Page 9 of The Feeder Legacy
That seems to satisfy him, enough to bring me a plate of food that looks as good as it smells. Buttered sourdough toast topped with perfectly cooked bacon and poached eggs, with exactly the right amount of hollandaise sauce spooned over. My mouth is watering as I pick up my knife and fork, and I take the first amazing bite as he puts down a bowl of mixed berries and sliced mango.
“Thank you.” The words are garbled because my mouth is full, but he grins.
“You’re welcome.”
I was already sold on this job, what with the incredible salary, living conditions, and flexible work hours, but now that I know it comes with someone who’ll clean up after me and cook me delicious meals, I am sold. Like, sign me up. Wanna taste my blood now? Whatever floats your boat. I can’t believe my parents tried to deny me this life.
Nisha comes in as I’m finishing my second egg and eyeing the fruit. It’s not berry or mango season, so it’s probably going to be tasteless, but on the other hand, this house has so far produced fancy coffee and a café-style breakfast on demand, so out-of-season delicious fruit might be possible also.
“Oh good, you’ve fed him,” Nisha says. I pause midway through sliding a blueberry between my lips. That sounds a lot like I’m a pet of some kind.
The berry touches my tongue, sweet and bursting with flavour, and I decide I don’t care if Nisha wants to scratch behind my ears and tell me to stay.
“I spoke to Pierce, and we have an appointment to see Tristan at ten.” She eyes me. “Does he have something else to wear, Cat?”
I swallow a strawberry. “I can hear you. And no. I wasn’t expecting to stay here last night.”
“It wouldn’t matter if he did,” Cat adds. “All his clothes are like that or worse.”
“Hey!”
“That’s unacceptable,” Nisha declares before I can launch into a speech defending my perfectly good clothes. “Tom, do we have enough time for you to do something about this?” She gestures toward me, and the goodwill I was feeling for her is rapidly draining away.
Tom glances at the clock on the oven. “Probably not, but I may have a solution. My nephew leaves some clothing here for when he visits. He and Adam are close to the same size. There might be something suitable.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I wanna wear another dude’s clothes.”
“Please check,” Nisha says. “I’d appreciate it.” It’s almost as if I’m not here. Which is weird since they’re talking about me.
I grab a piece of mango and remind myself that it’ll all be worth it.
Chapter 5
Tom’s nephew’s clothes fit me pretty well, but they’re a lot more preppy than anything I’d wear, so I’m still not all that comfortable. As soon as this Tristan guy hires me, I’m going home to change. If he expects me to dress like this for work, he’s gonna be disappointed.
He wouldn’t expect me to dress like this, would he? It’s not like my preference for trackies and T-shirts is going to impact my ability to hold out my arm and let him suck on it.
God, that sounds so fucking weird.
Honestly, a big part of me is still convinced this is some kind of complicated practical joke. Maybe for TV? I don’t think Cat ever said what kind of entrepreneur Nisha is—maybe she’s developing a new show and I get to be in the pilot episode. The fangs could be part of a costume. Though, if that’s true, whoever the makeup artist is should be nominated for all the awards, because there’s something about Nisha that makes it all too easy for me to believe she’s not human.
Which is why my stomach is doing some fancy acrobatics as I sit in the back seat of Nisha’s pimped-out Range Rover with windows tinted so dark, the interior feels like twilight. Cat’s driving, and Nisha’s sitting beside her in the passenger seat, simultaneously tapping away on her phone and talking to my cousin in a low voice about “the Greer project,” whatever that is. Cat said she’s not Nisha’s actual executive assistant, but based on this fifteen-minute drive, Nisha clearly respects her opinions on business. Good for Cat.
I’m not sure where I was expecting this Tristan guy to live, but I’m totally not surprised when Cat slows the car on a side street in Canterbury. My high school girlfriend’s dad was a real estate agent, and during one of his incredibly boring lectures about the importance of getting into the property market, he went on a tangent about the most expensive suburbs in Melbourne, and Canterbury was right near the top of the list. It sometimes gets forgotten about because it’s not as trendy as Toorak or Armadale and doesn’t have the beach like Brighton.
Am I really thinking about suburban property values right now?
Cat turns into a driveway and stops in front of a gate. This is a weird place to park, but I unbuckle my seat belt and reach for the—
“Hello, Pierce,” Nisha says, phone to her ear. “We’re at the gate.”
Oh. I subside into my seat and a moment later watch as the gate begins to swing open. It’s not super fancy, just cream-painted pickets, but it’s taller than a standard picket gate. I don’t think I’d be able to see over the top of it if I was standing in front of it—not without getting on my tiptoes, anyway.
I let my gaze slide down the rest of the house frontage. The driveway is on the far-right side of the block, and to my surprise there’s a matching driveway and gate on the far left. I guess the frontage is double the width of a standard suburban block, but still—what does anyone need two driveways for? Between them is a standard-height picket fence in the same cream colour as the gates, but the dense seven-foot hedge behind it hides the house from view. It’s a nice hedge, though, with dark green leaves and those big pink flowers. My mum has a couple of bushes like that in the front yard of their house. She likes them because they’re evergreen and bloom a few times a year. Dad hates them because when their petals drop, they make a huge fucking mess.
I really need to call my parents. We have a lot to talk about.
The gate’s fully open now, and Cat accelerates smoothly between the posts and up the driveway. I look around curiously, my face practically mashed against the window. This might end up being my home.
