Page 82 of Feel Free to Scream

Damn, she’s seriously talented. And I thought I knew her so well.What else are you hiding, little ghost?

I’m picking her up from the house tonight. I’m proud of her for checking if I was available to drive, after the couple of glasses of wine. The fact that she’s starting to think of me as a solution to whatever problem she encounters is good.

That means we’ve been invited for dinner, which is a tragedy. On Friday, Lisa cooks. Or rather, she thinks she can cook.

“It makes sense. There's a full-time design team of course, but after a while, they've exhausted their skills and creativity. It gets repetitive. Hiring freelance artists to inject some freshness is a good tactic; but finding someone, talking rights and stuff with them, can be a bit of a headache. Dad commissions people he knows—people he can trust, business wise—if he can. The fact you just drew it right here on paper means you’re not going to use AI to just generate it with one click. That’s a reassurance he can’t have with just anyone."

"He asked if I could send a sketch by Monday," she says while beating some eggs.

Dad's in his home office, Octavia's watching a cartoon, Lisa's strangling an unfortunate chicken, and Claire offered to prepare dessert, which is good. At least there'll be one edible thing tonight.

"You're going to spend the entire weekend drawing, aren't you?" I guess with a sigh.

And here I was, looking forward to an entire full day of her intention exclusively on me. I can tell that's not going to happen.

Dammit, Dad.

"I have so many ideas!"

Dinner is strange in its normalcy. The chicken is awful, dry as fuck, and we all tease Lisa about it. Everyone except Claire; she simply winces and doesn't lie. Normally, at this point, I would have just called for pizza, but Lisa says, "All right, how about we clear up this atrocity and have Claire's cake for dinner? It smells so good."

It turns out, Claire made a three-layered chocolate cake, with custard—or creme anglaise, she tells us—and it occurs to me that I need to start shopping for rings.

My father gives me a look when no one else's looking, one single raised eyebrow, and I get the message loud and clear. I can keep this one, or he'll take her from me. It would work, too. Arlo Keller is, sadly, hot enough to pull a girl half his age. Well, I'm not that sad about it; I got his genes.

"Can we have cake for dinner every day?" Octavia asks.

"Only on days your mom's cooking," Dad counters, earning himself a quick swat of Lisa's tea towel.

"Claire should come every Friday, to save us from my attempts at domesticity," she declares.

"I'm not against that," I reply. "But you could also save us all, and give up on trying to cook."

"How is Lisa going to improve if she doesn't keep trying?" Claire says.

"She'sbeentrying. For years. There's no improvement. Some things are just not fated to happen. World peace. An end to global hunger. Lisa managing an edible meal."

Laughing, I look around, shaking my head a little. She fits in the madness beautifully. Sweet and nice, but not a pushover.

Octavia insists that Claire should read her bedtime story, and while Lisa tries to get her out of it, Claire says, "Oh, that's cool. I'll know where everything is if you ever need me to watch her in the evenings, that way."

Then they all move upstairs.

My father leans in. "I suggest you make it official sooner rather than later."

There's a hint of a threat there.

"Keep your eyes to yourself, old man," I counter.

He rolls his eyes. "I'm not the only one with eyes in this town. And from what I've heard of last week, she enjoys giving a show, too. There will be plenty of wolves sniffing around."

I nod, knowing he's right. Objectively, I know Claire might not have minded the lifetime a lot of my peers enjoyed. If I'd let every guy down in the basement have a turn with her, she might not have minded. She's greedy for cocks. I imagine she'd quite like to have one inside her ass while I pound her pussy. The only problem is, I don't want to share her. Not now, not ever. And Dad's right. That means pissing over my territory before everyone else tries to open that door.

On our way out of the house, Dad opens his arm to give me a half hug. Everyone who knows him would be fully aware that this is a singular event, as it's not my birthday or New Year’s Day.

The fucker just wants an excuse to hug her too, in order to piss me off. And it works.

"I love your family," she tells me on the way back.

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