The Housekeeper’s Boy (Patreon)

Grant Brennan’s house sat at the end of a private road, all glass and stone and a pool that took me two hours to skim every morning. 

My mother had been his live-in housekeeper since I was twelve. I grew up in the staff wing, then in the small room off the kitchen, then — after I turned eighteen and started college — in the same house still, because Mr. Grant never asked us to leave and the garden and the pool needed someone who already knew how he liked things.

He was forty-four. Tall. Built like a man who still lifted at one in the morning when he couldn’t sleep. Shaved his head every day in the shower with a razor. Perfectly trimmed beard. The kind of face people compared to Jason Statham without even thinking about it. Broad through the chest and back, thick arms, a heavy, solid body that filled a suit the way most men never would. Hairy across the chest and down the abs. Hands like he could break something without meaning to.

I had watched him for years. Not as a kid looking at a father. As a gay twenty-year-old who lived under the same roof as the man who paid my mother’s salary and who had seen me go from a skinny teenager to the guy who now did his lawn and his pool and still ate leftovers from his kitchen.

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