Recalled (6 page)

“Are you visiting someone?” the guard asked.

“No. I live here.” I responded with confidence. Then my eyes slid over to the GPS to see the address of my new place. “I’m on Brandywine Court. Number Eighteen.”

“Oh, right. The new resident. Welcome home.” He handed me a gate pass and a parking pass and then waved me through. Just like that.

I rolled up my window and slid past the towering townhouses and bare sidewalks. It was almost dark, but there were so many streetlights I could see everything. It would be hard to be a thief in this neighborhood. I snorted. There were probably cameras hidden in the well-trimmed bushes.

I pulled up to number eighteen, which looked like the rest of the townhomes, except the windows were all dark. I eased into the driveway in front of the two-car garage and pressed the button on the remote control clipped to the visor. The garage door lifted smoothly and my headlights bounced around the empty garage. After closing the door behind me, I cut the engine. Trying to make my way to the door in the dark, I realized I should’ve left the headlights on.

After I found the door handle, I gave it a try and was glad when it opened easily. I could pick a lock in the dark, but I’ve never used a key. I walked into the bottom floor of the house and groped around for a light, switching it on. Gleaming tiles greeted me in alternating white and black, to my right was a washer and dryer, and to the left there was a row of coat hooks and a bench. I kicked off the brown leather shoes that came with my body and they skidded beneath the bench.

I walked out of the laundry room and into a wide room with dark-brown walls, plush beige carpet, and a huge couch in the shape of a U laden with a hundred pillows. But I didn’t give attention to much else because hanging on the wall was a massive TV. It was awesome.

When I finished drooling over the TV, I headed upstairs into another large living area with a fireplace, another TV, a couch, and various other pieces of furniture. The floors were dark wood and there were expensive-looking carpets everywhere. The kitchen was open to the living area and it was all stainless steel and black granite. There was a bathroom with more granite and wood, and then I went upstairs where I found three bedrooms and an office. They were all stuffed with furniture and beds piled with pillows. Each room had its own bathroom. The master bedroom was as big as the apartment I grew up in, with wide windows, soft carpet, and a bed the size of a small country. The bathroom was stocked with soap, towels, and every other item I might possibly need.

I zeroed in on the contact supplies on the counter. Finally! I could lose the dorky glasses. I grabbed up the solution and the box of contacts. I poked myself in the eye five times trying to get the stupid things in there.

“Damn!” I shouted and my voice echoed around the room. How was I supposed to put a contact in my eye when my vision was so blurry I couldn’t even see myself in the mirror?

I decided maybe glasses might not be so bad. Clark Kent wore them. If Superman could look good in glasses, then I could too.

I left the bathroom and went downstairs to the kitchen. I was starving. It had been days since I’d eaten. The fridge contained the basics: milk, bread, eggs, and cheese. The pantry had some cereal and some coffee. I was about to inhale the entire box of Cheerios when the doorbell rang.

For a minute, I stood there frozen like I was caught doing something wrong. Like maybe this wasn’t really my house and the police were here to arrest me for breaking and entering. Then the doorbell rang again.

If it was the cops, I would show them my key. Can’t argue with a key, right?

There was a wide hallway beside the kitchen that led to the double front doors with ornate frosted glass on each side. Based on the shadows moving on the other side, someone was definitely standing there.

I opened the door a crack, curling my lip at the cold air snaking in. “What?” I practically growled.

“I’m here for the job.”

I jerked back and with my movement the door opened farther. The man standing on my front porch was small, no more than five foot five. He was thin, but not skinny, and dressed in a dove-gray top hat and matching pea coat. He carried a cane with a gold knob at the top that looked more like a prop than something he actually needed. Next to him was a small black suitcase.

“What job?”

“The butler position.”

“You have the wrong place. I’m not hiring a butler.”

The man furrowed his brow. “Is this not eighteen Brandywine?”

“Yeah, but—” I stopped midsentence. I wasn’t really hiring a butler, but that didn’t mean I
couldn’t
. Someone had to use that washer and dryer downstairs… Why not him?

I squinted my eyes at him. “Can you cook?”

“Of course. What self-respecting butler doesn’t?”

“You’re hired.”

I opened the door wider so he could enter. He came in, the end of his cane tapping on the tiles, carrying his bag with his other hand. “Don’t you want to see my resume first? Find out what kind of pay I require?”

“How much do butlers cost?” I asked.

“I charge five hundred dollars a week.”

“You’re hired.” I glanced at the suitcase he held. “Are you moving in?”

“Most butlers are live-in.”

I nodded. It wasn’t like I didn’t have the room. “You can have one of the bedrooms upstairs, not the master, of course” My eyes slid to his cane. “Can you get upstairs okay?”

“Of course.”

I guess his cane
was
just for looks. I locked the front door behind him and he sat his suitcase on the floor and offered his hand. “My name’s Cadbury Hobson. You can just call me Hobson.”

I shook his hand. “Nice to meet ya, Hobbs. My name’s Dex.”

“Hobson,” he corrected and I ignored. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“You can check out the house. I’m getting some cereal.”

I left him to do whatever butlers do and I poured myself a giant bowl of cereal and shoveled it into my mouth while I watched the sports highlights on the massive TV. I didn’t really pay much attention to what the people on the tube were saying because I was busy thinking about everything that happened to me. I got hit by a bus and died. I woke up a ghost. I met a man with a closet full of bodies and a ton of money. I was offered a job as an Escort—a Death Escort. And for accepting I got a new body, a new car, a new house, and a pocket full of money. It was all pretty awesome, minus the glasses and the whole killing part. But I wouldn’t think about that now. Right now I was enjoying the fact I had somewhere warm to sleep and food in my stomach. Tomorrow would have to wait.

After I’d slurped the last of the milk from my fourth bowl of cereal, sometime during the football highlights, I fell asleep.

* * *

For a man, there’s nothing better to wake up to than the smell of bacon and coffee. Okay, maybe there was something else, but bacon was a really close second.

I opened my eyes and for a moment I had to think about where I was. I was at
home.
On my couch, where I fell asleep in my khakis and sweater vest. I stretched and sat up, looking over my shoulder toward the kitchen where Hobbs was frying up some bacon.

I stumbled toward the island and pulled out a stool.

“Coffee.” I groaned.

Moments later, a steaming cup of dark liquid appeared under my nose. I took a big sip, grimacing at the strong taste. I never was a huge fan of coffee, but I liked its warmth.

Hobbs noticed my face and reached for my mug. Out of habit, I snatched it back, wrapping both my hands around it protectively. He said nothing but went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle with a blue lid. He popped the top and poured some of the liquid into my cup, still in my death grip, and then plopped in a spoon. I looked at the drink suspiciously before giving it a stir, then taking a small sip.

I never thought much about heaven, but once I swallowed, I decided this is what it must be like.

I grabbed up the little bottle with a blue lid and studied at the label.
Salted Caramel Mocha Coffee Creamer.
I’d never had coffee creamer before, but I decided it was my new favorite food.

“We need more of this,” I said, taking another huge gulp of my brew.

“I’ll add it to the shopping list, sir,” Hobbs said as he placed a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of me. I dug in with gusto.

Hobbs lifted his eyebrow. “Your fork is not a shovel.”

“I don’t pay you to tell me how to eat.”

Hobbs made a sniffing sound and turned away.

“We need more of this, too. You cook real good, Hobbs.”

“Hobson. Thank you, sir.”

He made a note on a piece of paper on the counter. “Anything else, sir?”

“Pizza, pancakes, donuts, and meat.”

As I chewed I watched Hobbs write more on his paper, then I paused. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

Hobbs glanced at me. “Usually the help doesn’t eat with the master of the home.”

“Pull up a chair, Hobbs,” I said, kicking out a stool next to me.

He hesitated, then filled a plate with food and sat beside me. I got up and poured some more coffee and creamer into my mug, waving him down when he started to rise. Having a butler was unnerving. Was I supposed to just sit here while he served me? I was used to doing everything for myself so that seemed a little weird. Not that I wouldn’t let him cook, clean, and do my laundry, mind you.

Speaking of clothes… I needed some.

I finished my breakfast and left a pile of money on the counter for Hobbs’s shopping, and I drove to the mall.

Buying clothes seemed like a better idea than trying to come up with ways to kill someone.

* * *

New clothes—
cooler
new clothes—in my closet. Check. New glasses without dorky frames. Check. New Converse tennis shoes to replace the ugly leather loafers. Check. A brand new laptop and accessories. Check. New stuff was awesome. Especially when I didn’t have to steal to get it.

I never went to the mall to shop before. Turns out having money and not looking like a thug actually resulted in people being nice to you. It was a new feeling. I kind of liked it. I spent a lot of money (but stayed under the limit Mr. Burns gave me) and got a bunch of stuff I only ever dreamed about having.

While Hobbs put away all my clothes and stuff, I broke into a large supreme pizza and a six-pack of root beer while I watched a DVD I found in the TV cabinet. Sometime during my third movie and second box of donuts, I got a text on the iPhone Mr. Burns gave me. I picked it up off the coffee table, curious.

You had your fun. Time to get to work, Escort

Mr. Burns. Of course it would be from him. He was the only one that had this number. He sounded like he knew what I was doing. Was he spying on me? I glanced around the room, searching the shadows for prying eyes. Of course, I didn’t see any. Then I realized if this guy was spying on me, his watchful eyes wouldn’t be visible. For the first time since I got here, reality hit me. Hard.

This wasn’t some vacation. I didn’t win the lottery. I was a Death Escort. That meant I had a job to do.