Page 64 of Shots on Net

“We could swim naked.”

I shove his shoulder, to no effect. “I’m not swimming naked here. Not with the personal assistant, butler guy walking around. Isn’t your mom here, too?”

“Who knows,” Carter shrugs. “I guess I could call her and find out.”

He scrunches up his face as though smelling something unappealing. I grab his hand and twine my fingers back through his. “Okay, let’s go get some lunch. Please don’t let go of me. I don’t want to get lost.”

We make it to the kitchen without incident, and find that lunch was indeed laid out for us. It’s so much food, in fact, that I wonder for a minute if other people will be joining us. Carter, unbothered by the sheer number of choices in front of him, sits down on a barstool and starts loading his plate. I follow suit and just grab everything he is grabbing.

“Who made all this?” I ask, and bite into a sandwich. It’s some sort of fancy cucumber sandwich—delicious, but low on calories. Carter will probably have to eat his weight in these to feel full.

“There is a private chef who works and lives here full time,” he says, and then smirks. “My mom hates to cook. The chef was the first person they hired once my dad’s company took off. Dad says they used to live off of spaghetti, before.”

“So…quite a few people live here, then? Not just your mom and dad?” I’m trying to work my mind around the sheer size of this place. A person could rattle around in this house and never see another soul if they didn’t want to. It feels big and empty, and incredibly lonely.

“Mm,” he hums around a mouthful of sandwich, thinking. “Not a lot. Jonesy, obviously, and whomever they have cooking for them usually lives on site. But I think that’s it. Cleaners come twice a week to, you know, shine the golden candlesticks and whatever, but they don’t live here.”

I laugh; I haven’t seen a single golden candlestick. “What about the grounds? I bet there is a lot of upkeep.”

“Yeah, same as the cleaning crew. Twice a week. Fucking insane,” he says, and gives me an apologetic little smile. I pat his arm.

“Absolutely fucking batshit insane,” I agree. “You know, it’s a good thing we’re only staying one night. You would perish if you had to live off of this food.”

He snorts. “No shit. Dinner will be better. A lot better, probably. Jonesy will have told them I brought a guest, which means they’ll have to pull out all the stops to impress you.”

“Uhm,” I fidget with my fork, “I did bring my nice clothes, but you know I don’t actually have anything this nice, right?”

I wave around at the house. I’m picturing his family having dinner around a massive dining room table, all of them wearing formal cocktail attire. Carter shrugs and pulls a face around a mouthful of sandwich.

“It’s okay, really.” He fiddles with his plate, turning it around on the marble countertop, eyes darting around the room. “Just, uhm…don’t hate me for all of this. I know it’s bad, and completely fucking ridiculous. I’m not this kind of person.”

“I know,” I say, quietly. “There isn’t a single thing you could do, or show me, that would make me hate you. You can’t help it that you were born into a family with money, I know that.”

“Yeah,” he says, still fidgeting. “Still. I feel like a douche when I complain about it. You know, hard life and all, growing up with a personal chef and a tennis court in the backyard.”

“Mm.” He’s trying to make a joke, but there’s not a lot of heart behind it. Truthfully, I think it probably was hard to grow up here. The entire house feels cold and unwelcoming. I can’t wrap my mind around the image of a child running through these halls.

We finish eating without seeing another person. Carter offers to give me a tour, which ends up being a seemingly endless journey of empty guest bedrooms and sitting rooms. One hallway is lined with painted portraits; I pause to look at one. He looks a little bit like Carter.

“Who’s this?” I ask.

“That’s my grandfather, Carter Morgan. Not to be confused with my father, Carter Morgan,” he says, seriously, and points to another portrait.

“Ah. I’ll do my best to keep that straight,” I laugh, shaking my head and peering around at the other paintings. “Where’s yours?”

“Burned it,” he says, proudly. “Fucker lit right up. Had a nice little bonfire.”

I tip my head back and laugh, the sound echoing up into the vaulted ceilings. “I think we need one of these above the mantle, at home. We can commission one of the both of us.”

“Shut up, no.”

“It’ll be nice,” I say, trailing after him as we leave the hallway. “Oh! How about a themed portrait? We can dress up as Victorian men.”

“I beg you to stop.”

Laughing, I move up next to him and he puts an arm over my shoulder. We finish the tour with the grounds, which ends up being more fun than the house, if only because we get to walk around outside. By the time we get back to the pool house, we’re pink-cheeked with cold and it’s time to get ready for dinner. While Carter digs our clothes out of the bag, I stand at the window and look up at the main house. Nearly all of the lights are on, even though the majority of the rooms are empty. I wonder if that’s for our benefit.

“Here,” Carter says, and I turn to see him laying my clothes onto the bed. “Too bad we don’t have time for a shower. Warm us up a little bit.”

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