In the House of Spite Ch. 01

Tapping her spoon on a pan's rim, Mama explained, "He's got a big, beautiful house on a hill, and he needs someone to come in and clean it."

Letting a leg swing, Pearl said, "That sounds like an easy job."

Goodness knows she needed the money, and she probably needed to have something to do outside her parents' house.

***

Pearl was a bit nervous.

She was a five feet tall, ninety pound weakling of a woman driving off to a strange man's house, where she'd be alone with him. And he was fucking huge. Maybe ... six feet nine? If he wanted to beat the shit out of her, or cut her to bits, or rape her, or all of the above, it wouldn't be difficult.

But this was worth a shot.

Darren Booker ...

Pearl's parents lived in a prefabricated house, or an old mobile home if one wanted to be casual. When she'd lived with Jeffery, they'd stayed in the same kind of building. That's just how Pearl had grown up. She thought the units she cleaned during the summer seemed mostly the same in shape and size, just emptier.

This house she drove up to on this early morning ...

A larger version of a Full Cape Cod. Brick exterior. Dormers. A roof so high-pitched that it likely hid a true second floor instead of just attic space. A big garage. A smooth driveway that led up to a bit of a hill, where the house innocently stood. Trees surrounded most of the place, which wasn't unusual. When she was with Jeffery, there had been no neighbors, only trees and a road. Lots of people didn't live in any of the towns nor cities. Lots of people lived in sparsely populated neighborhoods that barely qualified as neighborhoods at all.

Once she had her Daddy's truck respectfully parked to one side, definitely not blocking anything, Pearl jogged up the wide steps to the front porch and searched for a doorbell. These kinds of houses often had them. When she found it, she pressed it with an index finger. The ding dong sound was very predictable. There were some signs in a window. "No Trespassing." "Beware of Dog." "Warning. Registered Gun Owner. DO NOT Trespass!"

With her purse hanging on her shoulder, her hands folded against her small belly, Pearl waited. She suppressed a yawn. It wasn't dark anymore but it was still fairly early for her. Admitting that to herself made her feel lazy. In addition to her yawn, she had to suppress a frown. A can-do attitude was required here.

Barking. Heavy barking. Two dogs. The tap, tap, tap of claws on hardwood floors. The barking was soon louder. Then a great voice rang out, "Get back! Go on!" The barking stopped, and the claw tapping faded away.

The front door opened. It was a very tall door. The level itself seemed tall, but that made sense. The occupant was tall and needed this kind of space.

There he was. Mr. Booker. Pearl put on her best smile as she looked up at him, and she reached out with a flat hand, fingers closed. "Good morning!"

He really did have ice blue eyes. That, and high cheek bones, a nose that might have been a little broad, a pair of lips that might have been a little plump, and a jawline that seemed too well angled for everyone's good. His black hair wasn't in cornrows anymore. It was fluffy, perhaps even floofy.

Now that she was paying attention to him, she noticed that he certainly looked like he owned a gym. That's what Mama had said. He owned a gym. In the gym, there was also a gift shop of clothes, gyms bags, and other light equipment. He'd also recently purchased a wildlife preserve somewhere, the kind where you could pay a fee for a tour. There was a gift shop there too.

No wonder he needed a maid. He must be a busy guy.

She was given a very firm handshake. There were calluses on his fingers. His heat flowed into her, making her question an odd flicker of emotion she didn't want to feel.

The man said to her in a friendly tone, "Good morning, I'm glad you're here." He stepped back and away. Pearl happened to glance down. Dude had some seriously huge feet, not that it was any of her business. Those feet were in a pair of crisp looking white socks. The rest of his outfit was pretty normal. Blue jeans, not sagging at all. A green T-Shirt. Nothing much else.

Pearl's cheeks and throat were suddenly warmer as she tried not to admire how well built he was. She didn't think there was a perfect six-pack; there was a reasonable amount of fat instead. Not a beer belly at all, but enough fat to make Pearl think this guy didn't care about looking like a bodybuilder, but cared more about his health instead.

"Should I take off my shoes?" she asked, turning her head away and looking at the favorite comfy pair on her size six and a half feet. She was standing in the thin foyer, her feet on a mat for wiping dirt away. Personally, she preferred walking around in a house without shoes.

"I'd appreciate it," Mr. Booker said as he closed the door. "If you want, I can get some slippers later." He was talking as if she already had the job. This was excellent, wasn't it? His socked feet moved on in a direction Pearl didn't recognize, since this place was unfamiliar to her. "Let's go to the kitchen. We can talk business there."

The ceilings were so tall! Pearl's neck craned up as she hoped she wouldn't have to wash them. She'd need a ladder and an empty bladder to do that confidently.

The kitchen was adorably old fashioned, except for the appliances. And it was very, very cluttered with a few dirty dishes. Not filthy, not disgusting ... well ... except for a blob of jelly that had apparently been forgotten about, left on the beautiful, shiny tiled floor near a counter.

Imagining cockroaches, ants, rodents, and even spiders that would follow other bugs, Pearl's eyes and fingers twitched.

As they sat down across from each other at a medium-sized round table, Mr. Booker explained that he wasn't looking for a maid, precisely. More like a housekeeper. While the bulk of the work would be cleaning, there would be other duties.

Early in the morning, she'd come over, cook breakfast, and prepare a lunch for him to take later. Where Mr. Booker would be depended on which business needed his attention, but he usually ate lunch away from home. Concerning the dogs, he'd walk them. Apparently they were both big and strong and it would be unfair to expect Pearl to keep them in line. Sometimes, he'd leave a shopping list behind with a stack of cash, meaning she'd have to go buy the stuff for him. So, yes. He wanted more than a maid.

As for the cleaning, it would be impossible for her to clean every single room every day. Some rooms were empty, anyway. He'd already made a schedule for her to follow. The dishes would normally be done every day, and since the dogs tended to shed a lot the vacuum would be a frequent ally.

Dusting? Once a week was enough to keep Mr. Booker happy. The kitchen and dining room floors could be swept and mopped every two days or so, depending on the level of dirt. The bathroom mirrors could be wiped every two days but the windows could be wiped every two weeks. That was how many of the chores would be divided.

Pearl did listen. She honestly did, but she kept on looking back to that stupid spot of jelly.

"Are you okay?"

You know what? It was better to get it taken care of so she'd be comfortable for the rest of the interview.

Pearl pushed her seat back, shot up, and said with a rushed, mortified tone, "Excuse me." Then she zoomed to the nearest roll of paper towels she'd seen. It wasn't on a special holder, even though one existed. It was just lying on top of a bread box.

Noting the thick quality of the towels, realizing that she only needed one sheet, Pearl tore one away and wet it at the sink. Then she swiped the jelly away and made sure to rub the area well so nothing was left behind. The trashcan wasn't difficult to find.

Knowing she'd just been a little rude, Pearl kept her eyes away from the man's and sat back down, deciding to look at his chin instead. She could always use the "he's so tall" excuse.

Mr. Booker's long fingers weaved together on the table. His fingernails were a little peculiar to Pearl. His left hand had painfully short nails while the right hand had nails of a considerable length, but they were clean. "Uh, what was that?" he asked. He didn't sound condescending, but he did sound a little puzzled.

"A little bit of nope," Pearl breathed out.

A pause of about three seconds went by, and then Mr. Booker seemed to recover. His jaw and chin moved with a smile and he said, "I guess that's what you're here for." He unlaced his fingers and lightly clapped his palms together once. "I'm free today. Are you?"

With a quick nod, Pearl responded. "Yes. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Be right back," he said as he got up. He went off somewhere. Pearl didn't know where. What she did know was this man's footsteps were very significant, thick, and loud, even with the lack of shoes.

When Mr. Booker returned, he had an old fashioned punch clock. It was about as big as half a loaf of bread. He also had a stack of cards. As he put these things on the kitchen table, he said, "If you want, you can try a trial day where you just do whatever chores need to be done. Then I'll show you my contract and you'll be officially hired." He handed her one of the cards. "I'll pay you for today, of course."

"Okay," Pearl said as she nervously ran her thumb across the thick paper, "but I didn't bring a lunch with me. I didn't think I needed one."

His jaw ticked a little, but then Mr. Booker shrugged and walked off to the cabinets. "That's okay. I'll let you have some of my food. Is peanut butter and jelly alright with you?"

"Oh, thank you Sir." She laid her time card flat on the table. "Yes, that's fine. You're very kind."

He put a jar of peanut butter on a counter. Then he looked in a fridge, seeming to check to make sure the jelly was still there. As he was peeking in the breadbox, he said, "I'll give you an hour for lunch. You can take it whenever you want, but be careful and don't take it too early. I don't want you starving the rest of the day." He took his seat again with a peaceful little groan. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, when you're done cleaning, if you have time, I'd like for you to play with the dogs a little."

Pearl couldn't hide the buoyancy in her voice. "Awwww, that sounds fun, and dogs are like people, really. They get lonely too."

"Yeah, I haven't been home a lot, and I need someone to make sure the dogs are okay." The long fingernails of the right hand lightly tapped on the tabletop. "Are you afraid of Pit Bulls?"

Shaking her head, Pearl said, "That's my favorite dog breed, but I know they can be dangerous when too aggressive."

His left hand rising a bit, as if he wanted to cough into his hand, Mr. Booker gave a quick chortle. "My German Shepherd is more likely to be aggressive, but it's good to be careful with animals. Clock yourself in and I'll introduce you to them."

Pearl complied very quickly. The machine was simple to use. Then, she watched Mr. Booker write her name and cell phone number on the top of the card. He slipped the card under the machine so it wouldn't be misplaced. "Alright, let's go see the boys."

She followed him to a back door, which also had a storm door. It lead to a large backyard protected by a tall wooden fence. There was what looked like an obstacle course for dogs off to one side, which implied to Pearl that Mr. Booker liked to keep his dogs busy when he could. Hopefully, with Pearl keeping the house in order, he'd have more time to spend with those dogs.

Two plastic looking dog houses were in the yard, along with a bunch of dog toys and a sturdy clothesline. The dogs themselves were play-fighting with each other, jumping, snapping, and growling. When Mr. Booker called out to them, they both stopped and ran up to him, their tongues flapping.

The American Pit Bull was white with bright blue eyes. His ears and tails were natural, and his pink nose was very endearing. The German Shepherd looked very typical, light brown with black markings. He reminded Pearl of police dogs.

"This is Gunner," Mr. Booker said as he patted the Shepherd's head. Gunner proceeded to sniff his hand and then lick it. "And this is Baby Blue," the man said as he patted the Pit Bull's head. Baby Blue proceeded to wag his tail so fiercely that it might've been a suitable weapon. "They're sweet babies. The worst thing they'll do is jump on you and lick you like crazy."

"What a couple of good doggos." Pearl reached down to lightly caress Baby Blue's floppy ears. They were very soft. Then she gently tapped the tip of Gunner's nose, cheerfully saying, "Boop!" Both dogs didn't seem to mind her silliness. "Do they sleep outside?"

"Nah," the man said as he crouched down to stroke Gunner's back. "They sleep inside, but they have their houses if they want them." He stood back up and turned around. "Okay, I'll show you around the house. Then you can get started."

Some moments later, while Mr. Booker sat in the living room, Baby Blue at his feet and Gunner on one of the armchairs, Pearl walked by to get upstairs. She was planning on getting the dirty laundry in his bedroom.

She noticed that he was pressing and stretching his own fingers as if he was preparing them for something. Pearl assumed it was something with a guitar because during the house tour she'd been shown a few of the instruments. She was told not to touch them without permission, which was very reasonable. Guitars could be expensive.

By the time Pearl was walking back downstairs, thinking to herself that the bed was amazingly huge, Mr. Booker was going upstairs. She smiled at him along the way.

Some moments after she'd gone into the laundry room, she heard a lone acoustic guitar being played. It was at that moment when Pearl figured out why his fingernails were short on one hand and long on the other.

A tranquil, easy tune was being played. It made Pearl think of old movies and soft drinks on a summer night.

Pearl was putting underwear, socks, and a few shirts in the washing machine. Detergent, turned dials, closed lid, pressed button, done. Okay. Next was the bathroom. There was more than one but Mr. Booker mainly used his en suite bathroom. The cleaning supplies were mostly under the kitchen sink.

Up the stairs she went. Thankfully, Mr. Booker had his own little plastic basket to hold bundles of stuff. She didn't need to make multiple trips or risk holding the stuff with both hands and arms.

Windex on the mirror. A sweet cleaner on the sinks. There were two, a couple's set, but as far as Pearl knew Mr. Booker lived alone with his dogs. Why he had such a big house wasn't any of her business, though. Then to the bathtub/shower combination. The sweet cleaner on the fixtures and edge of the tub. Then powdered bleach on the bottom of the tub, wet and then scrubbed. For safety reasons, she had to wear rubber gloves. After she rinsed all the bleach out, she went to the toilet, gloves still on.

Considering that the toilet was designed to be shat in, the man had kept it in decent shape. Regardless, she was going to get any nasty spots left behind. First, she sprayed in the bowl and scrubbed around the best she could, even digging up under the rim, then flushed. Second, she wiped all around the thing. Top, bottom, base, seat, rim, everything. The floor was fine. Time to check on the laundry.

Downstairs, the music had stopped. The guitar had been put away. Out a window, Pearl saw Mr. Booker leading Gunner through the obstacle course. Baby Blue was off to one side, chewing on something. It looked like an antler that had the sharp points sawed off.

Damp clothes into the dryer. A new load. Towels. She was very careful here. She knew the dangers of heavy towels unevenly set in a washing machine. Alright, let's see about some vacuuming.

The bedroom had a lot of dog hairs, most of which seemed to come from Gunner, which bugged her because the dogs had their own beds downstairs. The living room also had its fair amount of hair. When she was done vacuuming everything she could think of, she wiped her forehead and thought that she needed to beat the dog hair off of the bedclothes.

Mr. Booker popped into the room. In a stupid kind of way, he reminded Pearl of a damn Enderman, but only because of the height. "Hey," he said, "don't you want to take a lunch break now?"

She asked him what time it was. After he told her she sighed. "Okay. I'll write down my lunchtime on the ticket and make a sandwich."

In the kitchen, Pearl set her alarm on her cell phone to tell her when she needed to get up. Then, after she wolfed her sandwich down and chugged back some water, she rested her head on her folded arms. As Mr. Booker passed by, she asked, "Since you're home today, you want me to cook lunch for you?"

He stopped in the middle of a step and turned to face her. "Hm, that would be nice. Go for it."

"What do you want?"

With a crisp, tight shrug, Mr. Booker said, "Something quick and easy, but make me a protein shake too." He pointed at a blender with a notepad right next to it. "I have the recipe written down."

Thinking of how she'll have to wipe and whack all the hair off the blanket on the bed upstairs, Pearl said, "I might take a half hour lunch instead of an hour."

"Whatever you want to do," he said as he turned around and walked off.

Hm. Nice ass. Very tight.

Pearl adjusted the time for her alarm.

Later, she threw a meal together. A grilled ham and cheese sandwich with a bowl of canned tomato soup. It wasn't fancy but it was fast enough. The protein shake was slightly more difficult to make. Protein powder, some raw eggs, milk, frozen strawberries, and two bananas. All blended together into something Pearl wouldn't like to drink.

Carefully, she put the soup and sandwich on a large plate and carried it off to the living room. Mr. Booker was sitting on a nice couch, watching something on Netflix, Baby Blue in his lap and getting affectionate ear scratches.

Grinning, gingerly placing the food on a coffee table, Pearl gave a chipper announcement. "Lunch is here! I'll get your shake in a minute." She hurried to go get it.

He was smiling at her when he took the tall cup from her hands. It made her heart feel sticky and slow in a weirdly nice way.

Pearl went to the laundry. She put the newly dried clothes in a laundry basket and emptied the lint tray, but she didn't put the towels in the drier. Upstairs, she quickly assessed the amount of hair, and she realized that the comforter had protected the sheets and pillows.

She only had to worry about that comforter. So, she focused on that. She used a wet cloth to get most of the hair off. Then she carefully folded the comforter into her arms, slipped into her shoes, and went outside to the backyard. She hung the comforter on the clothesline and beat the ever loving shit out of it with an old tennis racket she'd found in a closet. Each whack made her squeak like a mouse or even a whining puppy, and she lunged a lot, but she did it with no shame.

"You alright, Pearl?!" Mr. Booker had come out to check on her. His long fingers gripped the edge of the doorway as he grinned at her. His great chest and throat jolted as if he wanted to laugh.

"Yes, Sir!" Lunge! Whack! Squeak! "Just getting the hair out of this thing!"

"Okay." He left her alone, shutting the storm door and then the back door. Some moments later, after Pearl bent over to catch her breath, she took the comforter back inside, slipped her shoes off, and put the comforter into the dryer with some dryer sheets. She took the laundry basket of clean clothes to the kitchen, but she heard Mr. Booker practically shout out something.

It rang and resonated.