Page 8 of His Pretty Little Duet

The old television box moves,the entire unit slowly gliding towards me, in a way it might if on wheels.

It's upon me.

Then I'm inside it.

"Wake up."

My back arches off the bed, rising me with it, pulling me from my tormented slumber as my muscles fight to flee but barely move at all. A nightmare, I think.

"Wake up."

I sit up with a start, clutching at the sheets, endorphins and fear like a spiralling entity consuming me, eyes wide with panic, mind lost while trying to comprehend the day, the time, reaching for my most recent memory so that I can place myself somewhere. Anywhere. Desperately, I search the large unfamiliar space around me. Where am I?

As my eyes land on a girl sitting beside me, I scoot to the opposite end of the enormous bed, kicking the sheets as I go to create a barrier between me and the stranger. "Who are you?"

She holds her hands up by her face. "It's okay. I'm Jasmine. I won't hurt you."

"Why, why are you in here?" Here? Where is here? I dart my startled gaze around the room, bouncing it off the lamp dotted walls, the reverie of yesterday slowly tumbling into my tired, confused mind. I'm stayingherea few nights, I remind myself. The mansion. Henchman Jeeves brought me to this room. I laid down on the bed for a moment and then... I fell into the television again.

"Mr Butcher told me to sleep in here with you," she says, a soft English drawl to her accent. "On the roll-out."

My heart slows to a normal rhythm once I remember I'm safe, that my father will be here soon to collect me."His property,"is what the man said. I didn't mind that at all. No one has ever wanted to own me before... And most people look after their property, find a place in their world for it, and take responsibility. I like that a lot. "Mr Butcher?"

"Yes, my boss." She nods. "Didn't you meet him?"

"I, ah, yes," I recall, rubbing my dry eyes to life and relaxing my offensive stance, sliding my knees up and hugging them, the sheets like a little fort around me. "The man with the blue eyes?"

She laughs, a hue of pink lighting the pales of her cheeks. A blush, in fact. I get it; he's hot. "Hedoeshave particularly striking eyes, doesn't he? Don't you know who Clay Butcher is?" She slides further onto the bed, crossing her legs, settling in. I drop my gaze to her pink button-up sleep shirt and drawstring shorts, outwardly young and hip apparel. I think she is about my age, perhaps a year or two older.

"What time is it?" I squint around the room again, scarcely able to see much beyond the lamps emitting a low glow on the walls. The shadowed corners are pitch-black; the curtains are blackout. It is seemingly night-time. "Wait," I say, meeting her hazel eyes again. "What do you mean, 'Do I not know who he is?' Should I know who he is?"

Finding her drawstring, she fiddles with the ends. "Well, yeah. I guess you don't watch much television. His brothers are like the District Kardashians. They're rich and beautiful. Everyone wants to know their business, ya know? And Mr Butcher has recently been..." She ponders the correct wording. "Knighted? Crowned? I dunno, become the mayor of Connolly."

"Mayor?" Surprised by that, my mind reaches for understanding."He is in the Mafia, Fawn."My mum's words throw me further into bewilderment. So my mum was being her eccentric self when she thought my father was associated with the Mafia. His involvement in the political world instead makes far more sense as to why she didn't want to reach out to him, a man whose image I imagine is pristine. A bastard daughter is probably the worst kind of publicity. I feel pride skip through my heart, imagining my father giving speeches and organising citizens. A man of impeachable character?—

Fuck.

The skip abruptly halts. The main reason I'm here is not possible if hetrulyis a man of impeachable character. I remember the way darkness lurked below Mr Butcher's practised veil of professionalism; he can't just be a politician.

That's not what I want.

I shake my head, deflating.

Still, taking the baby and giving him a place to belong, with food and love, will release me of that burden. The rest, I can figure out on my own... Even in theory, it's laughable. Or maybe one day, I'll just remember.

"Who are you?" Her words draw me from my thoughts, planting me back onto the bed with the strange girl. "To be able to stay here, in his house?"

Startled by her question, I say, "He never said?"

"He told me you were his guest and to stay by your side until he comes for you. But Bolton is outside your door, so that means you're notjusta guest."

Given her tone, I suppose that isn't usually done. If my father is an influential man, then it would make sense that Mr Butcher would want to keep me out of the media and prevent me from conversing with other people. I don't mind. I don't want attention, anyway. "I'm trying to find my dad. Dustin Nerrock. Do you know?—"

"Yes. I know him," she confirms, sweeping her long chocolate-coloured hair to the side. "He was an associate of Mr Storm. I met him a few times when Mr Storm was still alive before his son-in-law, Clay, erm, sorry, Mr Butcher and his daughter Aurora came to live here."

I beam, wanting to know more about the man who is partly responsible for my existence. "You know him? My dad? What's he like?"

"Rude," she says with a laugh that isn't malicious, but I still feel my spine tighten, not liking her admission. "I know powerful people, been around them my whole life, and they are all rude. Mr Butcher can be very... curt, but he is kind in a cold way too."

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