I grab two more books without looking beyond the title and head to the front where a pimply faced teen is standing at attention like he’s been waiting for me this whole time.
I hand him the books and he takes them and the tarot card, rings everything up, and I pay way more than I probably should for the three books and a tarot card before exiting the shop. I’m not saying two paperbacks, a hardback, and a tarot card aren’t worth a hundred and fifty dollars, but I think I probably paid for that unsolicited tarot reading, and I guess...
I guess that’s ok, because I’ve been listless and lost since my uncle died, but buttling sounds like a reasonable career. Who even knew there were schools for that?
Chapter one
Dec
(This job might actually be the right one for me)
The last year hasbeen a series of surreal moments for me. First The Magic Shop, then Ms. Cavenaugh’s Academy for Butlers, then the internship, the interview, and now stepping out of the small airport in the middle of Colorado. The air is cool, and under the stink of airport pollution, it smells like the mountains. In the guest pick up lane, I search for and find the guy holding a sign with my name on it, standing in front of a hot pink muscle car with bright green racing stripes. It’s... um... quite the sight.
I stop a few feet away, staring at the highly reflective surface of the passenger window. “I’m, uh, Dec Scion. Is this... real?” I stutter, not sure if I want to get into this bastion of pink. It cannot possibly be road safe, if only because it’ll be a distraction to other drivers.
The guy beside me laughs. “It appeals to Maxime’s need to stand out everywhere he goes.”
Maxime Staiano, the person I now work for. He’s... quirky. I loved him on sight because he is so much like my uncle. At the interview, he wore a yellow and green plaid top hat with a suit that wasn’t the same pattern (but did complement it) and a bow tie/vest combo that was a similar plaid pattern but in green and yellow. He talked a lot about his massive model train collection and warned me that I wouldn’t be allowed in his train room unless he was in there with me. He was interesting, charismatic, and likable. I don’t mind not being allowed to see his model train collection.
Really, I don’t. Butler’s are not curious; they’re well informed.
“That’s... something.” I don’t know what else to say.
“I’m Ethan Staiano. Maxime is my uncle. He sent me to fetch you.” Ethan has a weaselly face, and I’m sorry for saying that in my head, but it’s true. Like, if he was being cast in a movie, he would be the friend that betrays the main characters, but we’d see him in the sequel being squirrely and helpful in order to get back into the main character’s good graces, but obviously he’d betray them again. They’d forgive him, of course, and excuse his behavior as “antics,” and we’d see him in the third “Prime Exclusive” movie. He’d literally be the only character to make it through twelve increasingly bad movies, and we’d watch every one of them for his character alone. That’s the kind of face Ethan Staiano has. It’s unfortunate, really, though I can’t say he’s unhandsome. He’s fairly attractive, even with the narrow features.
It’s a testament to how distracting the car is that I didn’t immediately notice that Ethan dresses like a 1980's television detective from Florida. He layered a navy blue sport coat over a low cut V-neck baby blue t-shirt and a pair of slim fitting chinos that leave a rather impressive bulge. He even had his hair feather-cut like they did in the mid-twentieth century. He’s got the Don Johnson vibe down to a T; the question is why?
Well, none of my business unless something about his style becomes relevant to my job.
Ethan helps me get my luggage into the back seat, then I sit next to him in the front. The inside is as pink as the outside, and somehow the man beside me fills up the space like it’s as much a toy car as it looks on the outside. I didn’t notice because of his face and the car, but he’s really big. Huge. His shoulders are literally so broad that he’s touching the door on his side and taking up all the space between our seats (not that there’s much to take up). Our shoulders brush together when I sit centered, so I lean over to the side, and thankfully he doesn’t seem to be offended that I’m putting space between us.
He drives normally as we get out of the airport, but as soon as we’re on the highway, he speeds up way faster than I have ever comfortably gone in my life. He weaves through the traffic, only slowing down if there isn’t space to squeeze through. It’s terrifying until he turns on opera and blasts it like we’re at a rock concert, then it’s both terrifying and consummately cool. Like, how did I never know the joy of flying down the highway listening toLa Traviata. It’s such an extreme existential experience for me that it’s a surprise when we slow down.
We’ve driven through mountain highways so far, but Ethan turns off the highway to take a lonely, mountain road. He hugs every curve like our life depends on it as he sings along with the tenor at the top of his lungs. My vision of the road blurs as I remember how my uncle loved this opera. I know every word and every note, but I’d never sing along like Ethan is. As much as my uncle loved it, I didn’t want to ruin it for him with my inability to carry a tune in a bucket. Listening to Ethan, I’m glad I never even attempted. His voice is incredible. He could make opera his career if he was so inclined. Hell, maybe that is what he does for a living.
Midway up the mountain we’ve been climbing, Ethan pulls off the road and stops in front of a gated driveway. He clicks a button on the mirror of the car and pulls through the gate after it opens. The road takes us up a winding driveway through more mountainous forest. I was ok on the highway even though we were going way too fast, and I was alright on the mountain road because it wasn’t too curvaceous, but the driveway is meant to be taken at half the speed we’re going, and all the curves are sharp switchbacks. After a couple of minutes, my stomach protests and motion sickness sets in.
I hold on, checking to discover that he’s not actually going that fast—the driveway is just that bad—and I try to focus on a single point. It works for about five minutes.
Dear lord in heaven, I’m going to puke.
“Stop!” I shout, lowering the volume on the radio to be heard. “Stop, stop, stop.”
Ethan comes to a screeching halt, and I dive out of the car, hitting my knees at the edge of the asphalt and vomiting down the hill. There’s not much other than water and crackers since I haven’t eaten a meal in more than eight hours, but fuck, it’s awful.
The car door closes behind me, and the scuff of Ethan’s shoes alert me to his imminent approach. “Water,” he tells me as a cold bottle smacks me in the shoulder.
I take the wet bottle, rinsing out my mouth and drinking a couple of swallows to help settle my stomach. Now that I’m not moving, I’m recovering, but I look up the road and I can’t see anything to indicate this trip is going to end any time soon. “How far are we from the end?” I rasp.
“Depends on how fast I can go. I can get there in about twenty minutes, but if we go the recommended speed on this road, it’s about forty.”
So the weasel-face, opera-singing, speedster is going double the recommended speed. That tracks. I don’t know why, it just does. It feels like that’s the type of person he is. The type of person who drives too fast and listens to opera, and has a cooler for water somewhere in his car.
“So, sick for twenty or sick for forty...” Such a wonderful choice. “Can I walk?”
His laugh is just as weaselly as his face.
Ok, now I’m being unkind, and I mentally apologize to him.
