RISEN
After it all went down, I called Trevor to update him. Probably a bad idea.
“Let me get this straight.” Trevor’s deep roughneck voice crows over the car’s tiny speakers while I’m driving back toward the house. “You, Risen? You’re a scary lucky motherfucker. You’ll be babysitting one of the most spank bank worthy women on the planet for a month as punishment for arresting the same said woman? You’ll be living in her fucking mansion. Wow, you sorry bastard.” His laugh is so loud, I have to turn down the volume before he hurts my ears. “I want in front of this judge! I need to explain that this is totally unacceptable. He seems like an asshole for putting you in such a horrible predicament.” That boastful laugh of his continues as I come to a stop.
“It’s not that easy, asshat. I have to live at her place. I have to do the things she wants to do. I have to try to do the things I want and keep her out of trouble so we don’t go to jail. If this goes wrong, it could mean no job, no career, and jail time for me too. You do remember Stints? That fucker ended up in Lompoc. He was never the same.”
I’m not accepting this. This is not going to go well at all. Yeah, I may have kept her out of an orange jumpsuit, and a girl named Margory’s arms, but I might be in for worse than her. No fucking dates, and zero time out with the guys. The gym will be non-existent, and I can’t work on my project. All my extracurricular activities will go out the window now that she’s my new tagalong.
Princess Crown won’t be up for my scene. Not to mention, she’s constantly been the instrument of almost every wet dream I have. That’s going to be fucking with my head for sure. The Crown house is fucking massive. I can more than likely stay to one wing without seeing her most of the time, but to imagine her under the same roof? Fuck, it’s gonna damage my resolve.
“Trev. I just pulled up to my place. Text me later, and keep me in the loop on things, yeah?”
“Yeah, sure thing. If I hear any bullshit or whatever, I’ll give you a call. And dick up, man, it’s China Doll Crown. This is fuckin’ epic for poor bastards like us.” I shake off his enthusiasm.
“Fine. Next time you pull over the princess and I’ll get my dick wet with all the girls in town. Now fuck off, Trev.”
“Later, dickwad.”
Pressing the end button on the steering wheel and hearing the derisive click, the music I was listening to before comes back on. After yesterday, and the shitty night’s sleep I’d had, I went for a workout to push out all the sexual tension. What my parents call the obnoxious ruckus to me is crankable joy. Cage the Elephant pipes through at a resounding level, just before I turn it down. The last thing I need now is flack from my parents for my musical tastes, or lack thereof.
Parking the car in the garage and walking through the front door, the first thing that hits me is the cool of the air conditioner. The place is spotless, totally devoid of clutter. My parents’ home is meticulous, almost museum quality stringent. You could eat out of the empty flower pots as easily as a bowl. It’s that clean. Taking my workout shoes off and peeling back the reeking sweaty socks, I make my way up to the second level where my bank of rooms are situated.
Only a select few at the precinct know that I live a life of luxury. Tiana, of course, knows, and her family, but Riggs and Trevor don’t have a clue. I drive to work in my project car. I save cash from paychecks, and I don’t toss around wealth like a rich, stuck up prick. I try not to flaunt it. I don’t want to be treated different because I have rich parents. It’s their money. They’re the rich ones.
Their house is a very modern, open concept that gives the feeling of flying when you walk along the causeway toward my room. The floor, walls, and stairs are completely stain and dirt free glass, giving you the perception of walking on air. Some new age designer helped them piece it together, and they enjoy stating the fact.
My parents own the Petersen, and two or three, I think, other major museums and art galleries in the central Los Angeles area. Gaille Petersen, as she was once called, was the daughter of a renowned art collector. When they died, she inherited everything. She’s made it an even larger portfolio than they’d dreamed up. I guess they’d be proud, but I don’t give it much thought.
Stepping into my room, I see that Harvey’s been in here again. Fucking poodle. I swore I closed the door, but I guess he snuck in when someone came to clean. The bed is ruffled, the pillows are tossed to the floor, and there’s a perfect circle the size of a hundred-pound horse in the center.
“Harvey,” I call out.
Scampering out of the closet, proud as a peacock that he was able to hide out as long as he did, he dances around for attention. “You big bastard. Been sleeping in my dirty hamper again, have we?” I ruffle the curly mop of hair on his head. What I wouldn’t give to shave that bastard. Mind you, my father would have my hide, but it would be worth it just once to see what he’d look like. My dad’s retired now and that dog is his pride and joy.
“Out you go, you mindless idiot.” Harvey saunters over to the bed, hops up, spins in circles, then flops down, tossing more bedding to the floor.
The breeder told my parents that poodles are smart animals; very obedient, and easy to train. Not Harvey. He’s the dumbest smart guy in the room. He can’t fetch, doesn’t sit, can’t deal with basic commands, and even though he’s had more training than a Navy Seal, he still pees on the mat at the front door. Finally ignoring him, I keep on about my task of pulling out all the things I’ll need for a month.
Sleeping here last night—if that’s what it can be called—I twisted in the sheets, flipping and sweating as I thought about the upcoming event. Not to mention, I’ve been hooked to China’s wagon for the foreseeable future. It had me a bit on edge. I woke before the sun was even up, hitting the heavy bag, the weights, and a run for over three hours just so I could clear the cloud of her scent from my brain. Even now, the whole ordeal makes me tent my sweatpants.
“Catheters, enemas, vasectomy, ball crushing vise, dirty hookers,” I say, trying to calm my heated erection.
It’s not really working.
Walking around the room, gathering things, it slowly recedes, and I feel blessed I know how to control my urges. If I couldn’t, it would be a horrendous month and a half in solitude.
Taking in the stank of my gym-drenched self, and knowing that it’ll gain me no brownie points if I show up smelling and looking like a homeless person, I decide another shower is in order.