Page 3 of The Feeder Legacy

“So,” she says at last, sitting down opposite me on the fucking amazing couch in her living room and curling her legs up underneath her. “You’re probably wondering about the job I mentioned.”

Really? What makes her think that? “Yeah, a bit.”

“You’d basically be doing the same thing I do,” she continues as though I haven’t spoken. “There would be some minor differences, since you’d be working for someone else. But the main job is the same.”

I frown. That doesn’t seem right. “Executive assistant? I don’t have any experience working in an office. Like, at all. I doubt I could even get hired as a receptionist.” If she’s going to pull strings to get me a job, I’d like it to be one I at least have a chance of being good at. It’s me, so it’s likely I’ll get sacked or walk out after six to nine months anyway, but it’d be good to make it through the trial period… or the first day.

Cat’s gaze slides away from mine. “Yeah, about that. I’m not exactly an executive assistant.”

Huh? I stare at her, but she’s steadfastly looking anywhere but at me as she lifts her mug to her lips. If she’s not an executive assistant, then what does she do that requires her to hang out at a mansion in Toorak, where she lives for free in— “Oh my god, are you a sex worker?”

She chokes on her hot chocolate, hurrying to put the mug down on the side table so she can hack up a lung. I move closer to thump her awkwardly on the back, then stop when she glares and bats my hand away.

“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being a sex worker,” I add when she finally seems to be breathing again. “I’m just surprised.”

She wipes watery eyes with a tissue. “I am not a sex worker. For fuck’s sake, Adam. Why did your brain even go there?”

“What? It’s logical! You make a shit ton of money, work irregular hours from your boss’s home, travel internationally with her, and live in her super cool pool house for free. If you’re not her assistant, sex worker is the next guess.” Is it weird that I’m a little disappointed she’s not? Not because I want Cat to be a sex worker—or to think of her like that, ewww—but I reckon I could be a halfway decent rent boy if I put my mind to it. And I do like the idea of making a lot of money for doing something I like doing anyway.

Though… it’s probably not the same when you’re not doing it recreationally.

“I don’t— You know what, let’s just forget you said that. We’re getting off topic.” She sucks in a (slightly wheezy) breath. “I started telling this in the wrong place.”

I look around the lounge room. “Really? Where should we go, then?”

“Not—” Cat sighs. “Not the physical place, Adz. I mean I started at the wrong part of the story.”

I’d be embarrassed about my mistake, but it’s nearly ten thirty on a weeknight, I’ve been up since five, worked almost a whole shift, lost my job, went for a 10K run, went back to work and exchanged insults with my ex-boss, met my friends for dinner, and I’m drinking hot chocolate instead of coffee. I’ve got no fucks to give for a tiny mistake like that.

“Why does this need a story? What the hell kind of job do you do?”

“You should already know all of it, but your parents didn’t want to be part of it, so they never told you. Which sucks, because your life could have been a lot better if they weren’t so up themselves.”

I can’t deny that my parents have very large sticks up their arses, but I really don’t get what that has to do with anything. Also, her story is starting to sound a lot like those movies where the orphan (which I’m not) is sat down by an older mentor and told that they’re the chosen one, and can I just say, no fucking way. I’m not a save-the-world kind of bloke. I’m a lie-on-the-couch-and-watch-a-movie-about-it bloke.

I don’t say any of that, though, because it would probably make this whole thing take longer, and right now what I really want is to finish this conversation and fall asleep on Cat’s couch, which is more comfortable than my shitty bed.

“For fifteen generations, our family has⁠—”

My groan interrupts her, and her eyes narrow. “What?”

“Cat, come on. An old family tradition? Is this where you tell me that we’re the guardians of an age-old curse or some shit like that?”

“No—”

I sit up straighter as a thought occurs to me. “Ooh, is it a trust? Please tell me the family has spent fifteen generations investing into a family trust that I’m now entitled to a part of.” That would explain how she has money and lives here if she’s not actually an executive assistant. It would also make me really fucking happy.

“Are you going to let me finish? Because I can just go to bed and you can find another crappy retail job.”

“Vicious.” I lift my mug in salute. “I’ll be quiet.”

She waits a few seconds, as though testing to see if I really can be quiet, and then continues. “It’s not a trust. It’s a job, but not a conventional one. Our family has been doing this for literally hundreds of years. Our bloodline is recognised for it.”

I don’t say anything, but I’m sure my face shows what I’m thinking. Our bloodline? This is sounding more and more like “protect the Holy Grail” bullshit.

Still, if someone’s gonna pay me to keep an eye on a cup that nobody knows I have, I guess that would be okay. I make an encouraging noise.

Cat gives me a look that tells me she doesn’t believe my bullshit, but she keeps talking. “Basically, there’s a group of people who need special services—not sex—and one of them would hire you. Our family has proved over the centuries that we’re really suitable for it. It’s a live-in job for convenience, but most of the time you’d only be needed for about twenty minutes twice a day. The rest of your time is your own. In return, you’ll get living accommodation and full board, usually a housekeeper or at least a weekly cleaner, and a starting annual salary of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”