Page 48 of A Vicious Rumor

He was silent for a beat. "Yeah," I said. "That's what I thought."

I turned and made my way back up the stairs. "I don't wanna be around your pathetic ass anyways," I said. I slammed the door behind me, grabbed another duffle bag of clothing and made my way back downstairs.

My father was holed up in his office again. He didn't care about anyone or anything anymore, not even himself. That much was clear. I made my way out to the Jeep, threw the bag and in the car, and sped off down the road.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Paper asked as he opened the front door to his extremely lavish house.

"I need a place to crash until school starts," I said. "Maybe longer."

He sighed. "Well, I can't say that I appreciate you showing up unannounced. A phone call so I could have prepared would have been a welcome addition. But," he paused and looked at my duffle bag, then at me, "It doesn't seem like there's any other options. Plus, then I do have the added benefit of having you readily available if I need you, rather than trying to hunt you down from wherever you are."

"Are you going to let me in or not?" I asked, cutting him off.

He narrowed his eyes at me but stepped aside. "Please, come in."

"Thanks," I said, shouldering past him.

Paper's place was massive. It didn't rival Scissors', but Paper's family arguably did better than Scissors'. They were just more conservative about their wealth. Well, conservative for Potomac, at least.

He lived in roughly the same area as I did, but at the end of a development, and then at the end of a very long private driveway. Whereas Scissors' place had a somewhat Greek island, open air feeling, Paper's place was modern to the extreme. The floor was polished grey marble and all of the furniture was black leather and extremely minimalist. It made the entire place feel bigger, somehow, while simultaneously making you feel smaller.

"Where am I staying?" I asked him.

"This way," he said, leading me down a hallway to the right. He opened the door to the first room on the left. It was a well-appointed guest room with a large, chrome poster bed in the middle resting atop a faded gray area rug. "Breakfast will be brought to you at 8 a.m.," he said. "If there's something specific you'd like to eat, please follow the directions on the bedside table to text or call your order in the night before."

"I can't believe your house has fucking room service," I said, throwing my duffle bag down on the pristine white duvet.

"Yes, well," Paper said, brushing off the comment. "I was just about to have lunch, if you'd like to join me."

I was about to refuse his offer, but my stomach growled, depriving me of the choice.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it up to his ear. "Martha, can you prepare lunch for a second person? Thank you, dear," he said in a sickeningly sweet voice.

I followed him out of the guest room, through a series of hallways and finally into a dining room overlooking a garden. We each sat down at the small table that had already been set for us. There were sandwiches, salads, and soups to choose from. I grabbed the glass of water in front of me and chugged it, not realizing how thirsty I'd been.

"Why do you do that?" I asked Paper, before picking up what looked to be a very fancy turkey sandwich.

"Do what?" he asked, reaching for some salad.

"You're always so fucking nice to people," I said, taking a bite. "It's gross."

He chuckled. "I don't see how it's gross. And as for why I do it, it's because I'm trying to build commitment, rather than compliance."

"I don't get it," I said.

He took a bite of his salad. "Imagine I have a task that needs doing. Who do you think is going to do a better job at this task: someone who wants to do it, or someone who has to do it?"

I shrugged. "Dunno."

"The answer," Paper said, "is someone who wants to do it. And the only way that you get someone to want to do something for you that they otherwise would not do is to make them feel valued. Hence, why I'm always so 'fucking nice' to people," he said, mocking my use of a curse word.

"Seems like in either instance you get your task done," I said.

"Sometimes it's not just about getting the task done," Paper said, more to himself than anything else. "Anyway," he said, changing the subject. "I hear you've been busy this summer."

"Whatcha mean?" I asked, finishing my sandwich and reaching for a bowl of soup.

"I mean, how much have you made so far?"

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