Angry God

I couldn’t escape the fucker, no matter my continent. His art chased me like a rotten fart.

“It’s a breathtaking piece, Vaughn. I can’t wait for you to see it.” Harry exhibited the modesty and humility of a newly moneyed rapper. If he could have physically sucked his own cock, his mouth would always be full.

“That’s exactly what this house needs. More Harry Fairhurst paintings—oh, and rooms.” I yawned, checking the time on my phone. We had eighteen rooms. Less than half were occupied. Emp loitered at my feet, giving Harry the stink eye. I picked him up again, scratching his neck.

“I’m off to the shower.”

“Have you eaten? I thought you’d at least like to join us in the drawing room for some port?” Mom cocked her head and smiled, every nerve in her face full of hope. “Just the one, you know.”

I loved my mother and father.

They were good parents. Involved, on top of their shit, supporting me ruthlessly with everything I did or pursued. My mother didn’t even mind that I wasn’t normal. She took it in a stride, probably because she was used to my father, Lord McCuntson himself.

Me and Dad, we had a lot in common.

We both hated the world.

We both watched life through death-tinted glasses.

But sometimes we pretended to be different, for her sake. Like, right now, I knew my dad would have preferred to stab his own crotch with training scissors than entertain the flamboyant, self-centered Fairhurst. Love made you do fucked-up shit.

I was glad I’d never catch it.

“One port,” I stressed.

Dad slapped my back again, his form of saying thank you, and we all settled by the fire, pretending it wasn’t fucking California and downright stupid to put fire to anything that wasn’t a joint or Alice and Arabella’s retina-insulting wardrobes. Harry sat back and pressed the tips of his fingers to one another, staring at me, the orange glow of the flame casting his face like a crescent.

Half angel, half devil.

Mostly devil, like the rest of the world.

With his sandy hair slicked back, tall frame, and greyhound-lean physique, he looked like an asshole salesman—the kind of man you wouldn’t trust with a toilet paper roll. I eyed the fire, ignoring Graham, our servant, who came in with a silver tray and gave each of us port.

“Thank you, Graham. Please take the rest of the night off. I’ll do the dishes.” Mom squeezed his arm with a warm smile.

Always such a softie for the help, this one.

Awkward silence stretched among us. I put the port to my lips, but didn’t drink.

“How’s the single life treating you, Harry?” Mom broke the tension with small talk.

He’d married a Croatian male model three years ago, but the marriage went down the shitters after he cheated on Harry, took half his shit, and ran off with a backup dancer for a pop star.

Harry’s head snapped in Mom’s direction.

“Oh, you know. Playing the field.”

“Hopefully with a pre-nup intact this time,” I muttered.

Dad snorted. We shared smirks under our breaths.

“Vaughn.” Mom scoffed.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“You weren’t supposed to say that.”

Dad gave up on taking any interest in the conversation and began openly answering emails on his phone.

Harry tapped his finger on his knee and toyed with his tie. “Lenora is devastated she didn’t get the internship.”

I smirked into my drink. I wondered how she hadn’t connected the dots yet—why she hadn’t gotten in, why I did. She didn’t strike me as completely stupid. Perhaps a little slow.

And a lot annoying.

“Heard from her father just before I came here. Positively crushed, that one. I do hope she’ll take the role as your assistant,” Harry continued.

My eyes snapped up. “She’d be stupid not to,” I fired out, the first real words I’d spoken to him.

His chest caved visibly under his crisp, powder-blue dress shirt. He looked relieved, as if he’d been waiting for some sort of participation from me to prove a point to my parents—that we were on good terms.

“She is a proud girl.”

“Pride is just a synonym for stupid. It leaves room for error,” I retorted.

“We all make mistakes,” he said.

I smiled politely. “Speak for yourself.”

There was a beat of silence before he continued.

“She thought she deserved the place. And in Alma’s opinion, she did.” Fairhurst sat back and glared at me.

Was he trying to rile me up? Privately, and only to myself, I could admit that Lenora wasn’t, in fact, completely talentless. Her art was a little psychotic, which obviously spoke to my unbalanced self. Lots of skulls, monsters, dragons, babies crawling on spiders’ legs and dead horses were created by her small hands. Her mind was a fascinating place, if you didn’t consider one thing she kept there—a particular memory of me—that I wanted to erase.

“Who the fuck cares? Edgar and you disagreed.” I yawned.

Both Edgar and Harry had a reason to give me the internship. It had nothing to do with my prodigious talent.