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Authors: Tamara Hart Heiner
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better idea to keep distance between you."
Truman considered that. He did feel a need to establish a hierarchy; the girls had to know he was in charge. But he didn't want to make this any more miserable for them than it was. "I have to explain things to them. And I have questions for them."
"But you can't be on equal footing.”
Truman crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you suggest?"
"Meet with them, if you want." Grey nodded. "Yes, that's fine. Eat dinner with them, even. But don't serve them what you eat. Make them see that they're subservient."
Subservient. An ugly word.
"Boss," Grey said, and Truman heard the sincerity in his tone, "I know this isn't your thing. Look, it's not mine. We had to save our backs, though. At least we didn't kill them all."
"At least," Truman grunted.
"You can't let them think you're soft. They'll take advantage of you."
Grey was right. Truman hated to admit it. He had to maintain order. The consequences for their actions had to be severe. "Fine. Prepare the dining room. Make them something simple, soup and bread, whatever."
A glint came into Grey's eye. "And something nice for you."
"Yes."
Grey got to his feet, brushing his pants, his hands twitching with excitement. Truman would never understand Grey's love for the kitchen. "I'll take the Camaro to the store, then?"
"Go." Truman waved him away.
Grey was right. What was he thinking? He couldn't very well strike up a friendship with the girls and then sell them into slavery.
He stopped at the mirror in the entryway and examined his reflection. Shadows hung under his eyes, a dark contrast to the gauntness of his pale face. He didn't like what he saw.
#
Everything about the mansion Truman's father had left him was ornate. From the red carpet in the entryway to the marble busts on the show room, it had the detail and expense of a museum.
The dining room was no exception. Truman didn't entertain often because he kept his location a secret. But a long wood table took up the middle of the room for the occasions when he needed it. White pillars took away the sharp edges of the corners, and crown molding ran along the top of the tiered ceiling. Murals of fruits in pastels covered one entire wall.
Truman trailed his fingers down the white tablecloth, admiring Grey's handy work. That man had missed his calling in life. Here he led the life of crime when he could be gainfully and happily employed as a chef somewhere. Platters of gourmet foods covered the table, from cuts of beef with gravy to honey-glazed vegetables. Truman shook his head. He couldn't eat all this. It was more "in your face" than "I'm in charge."
Three other chairs had been placed around the table. In front of each chair sat a bowl with green soup in it. Truman resisted the childish urge to wrinkle his nose. Green soup?
"Grey," he called, and Grey's footsteps echoed along the tiled flooring before he emerged from a servant's door.
Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, Grey looked like a construction worker, not a chef. "Yes?"
"This is too much." Truman gestured at the food.
Grey bobbed his head. "I'm sure the guys will eat the leftovers."
The message was clear: This is not for the girls. "Find Claber,” Truman said. “Tell him to bring the girls in."
"You got it."
Truman tapped his fork on the cloth. He heard Claber approach and stood up again. Pressing his hands down the front of his shirt, he smoothed out any last wrinkles, then berated himself for worrying about such a thing.
One of the heavy French doors opened, and the three girls shuffled in. They stared at the ground and came to a stop just inside the dining room. The tallest of the girls, the one with red hair, kept lifting her eyes and darting them back down.
Amanda Murphy , Truman reminded himself. Their names should not be important to him. And yet, they were.
Interesting how she wasn’t frightened. Or at least, she was more curious than frightened. He filed that information away
Truman considered that. He did feel a need to establish a hierarchy; the girls had to know he was in charge. But he didn't want to make this any more miserable for them than it was. "I have to explain things to them. And I have questions for them."
"But you can't be on equal footing.”
Truman crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you suggest?"
"Meet with them, if you want." Grey nodded. "Yes, that's fine. Eat dinner with them, even. But don't serve them what you eat. Make them see that they're subservient."
Subservient. An ugly word.
"Boss," Grey said, and Truman heard the sincerity in his tone, "I know this isn't your thing. Look, it's not mine. We had to save our backs, though. At least we didn't kill them all."
"At least," Truman grunted.
"You can't let them think you're soft. They'll take advantage of you."
Grey was right. Truman hated to admit it. He had to maintain order. The consequences for their actions had to be severe. "Fine. Prepare the dining room. Make them something simple, soup and bread, whatever."
A glint came into Grey's eye. "And something nice for you."
"Yes."
Grey got to his feet, brushing his pants, his hands twitching with excitement. Truman would never understand Grey's love for the kitchen. "I'll take the Camaro to the store, then?"
"Go." Truman waved him away.
Grey was right. What was he thinking? He couldn't very well strike up a friendship with the girls and then sell them into slavery.
He stopped at the mirror in the entryway and examined his reflection. Shadows hung under his eyes, a dark contrast to the gauntness of his pale face. He didn't like what he saw.
#
Everything about the mansion Truman's father had left him was ornate. From the red carpet in the entryway to the marble busts on the show room, it had the detail and expense of a museum.
The dining room was no exception. Truman didn't entertain often because he kept his location a secret. But a long wood table took up the middle of the room for the occasions when he needed it. White pillars took away the sharp edges of the corners, and crown molding ran along the top of the tiered ceiling. Murals of fruits in pastels covered one entire wall.
Truman trailed his fingers down the white tablecloth, admiring Grey's handy work. That man had missed his calling in life. Here he led the life of crime when he could be gainfully and happily employed as a chef somewhere. Platters of gourmet foods covered the table, from cuts of beef with gravy to honey-glazed vegetables. Truman shook his head. He couldn't eat all this. It was more "in your face" than "I'm in charge."
Three other chairs had been placed around the table. In front of each chair sat a bowl with green soup in it. Truman resisted the childish urge to wrinkle his nose. Green soup?
"Grey," he called, and Grey's footsteps echoed along the tiled flooring before he emerged from a servant's door.
Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, Grey looked like a construction worker, not a chef. "Yes?"
"This is too much." Truman gestured at the food.
Grey bobbed his head. "I'm sure the guys will eat the leftovers."
The message was clear: This is not for the girls. "Find Claber,” Truman said. “Tell him to bring the girls in."
"You got it."
Truman tapped his fork on the cloth. He heard Claber approach and stood up again. Pressing his hands down the front of his shirt, he smoothed out any last wrinkles, then berated himself for worrying about such a thing.
One of the heavy French doors opened, and the three girls shuffled in. They stared at the ground and came to a stop just inside the dining room. The tallest of the girls, the one with red hair, kept lifting her eyes and darting them back down.
Amanda Murphy , Truman reminded himself. Their names should not be important to him. And yet, they were.
Interesting how she wasn’t frightened. Or at least, she was more curious than frightened. He filed that information away
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