Chapter 5

Rhychard hated mornings, especially mornings that required him to get out of bed and haul other people’s stuff around for free. Of course, this morning it wasn’t simply other people’s years of collected junk. It was his mother’s. Worse than working early in the morning for free, he dreaded working for family. They not only expected you to work for free, but they expected you to be happy about it. Rhychard’s wallet was far from happy. Some people refused to own a truck for just that reason. Once the news was out you owned one, every family member and freeloading friend you had asked you to help them move something. It was the same with his business, My Hand Truck & I. The part some of his friends—and his mother—didn’t comprehend was that it was his business, his livelihood, and not a charity.

“I’m your mother,” Catherine Bartlett reminded him when she asked for his help. “You’re going to charge the lady who fed you and clothed you for twenty years? The woman who spent ten hours and sixteen minutes with her insides screaming in agony just to give you birth? The woman who hasn’t had a manicure in twenty years so you could have toys and books? You’re going to charge that woman? Your own mother? What kind of a son did I raise? If only your father could see you now.”

“Dad’s in the other room watching football. Should I get him?” Rhychard stood in her kitchen, pointing to the living room where he knew James Bartlett nursed a Michelob and watched the Saints.

“No, but if he could see you now, he’d roll over at your insensitivity to your mother.”

“Roll over? Mom, he’s not dead or a dog.”

“A smart mouth, too. Where did I go wrong?” She threw her hands up in the air and looked up to a God in which she really didn’t believe.

Rhychard finally agreed to help her, but at nine in the morning instead of eight like she wanted. He also called his high school friend, Trace Wheeler, and drafted his help, as well. Trace never had anything better to do and occasionally assisted Rhychard on paying jobs. He figured his friend could help him on the pro-bono work, too. Besides, Trace’s mother would probably enjoy having her thirty-two-year-old son out of her house for a while. Trace never ventured out of his parents’ home once high school ended, and when his father passed away a few years ago, it was determined—by Trace, of course—that he never would. Trace used the excuse he wanted to stay close to take care of his mother. The truth, however, was that Trace just never grew up or had any intention of doing so. Every time Rhychard visited his friend he wanted to ask, “Good morning, Mrs Wheeler. Can Trace come out and play?”

Growling, Rhychard jerked his blankets to the side as he glanced over at his clock. 8:07. Next to the clock rested a silver picture frame holding one of the last pictures Renny and he took together. He closed his eyes against the tears as he sat up in bed, the pain still very real. Reflexively, he reached up and touched the ring that always hung around his neck as the pain that became a part of his wakefulness clutched at his heart. He succeeded in closing the Gateway to the Nether and even saved most of the people at Harvest Fellowship. He could not, however, save his Renny. He took a deep breath.

:It is rather early for you to rise and shine, is it not?:

:You’ve heard my mother go on her tirades. She hates tardiness. Is that bacon I smell?: Rhychard stretched as he stood, picturing the elven hound sprawled from end-to-end on his sofa.

Following the eye-opening, stomach-growling aroma into the kitchen, Rhychard found Buttercup all dressed up in front of the stove. She wore her dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and a gray business suit with jacket and skirt and three-inch heels that accented the curves in her long legs, an outfit Rhychard bought her to help her begin her new life. She wore very little makeup, just enough to accent her honey-colored skin and chocolate eyes, a major difference from when Rhychard saved her from gargoyles several weeks back. She didn’t even seem like the same person. Of course, being attacked by demons and dark elves will do that to a person.

“Fancy attire for cooking breakfast.” Rhychard pulled a glass from the cupboard and filled it with orange juice he pulled from the fridge. He could see Buttercup’s cheeks blush as she flipped the bacon.

“I’m going to Career Discovery today,” she said as she moved to stir the scrambled eggs. “I called them last week. Mrs. Jenkins needs me to fill out my profile today.”

Rhychard watched as the thin Latina lady moved around the kitchen. Her body was tight, her lips pressed thin when she wasn’t talking. “That’s a good thing, right?”

She stirred the eggs in quick jerks instead of fluid swirls. “Yes. I guess. I don’t know.” She dropped the spatula on the stove. “Rhychard, what if she asks what I did in the past? I’m sure street whore doesn’t look good on a resume.”

:She has been like this all morning.:

“I’ve told you before, I don’t like that term. And don’t tell her anything. Say you have no work history, that your boyfriend took care of you.” He shrugged. “It’s not an interrogation, just an application. People lie on those all the time.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Instead, she set the table for breakfast, even placing Kree’s bowl at one end. She made the mistake before of putting the coshey’s bowl on the floor, thinking of him as an animal and not realizing he belonged to another of the faerie races. Kree just harrumphed and walked off mumbling about the rudeness of humans. Buttercup put his bowl on the table from then on, but at times, she still had trouble thinking of Kree as a person and not a dog.

With breakfast over, they wished Buttercup good luck as she hurried out to catch the bus that was always late. Kree settled back in on the sofa. The life of a coshey very much resembles that of a house dog, Rhychard thought as he went back to his room. He could understand why Buttercup stayed confused.