Page 7 of Married in Michigan

This thing? Probably costs more than my car.

Sigh. Rich people.

When there’s enough coffee in the carafe, I pour some into a mug and grab a bottle of water from the fridge—I snag the bottle of painkillers from the guest room, where the occupants seem to have come to some sort of arrangement, as there’s moaning under the covers; I hurry out and close the door, but the moaning—faked female screams—gets louder and louder by the moment.

I bring the coffee, water, and pill bottle into the master suite and set them on the nightstand. Without a word of thanks to me, Paxton deBraun tosses back three pills with a swallow of water, and then settles back against a nest of pillows, the sheet once again draped low over his waist; no erection this time, thankfully.

A voice calls from foyer: “Animal control!”

Camilla shoots me a glance. “Deal with that, will you, dear? Thank you.” She suddenly looks to one side, at the adjoining wall from which comes ever-louder screaming. “And that too, please.”

I widen my eyes. “Um, that’s…that’s Mr. deBraun’s…guests, ma’am.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “By guests, you mean his degenerate friends and their gaggle of prostitutes?”

I nod. “I…yes, ma’am. As far as I can tell, ma’am.”

She sighs. “Fine. You deal with the animal control situation, and I’ll deal with the prostitutes and degenerates.” She stands, sniffing. “Honestly, I have no problem with the prostitutes. It’s your so-called friends I cannot abide.”

“They’re not degenerates, Mom,” Paxton growls. “They just like a good time.”

“We’ll discuss that in a moment, Paxton.”

“Whatever.”

Camilla stalks toward the bedroom door and rolls her eyes at me, as if commiserating. “You’re a grown man, Paxton, and one with several Ivy League degrees. Let’s graduate beyond monosyllabic grunts, shall we?”

I head to the foyer and find two animal control officers looking a bit out of their element. I show them the donkey, and then the snake. Of course, to get to the snake, they have to go past the occupants of the second room, who have woken up at this point, and who are now engaged in a rather acrobatically flexible display of oral sexual three-way exchange. They don’t seem to notice us as I show the officer the giant snake—the officer is a female, and she has a large plastic crate with a lid containing air holes, and one of those long-handled poles with the adjustable loops at the end. She makes easy work of snagging the head of the snake with the pole, and then heaves the bulk of the massive snake into the crate—the snake seems to not care a whit, and even complies by tucking its head down into the corner of the crate so she can close the lid. The crate now containing the snake is so heavy that she has to drag it by one end, but even so the orgy in the bed doesn’t stop. I shake my head, following her out. The other officer, at this point, has the donkey somewhat under control, with a halter around its muzzle and a leash attached to the halter, and he’s struggling to lead the recalcitrant animal out of the living room and onto the elevator. The donkey is less inclined to cooperate than the snake was, however, and fights all the way onto the elevator. Eventually, the officer, a large man with graying blond hair and a wispy goatee, gets the loudly braying creature onto the elevator, and the second officer drags the snake crate after her and, with a quick thank you to me, they’re gone.

I sigh, then.

Turning, I find Camilla loudly shooing people out of the first bedroom. “Enough, all of you. Ladies, if you haven’t been paid, you can rest assured that my son always pays his debts. Gentlemen, the party is over. Please leave.”

There’s grumbling, but two men hobble out, hurriedly hopping into pants and carrying the rest of their clothing. Rightly afraid of Mrs. deBraun, they’re gone within minutes. The women are slower to leave, taking their time to dress.

“We were paid up front,” one of them says to Camilla. “But after the way this party went, if he calls us again, we’re doubling our rates.” She snorts. “We didn’t get paid anywhere near enough for what they wanted us to do.”

Camilla shakes her head and holds up her hands. “No, no, no. Please, spare me the details. Charge him whatever you wish, I don’t care, I’m not paying for it anymore. Just please be on your way. There’s coffee made, if you want some.” She’s oddly solicitous of them, I’m noticing, as I go about the nasty business of cleaning up after the donkey; her next words make clear why. “Did my son have you sign a nondisclosure agreement with your contract?”

I focus on using the dustpan to scoop donkey shit into a bag, but I’m definitely eavesdropping.

The spokeswoman of the prostitutes nods. “Yeah, we all signed one. No talking about him, or this party, or any of his friends, or anything that happened. We sell the story, we get sued.”

Mrs. deBraun nods, somehow managing to seem both pleased and nonplussed at the same time. “At least he had that much sense.” A noise from the second room draws her attention, and she glances at me. “Are there more?”

I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

She sighs. “The snake is gone, I hope?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She eyes the mess I’m cleaning up. “That is positively vile.” A disgusted sigh. “Will the rug be salvageable, do you think?”

I shrug. “I don’t know yet, ma’am. I should have a better idea in a few minutes, though. I’m nearly done cleaning up the poop.”

She glances at the bedroom, from which male grunts can be heard. “Yes, as am I.”

I snicker at that, and then go back to work. Once the piles of shit and garbage are bagged and set with the rest in the foyer, it’s obvious immediately that the rug—an expensive hand-woven import, by the looks of it—is beyond salvage. I slide the furniture off it and move the rug aside—the hardwood floors underneath are stained, and I go to work trying to fix the situation. I remain focused as Camilla finishes ushering the last of Paxton’s guests out of the penthouse, and then she floats serenely over to the couch, settling to sit down on it.