Oh, the sex is meshing. The sleep time is also wonderful. I think the best part of my day is climbing into bed with Vaughn and having him scoop me up next to him so my face is nestled on his chest. Definitely the best part of my day.
But good God, looking forward to bed, that can’t be all my life is about.
I really need a job.
I stick my cup under the one-cup instabrewer that Vaughn sets up for me before he leaves for work, and wait for the coffee to drip as I look around for things to clean. I really did most of it yesterday.
The only places I didn’t clean are the garage and the pool shed. So I guess that’s on the agenda for today.
And then that little devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear. Vegas, Grace. You could go to Vegas and see if you can jog your memory.
Yeah, Asher would love that. After my jaunt to Colorado, I’m pretty sure the next time I do that shit, the spanking will be more punishment than pleasure.
I chuckle a little at that. I do love me a spanking. But not when he’s really mad. I don’t want to piss him off. I want to make him happy.
So no. No memory-lane Vegas trips for me. I sigh and grab my coffee. It’s all about cleaning the garage and pool shed for me today.
I head out back first. Might as well take advantage of the morning shade. Once the day gets older, the sun will beat down on that shed and it will be very hot inside.
And that’s where I spend the next couple hours. I inflate all the rafts just so they are available for us if we want to float. I sweep out the cobwebs and the put all the various pool toys in a large mesh bag. I even wash the two windows.
The garage is even quicker. Vaughn’s garage is spotless. Not even a drop of oil on the gray painted floor. Everything is either organized in some elaborate wall shelving system complete with giant plastic tubs, or hanging on a hook over his well-equipped tool bench.
So I sweep it out and call it good. I consider washing the car he says is mine now. But it’s clean. I’m not sure who cleans it, but I’ve never seen one of his cars get dirty. That must be someone’s job.
So I go back in the house and catch the tail end of a message playing on the house phone in his office.
Damn, two days in a row there’s a call on that phone that has not gotten a call in almost three months. What the hell is going on?
I walk into Vaughn’s office, but the message is over.
Should I listen?
I mean, it’s my house too now. He says so, at least. I’m not restricted from looking at anything. Maybe Felicity’s room, because most of her stuff is still here. I would never go in there anyway, but no one ever said it was off limits.
My feet are already walking towards the machine before I can make a decision and so it’s a simple press of a button to make it play.
“V,” the man’s voice on the machine says. “Got that Black Bash ticket you wanted. It wasn’t easy, asshole, and there’s no plus one. So you owe me big. I’m gonna email it now, just sent it to your phone. All the invites have a barcode on them, so they’ll scan the email when you enter. I told you I think this is a bad idea, but whatever, dude. You’re in. And don’t forget the theme this year is classic movie stars. Later.”
The Black Bash. That’s what the girl was talking about yesterday too. I check the machine for yesterday’s message, but it’s already been erased.
Hmmm.
Vaughn never mentioned a party to me. Is he hiding something? I mean, it’s pretty clear he wanted a ticket to this party and that message also made it crystal clear I’m not going with him. No plus one.
I sit down at his desk and turn on his computer. We have computers all over the place in this house. Laptops just appear. There’s always one or two in the kitchen. Vaughn said that he and Felicity used to work online while they ate dinner on the couch. There’s a desktop in our bedroom—that’s the one I took over. And there’s even a tablet that migrates around as well. It’s got everyone’s email on it. Even mine is on there now. He and Felicity, for all their sophisticated hacking skillz, do not seem to give a fuck about the security of whatever accounts are on these machines.
They must have private ones too. Because that’s the only thing that makes sense.
I look over at Vaughn’s desktop computer.
I could look on that one. Just check to see if the emails are the same. You know, to familiarize myself with our blended household.
My hand jiggles the mouse, just to check and see if it’s shut down or sleeping, when it comes to life.
No password required, all his files are right there on the home screen, so I guess that should make me feel special. He trusts me implicitly. No information is off limits.
Or, that little angel on my shoulder pipes in, he trusts you not to snoop through his stuff.
I navigate down to the mail icon on the bottom of the screen and click.
Up comes Gmail. And nope, this is not the email he uses in the living room.
There are five messages. That’s it. Nothing in his send folder. Nothing in his spam folder. Nothing in his draft folder. Five messages and all of them say unread.
Until I click on them. I start with the oldest, which is from just a few hours ago. Right after he left for work. It’s some kind of production schedule from Larry, his agent. And once I check, they are all from Larry, only from different accounts. The newest one—subject line: Invitation that you will regret, so don’t blame me—is from another Larry account.
I don’t get it. Why is this Black Bash thing so strange? It’s setting off alarm bells for me. I just can’t put the pieces together to understand why.
I open it, of course, and I’m staring at something that looks like an online plane ticket. The kind where you just flash your phone at the scanner to board, and it reads the code.
This party that seems to be a huge deal, but for all the wrong reasons, has a barcode embedded into the invitation.
Why?
The phone rings again, and I jump up so fast I knock the phone over and it answers.
“Hello?” the woman’s voice says on the other end of the line. “V?”
I do not move. I do not say a word.
“Well, that’s weird,” she says under her breath. “If this is the message, V, I’m telling you this as a friend, stay away from the Black Bash. OK? Just stay away. Later.”
What the hell is going on?
I wait a few seconds to make absolutely sure she’s hung up the line, and then I pick up the phone, mark all his emails as unread, and then turn the monitor off.
But good God, looking forward to bed, that can’t be all my life is about.
I really need a job.
I stick my cup under the one-cup instabrewer that Vaughn sets up for me before he leaves for work, and wait for the coffee to drip as I look around for things to clean. I really did most of it yesterday.
The only places I didn’t clean are the garage and the pool shed. So I guess that’s on the agenda for today.
And then that little devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear. Vegas, Grace. You could go to Vegas and see if you can jog your memory.
Yeah, Asher would love that. After my jaunt to Colorado, I’m pretty sure the next time I do that shit, the spanking will be more punishment than pleasure.
I chuckle a little at that. I do love me a spanking. But not when he’s really mad. I don’t want to piss him off. I want to make him happy.
So no. No memory-lane Vegas trips for me. I sigh and grab my coffee. It’s all about cleaning the garage and pool shed for me today.
I head out back first. Might as well take advantage of the morning shade. Once the day gets older, the sun will beat down on that shed and it will be very hot inside.
And that’s where I spend the next couple hours. I inflate all the rafts just so they are available for us if we want to float. I sweep out the cobwebs and the put all the various pool toys in a large mesh bag. I even wash the two windows.
The garage is even quicker. Vaughn’s garage is spotless. Not even a drop of oil on the gray painted floor. Everything is either organized in some elaborate wall shelving system complete with giant plastic tubs, or hanging on a hook over his well-equipped tool bench.
So I sweep it out and call it good. I consider washing the car he says is mine now. But it’s clean. I’m not sure who cleans it, but I’ve never seen one of his cars get dirty. That must be someone’s job.
So I go back in the house and catch the tail end of a message playing on the house phone in his office.
Damn, two days in a row there’s a call on that phone that has not gotten a call in almost three months. What the hell is going on?
I walk into Vaughn’s office, but the message is over.
Should I listen?
I mean, it’s my house too now. He says so, at least. I’m not restricted from looking at anything. Maybe Felicity’s room, because most of her stuff is still here. I would never go in there anyway, but no one ever said it was off limits.
My feet are already walking towards the machine before I can make a decision and so it’s a simple press of a button to make it play.
“V,” the man’s voice on the machine says. “Got that Black Bash ticket you wanted. It wasn’t easy, asshole, and there’s no plus one. So you owe me big. I’m gonna email it now, just sent it to your phone. All the invites have a barcode on them, so they’ll scan the email when you enter. I told you I think this is a bad idea, but whatever, dude. You’re in. And don’t forget the theme this year is classic movie stars. Later.”
The Black Bash. That’s what the girl was talking about yesterday too. I check the machine for yesterday’s message, but it’s already been erased.
Hmmm.
Vaughn never mentioned a party to me. Is he hiding something? I mean, it’s pretty clear he wanted a ticket to this party and that message also made it crystal clear I’m not going with him. No plus one.
I sit down at his desk and turn on his computer. We have computers all over the place in this house. Laptops just appear. There’s always one or two in the kitchen. Vaughn said that he and Felicity used to work online while they ate dinner on the couch. There’s a desktop in our bedroom—that’s the one I took over. And there’s even a tablet that migrates around as well. It’s got everyone’s email on it. Even mine is on there now. He and Felicity, for all their sophisticated hacking skillz, do not seem to give a fuck about the security of whatever accounts are on these machines.
They must have private ones too. Because that’s the only thing that makes sense.
I look over at Vaughn’s desktop computer.
I could look on that one. Just check to see if the emails are the same. You know, to familiarize myself with our blended household.
My hand jiggles the mouse, just to check and see if it’s shut down or sleeping, when it comes to life.
No password required, all his files are right there on the home screen, so I guess that should make me feel special. He trusts me implicitly. No information is off limits.
Or, that little angel on my shoulder pipes in, he trusts you not to snoop through his stuff.
I navigate down to the mail icon on the bottom of the screen and click.
Up comes Gmail. And nope, this is not the email he uses in the living room.
There are five messages. That’s it. Nothing in his send folder. Nothing in his spam folder. Nothing in his draft folder. Five messages and all of them say unread.
Until I click on them. I start with the oldest, which is from just a few hours ago. Right after he left for work. It’s some kind of production schedule from Larry, his agent. And once I check, they are all from Larry, only from different accounts. The newest one—subject line: Invitation that you will regret, so don’t blame me—is from another Larry account.
I don’t get it. Why is this Black Bash thing so strange? It’s setting off alarm bells for me. I just can’t put the pieces together to understand why.
I open it, of course, and I’m staring at something that looks like an online plane ticket. The kind where you just flash your phone at the scanner to board, and it reads the code.
This party that seems to be a huge deal, but for all the wrong reasons, has a barcode embedded into the invitation.
Why?
The phone rings again, and I jump up so fast I knock the phone over and it answers.
“Hello?” the woman’s voice says on the other end of the line. “V?”
I do not move. I do not say a word.
“Well, that’s weird,” she says under her breath. “If this is the message, V, I’m telling you this as a friend, stay away from the Black Bash. OK? Just stay away. Later.”
What the hell is going on?
I wait a few seconds to make absolutely sure she’s hung up the line, and then I pick up the phone, mark all his emails as unread, and then turn the monitor off.
