Keeping House Read online

  Keeping House

  by Lee Brazil

  Breathless Press

  Calgary, Alberta

  www.breathlesspress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Keeping House

  Copyright© 2011 Lee Brazil

  ISBN: 978-1-926930-46-6

  Cover Artist: Victoria Miller

  Editor: Michayla Hart

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in reviews.

  Breathless Press

  www.breathlesspress.com

  Prologue

  Poker Night at the Blakes’

  The door slamming behind Mischa Blake drew all his brothers’ eyes to him. He sauntered slowly into the room resisting the urge to run his hand over the hair he knew damn well still stood in four-inch spikes down the center of his head to the nape of his neck. He met each pair of familiar green eyes defiantly, refusing to look away.

  “Hey,” he ventured, hoping his voice wouldn’t squeak.

  “Damn it, Mischa!” Terry, Chief Financial Officer of the family-owned production studio that employed every member of the Blake family—except Mischa—immediately leaned away as Mischa took the seat at the green baize game table right next to him. “You stink! Where the hell have you been?”

  Dan, the creative brother, studio scriptwriter, the brother most like Mischa in personality—though even that was a stretch—leaned in and sniffed appraisingly. “Somewhere that beer and pot are readily had in great quantities judging by the smell.”

  Brandon, eldest brother, CEO of the studio, and all around royal pain in Mischa’s ass, frowned in disapproval. “Are you hanging out in those clubs again? Damn—the fucking paparazzi would love to catch you in some club. I can see the headlines now. Blake’s Youngest Son—Underage Alcoholic and Drug Addict—Caught in Gay Sex Club Scandal.”

  Mischa scowled in return, clicking the stud in his tongue against his front teeth, just because he knew it annoyed Terry. “Fuck you all. Are we playing poker or not?”

  Wednesday night poker games between the Blake brothers were a long-standing tradition. With all the other traditions Mischa rebelled against, he couldn’t even fathom why he’d rather die than miss this weekly game with his brothers. Not that he’d let them know that, though. He made it a habit of either showing up late or insisting on leaving early—as though they were an added burden he could scarcely make time for in his busy life.

  He reached to his back pocket for his wallet and realized almost immediately that he must have left it behind. Instead he reached for Terry’s wallet on the table to his right and rifled through it for cash to buy in.

  “What the hell?” Terry demanded. “Are you broke already? I just deposited money in your account yesterday!”

  “No. I’m good, for a while anyway. Just forgot my wallet. And you wouldn’t have to deposit money in my account all the time if you’d just loosen up the controls there and give me direct access to my accounts.” Millions of dollars in trust funds and he had to beg for cash from his brothers before he could make a purchase, at least until he was thirty-five—fifteen long years from now. He pulled a wad of hundred dollar bills from the leather wallet and tossed them on the table in front of him.

  Terry grabbed the wallet back muttering dire insults under his breath. “You’re paying that back.”

  Mischa smirked and clicked his piercing loudly. “You’ll end up owing it to me in a few hours anyway!”

  Brandon, Dan, and Terry did the older brother thing. Their eyes met in a circle around the table that excluded Mischa, and he flushed.

  “Want to put your money where your mouth is, kid?” That was Brandon, pushing his buttons as only an older sibling can. He hated being reminded he was so much younger than his brothers.

  “I’m not a kid. I’m an adult, a licensed driver, and a registered voter.” He forced the words out trying not to scream them. He’d made the same protest so many times before.

  “When you support yourself and don’t live off a trust fund you’re an adult. Until then, you’re another rich kid with too much money and time on your hands.”

  “Hey! You guys all have trust funds, too! If having makes me a kid, then you’re kids.” He fucking knew he wasn’t going to win this one, he never did.

  “We also have careers with futures. You have nothing but a trust fund.” That was Terry, putting in his two cents worth. Fuck that. Terry knew the value of a dollar—probably figured his two cents worth was actually worth two dollars.

  “I’m an artist.” That was the answer he gave his mother every time she asked, and it always resulted in an indulgent smile. She and his father had taken it into their heads to retire in the French Riviera last year, but they had traveled and been on set so much during his childhood that Brandon had really stood in more of a parental role than his parents had.

  “Bull shit.” Brandon spoke again.

  Mischa glared at Dan who was busily shuffling cards and had been for the past five minutes. “Fucking deal already so these assholes have something to think about besides my life and how they can ruin it.”

  Dan cleared his throat and swiftly dealt the cards around the table.”You guys up for a little side bet?”

  Mischa peeked at his cards then turned to Dan. His face was impassive, but there was no denying the fact that he was up to something.

  Terry chimed in, equally impassive. “Money means nothing to us all, as the kid has pointed out, so how about we play for Truth or Dare?”

  Brandon was nodding before Terry had even finished speaking. “Yeah, last hand of the night. Winner’s choice, loser pays a penalty to each of the players if he chickens out.”

  It was a plot. Somehow, they were all in it together, and he was going to come out on the bottom of this someway. He picked absently at the loose threads in the rips of the five hundred dollar black jeans he’d bought, cut, and pinned back together while he considered his options. He had to make some move to salvage the situation, because protesting the game would mean he really was just a kid. The rules had to be established in the beginning and he had to find a way to slant them in his favor.

  “And if the loser follows through, he gets to claim a boon from each of the other players.” It was the best he could do, and he knew exactly what boon he’d ask for too, because he was damn sure his brothers were going to manipulate him into losing. No way could his brothers come up with a dare he wouldn’t fulfill. He’d do anything. There was no truth he wasn’t willing to tell. This could definitely be worked to his advantage either way the chips fell. And if the cards fell in his favor tonight, they’d better look out because he had some pretty good dares he could lay on his superior older brothers.

  Two hours later, his chances of being the big winner of the night looked good. Despite losing the last hand, he’d turned Terry’s thousand dollars into twelve thousand, and was easily way ahead of his brothers for the night.

  Terry shoved his chair back from the table. “Okay, guys, I’m done. That was the last hand.”

  Brandon and Dan made agreeing noises and Mischa stiffened in shock. Fuck. He was screwed.

  “Wait a minute… You guys usually play a lot later than this. I mean, it’s only eleven o’clock!”

  “Nope.” Brandon shook his head. “You usually leave around this time, and we always quit when you leave.”

  If that was the last hand, which he’d lost, that
meant he’d really lost.

  Dan nodded in agreement. “And I make Brandon out as the winner of that hand, and you as the loser, squirt. So what’ll it be, Brandon, Truth or Dare?”

  It was so fake. So fucking staged, it was obvious. He’d been set up. The first hand he lost was destined to be the last hand they played no matter how many it took or how few.

  Brandon was a terrible actor. He smiled as he spoke lines that had probably been written by Dan expressly for the occasion. “Well, brother, I’m going to have to say Dare. But we should name the penalties before I tell him the dare, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Terry was outwardly smirking now. “You owe one penalty per player, kid. If you welsh on the dare, I get to give you a complete makeover, new clothes, new hair, whole new style.”

  Surveying his brother’s “style” - navy blue Brooks Brothers suit, crisp white cotton shirt, Italian silk tie, and neatly trimmed blond hair, Mischa shuddered. He turned to Brandon, next brother in the row seated at the round table, and quirked his pierced left brow in what he hoped was a sardonic Spock-like inquiry and not a laughable dumb younger brother affectation.

  Brandon smoothly responded with an elevated right brow and cough into his fist. “If you welsh, you take the assistant producer’s job I’ve been holding open for you since you graduated high school. Join the family business and make yourself useful.”

  Damn. That was even worse. He held his breath momentarily before turning to Dan. Dan could swing either way. He was the brother who understood Mischa best, but he was also the cleverest, most devious, and creative of the brothers. No doubt he was the mastermind behind this whole plot.

  Dan smiled broadly, tapping the playing cards against his chin gently as he considered his youngest brother. “If you welsh, brother, you attend the college of my choice for a full four years—or until you attain a degree, whichever comes first.”

  “That’s a bit harsh!” Mischa protested. “In exchange for a single hand of cards, you guys expect to be able to run my life to suit yourselves for an infinite amount of time?”

  “Oh, no,” Brandon interjected smoothly. “We expect you to honor your debts brother. Are you saying that you can’t meet the dare? You don’t even know what it is yet.”

  Good point. Given the penalties though, Mischa was pretty sure the dare was going to be something he would really hate.

  “Okay. What’s the dare?”

  They did it again, the older brother silent communication thing. This time Dan broke the silence.

  “We dare you to get a job and support yourself without resorting to your trust fund for a whole year.”

  Mischa’s mouth fell open. “That’s all I have to do? Get a job?”

  Terry shook his head. “No. You have to support yourself. No more sending your bills to me to pay. No more monthly deposits into your account. Take care of yourself.”

  If Terry had deposited his usual allowance into his account yesterday, that meant he had fifty thousand, plus the twelve on the table in front of him to get through the next year. “What if I can’t find a job? I mean, I’ll make every effort to find one, but I don’t get one?”

  “Nope. Have to get a job.” Brandon was insistent.

  “But I have plenty of money to get through a year… even if I don’t find a job.”

  Terry shook his head again. “No. You don’t. You don’t even have any idea how much your lifestyle costs, do you? The money I put in your account this morning won’t last you a month at the rate you normally spend it. If you don’t find a job you’ll be living a very different lifestyle next month, with a new hairstyle and a new wardrobe to match.”

  No freaking way. He’d find a way to beat his brothers at their own game.

  Chapter One

  Getting a Job

  Donovan Holloway flung the heavy oak front door of his new dream home open with a thud. He peered out at the extremely tardy final interviewee for the position of housekeeper, and groaned inwardly.

  “Yes?” He didn’t have time for neighborhood boys selling magazines, cookies, or candy bars, even if they were sexy as hell. The kid at the door might, might, have been seventeen. He should just shut the door and hope the kid went away. On second glance, shutting the door on temptation incarnate seemed like a damn good idea.

  Wearing a tight black t-shirt, black skinny jeans, and black skate shoes, his visitor carried a skateboard under one arm and a black backpack hung off the other. His head was shaved on both sides leaving a strip down the center that was ink-black and, despite the rain, stood in four-inch porcupine spikes. He was pale, eyes red rimmed, and literally drenched. Damn. That wet look sure looked good. Pervert! He snarled at himself. Note to self— get out of the office and get laid this weekend.

  Donovan stepped back, prepared to slam the door, but something sad in those green eyes gave him pause. “Hey, are you alright? Do you need help?” He scanned the quiet neighborhood looking for a reason the kid might be knocking on his door, envisioning gangs of hoodlums stalking the as yet silent boy through upscale neighborhoods.

  He shuddered, and then swallowed audibly before speaking. “I’m Mischa Blake.”

  Donovan stared uncomprehending.

  “Mikhail?” Deep green eyes stared at Donovan expectantly. When no response was forthcoming, he added, “Michael? Blake? I have an interview?”

  Donovan shoved his hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a pink phone slip from his secretary. M. Blake was his sixth scheduled interview for the position of housekeeper/cook/gardener.

  The first applicant, a beady-eyed battle-axe, had taken one look around his yard and at the clutter in his house yet to be unpacked, and announced that she most emphatically did not work for pigs.

  He knew the place was a mess. He’d found his ranch style house on the market at the right price and decided to celebrate his recent promotion to vice president of the advertising agency he’d worked for the past twenty years by moving out of the tiny apartment he’d lived in for years and into a real home. It was the house he’d imagined so often as a kid, boasting a large yard, open floor plan, huge kitchen, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, gorgeous picture windows, and vaulted ceilings.

  Of course, in his childhood fantasies, the house had been occupied by him, and a beautiful wife—a golden haired, blue-eyed, petite Florence Henderson look-alike—and a bevy of beautiful, intelligent children. He’d suffered a minor setback at seventeen when he discovered he was gay, but after due consideration, he replaced Florence with Phillip Henderson and been instantly back in business.

  The housekeeping candidate hadn’t cared about his dream-turned-nightmare. She’d flounced out before he could even give her the job description. The second applicant had sat sipping coffee in his office, murmuring noncommittally in response to his job description for several moments. He nurtured high hopes for the middle-aged lady, until she abruptly interrupted him to demand, “Are you one of them? Because I’m looking at you, and I’m guessing, Myrtle, he’s one of them. You’re a gay man aren’t you?”

  He’d sat in stunned silence, mouth hanging open a bit too long as she began to spout fire and brimstone and call upon God to wreak his vengeance on all sodomites. She’d still been spewing vitriol as he clasped her elbow and hustled her the few feet from his home office to the front door and out onto the sidewalk.

  “I’m looking for someone to cook a few meals and scrub the toilets, not validate my existence!” he called after her as he slammed the door.

  The third applicant hadn’t spoken a word of English, and since he had zero chance of learning to speak Hmong, he’d nodded, shaken his head, and hustled her out the door as quickly as he could as well. The fourth applicant had been a no-show. It was depressing. He’d really screwed up his chances of fulfilling his lifelong dream by purchasing the house before he’d found the Phillip Henderson to manage it!

  Hiring a housekeeper to manage his home life much as his secretary managed his business life was a bril
liant option. The housekeeper could handle the dream house that had become a nightmare, and he could concentrate on finding that Phillip Henderson after he got his work life sorted out again.

  Instead, the only candidate he would even consider hiring had been the fifth. She’d been a perfectly wonderful grandmotherly type who’d labeled him adorable and patted him on the cheek like he was a six-year-old boy instead of a forty-year-old businessman. He’d fallen more than a little in love with her right at the moment her soft wrinkled hand patted his cheek so sweetly. Unfortunately, she looked to be about ninety-six, and delicate—as though her spun sugar, white hair would melt in the rain. He’d have felt guilty as hell asking her to clean up after him. He’d kept her number, just in case he could come up with a reason to invite her back over after his house was in order. She’d be the perfect grandmother figure for the children he had yet to adopt. Phillip Henderson where are you?

  Sighing, he looked up from the scrap of paper. “You’re applying to be my housekeeper?”

  Mischa/Mikhail/Michael nodded, shook his head, and then with a deep breath visibly forced himself to be still. “More like a butler-slash-personal assistant, sir.”

  Butler? What the hell? Who had butlers in today’s world? Whatever. Could he just get rid of the kid? An underage temptation walking around his house wouldn’t be a good idea.

  “I’ll be honest with you, kid. I’m looking for someone a little more mature.”

  “I’m older than I look.” The boy wasn’t taking a hint.

  “Okay. Why don’t you come on back to the kitchen?” He’d conducted the other interviews in his office, but couldn’t see the drenched kid sitting in his leather chairs dripping on his plush new white carpet.

  “Oh, yeah.” Mischa dropped his battered skateboard on the porch next to the door and stepped over the threshold.