Thorne Princess(13)

“And living off your parents’ dime.” I finished the rest of the apple. “Which brings me to my original point: abide by my rules, or lose every privilege you have.”

“That all?” Mike asked. The guy beside him was staring at the artistic nude painting of Hallie in the living room. An urge to drive my fist into his jaw slammed into me. I did not like it when women were objectified.

“Know what? I’ll deal with it myself. Thanks for nothing.” She stormed upstairs.

“You’re welcome, honey.” Evidently, Mike was not well-versed in sarcasm. He turned back to me. “So? Drinks this afternoon? I finish my shift at three o’clock.”

I opened my mouth to tell him there was no way in hell I’d intentionally spend time with him, when he got another call. He took it, sighed, then frowned.

“Looks like there was a robbery two streets down. So, drinks?”

With a cold smile, I answered, “Raincheck.”

I closed the door behind the officers and let Brat sulk in her room for a while. If this was what being a parent felt like—I was glad I’d opted out of having children.

In the meantime, I went upstairs and unpacked my bag in a burgundy-walled freak show of a guestroom, complete with neon pink lamps. The place looked like it had been decorated by a blind brothel Madame. I wondered if Anthony Thorne had ever set foot in this wasteful, five hundred-room mansion. My gut told me the answer was no.

My gut was never wrong.

Question was—was it his choice to avoid this place, or Brat’s?

I proceeded downstairs and started making some calls. Max was supposed to arrive tomorrow. Miss Thorne required around-the-clock supervision so we had to take shifts. I also called a local CrossFit place. I normally liked to get my workouts out in the open, but the only pieces of green Los Angeles had to offer were the golf courses.

I sifted through emails, checked my Kink app for appealing like-minded people in the area, and then got back to sorting through résumés for the cybersecurity unit.

An hour after her dramatic departure, Brat reemerged downstairs, swathed in black from head-to-toe and dark sunglasses, holding a designer suitcase. She sloped her chin up.

She looked like an especially bad actress on a soap opera.

“I’m leaving,” she declared from her place by the door.

I didn’t answer.

“There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Wanna bet?

“I’m just taking my keys.” She let go of her suitcase and advanced to the kitchen, then came back, red-faced, to the dining table where I sat.

“Where are all my keys?” she demanded. “This is theft.”

“In my pocket.” I kept typing an email as I spoke. “And those cars are technically under your mother’s name. She confirmed I could confiscate them as I deemed fit for safety purposes.”

“You—”

“So much for being an environmentalist.” I continued typing on my laptop. “Owning four cars.”

“They’re all hybrids.”

“You’re one person,” I reminded her. I had a feeling math wasn’t her strong suit.

“That’s because I like supporting green companies.”

“Sure, on your father’s dime.”

“I’ll call my driver,” she mumbled, more to herself than to me.

“Mr. Drischoll is on an overdue paid leave,” I announced flatly. “He’s spending some time across the country with his family.”

“Dennis!” She gasped, slapping a hand over her chest. “He never had a vacation before.”

“My point exactly.”

“Well, I’ll get an Uber,” she shot back.

“Would they let you pay in pearls of wisdom?” I inquired dryly.

“What?”

I stopped typing. “Your credit cards have been canceled. Couldn’t risk you running into trouble while I wasn’t looking.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Oh, I should warn you in advance—I have no sense of humor. No joking in this household for the next six months.” I double-clicked one of the résumés waiting in my email.

“I’m going to get revenge.”

I yawned, wondering if all one-dimensional creatures of excess in L.A. talked in poorly scripted Riverdale dialogue.

“Revenge’s an admission of pain. Tuck your feelings back in. Everyone can see them, and what they can see—they can exploit.”

“I’m going to find a way out of this.” She was pacing back and forth now, peering at the walls like they were closing in on her. She was coming to terms with her new reality. Good.

I opened another Chrome tab of résumés. A bachelor’s degree in information security, UC Berkeley cybersecurity boot camp graduate, five years’ experience in NESSUS, SPLUNK, and APP Detective, blah, blah, blah.

Not good enough. Next.

“I am!” She stomped her foot. “Just watch me.”

My eyes snapped up to meet hers.

“I’ll watch you, all right, because Daddy Dearest pays me a hefty sum to do so. Your ass is under my supervision for the next six months, Miss Thorne, whether you like it or not. Forget about everything you knew to be your former life. Gone are your days of stumbling out of bars and clubs naked and drunk. From now on, you will have to prove to me that you are responsible enough to operate your social media accounts, to have a credit card, and to socialize with other adults. You will be abstinent, sober—those are your parents’ demands, and on your best behavior—the latter is mine. And by the end of my stay,” this was where I got to the cherry on the shitcake, “you will be gainfully employed, too.”