images of a beautiful, graceful woman taunt me, while the thought of him creates a warm pool low in my stomach, too low to be anything but indecent.

Clay Butcher.

He’s not old enough to be a Mr Butcher. How old is he, anyway? Mid to late thirties? Beneath that flawlessly fitted suit, I can tell he has a powerful body, but I can’t picture it. Does he have a light dusting of grey hair on his chest? I groan at my own mind, rolling onto my side. Squeezing my eyes shut, I count inappropriate sheep with piercing blue irises.

And feel guilt move into my stomach because they should be hazel, just like Benji’s were.