Chapter 2: The Man in the Apron

I return to the car and grab my shit - everything I own fitting neatly into a backpack - how pathetic. Hummel leads us inside the mansion and I close the door behind me. I thought it looked big from the outside, fuck what a fool I was. This place is straight out of Forbes Magazine. We enter the living room -no, den? Living room #1? - Cause with a house this size, there's bound to be more than one- Whatever the "I wipe my ass with $100 bills" call it. You could fit a swimming pool in here no doubt - the huge ones, like the kind you see in the Olympics. The far wall is entirely made of glass windows and doors that line the backyard, providing a brief glimpse of - duh - the beach. Mr. Hummel heads to the right. I pick my jaw up off the floor and follow him. We enter the kitchen - which is pretty much the size of my whole house - with large countertops, a steel stove, every possible appliance, a fridge I could fit in- twice over - and an island, complete with another stove top and wine rack - fully stocked may I add. This kitchen has everything and more. Shit.

I hear the clickity-clack of a woman's footsteps and sure enough Mrs. Cash Tits appears. Ok, so maybe I went a little too far with the name calling, and after seeing her I actually feel bad. She's not the typical O.C. half my husbands age-blond barbie wannabe-plastic surgeon on speed dial- kind of woman. She's, dare I say, normal? Her brown hair falls almost to her shoulders. She's short but hell most people are compared to me. Her face has an endearing, warming quality to it. As if they clearly got dressed in the same closet as her husband, she too is wearing a suit. It's white and tight against her body. She looks...respectable. Wait, respectable? Aw, how proper of me. These rich fucks are rubbing off on me already. She smiles, approaching us.

Mr. Hummel speaks first. "Finn, this is the Queen of the Manor herself, my wife Carole."

"Hello Finn, welcome to our home." Clasping her hands in front of her she adds, "Let me show you where you'll be staying."

I adjust the weight of my backpack and once again follow them around the house, feeling like an obedient lap-dog. Ha! Imagine a lap-dog my size. They head out the back door and towards what is presumably the pool house/guest house/does it matter? It's an extra house for God's sake. Inside, it's really nice - shocking, I know. It has a huge bed, desk, couch, full bathroom and even a mini kitchen, the walls lined with windows, also overlooking the beach. The housekeeper, who looks like she barely speaks a word of English, is making the bed, ignoring my presence.

Carole gestures to the room and towards the housekeeper. "If you need anything, Rosa here can help you." Rosa glances over her shoulder, forcing a smile, clearly pissed at yet another person to clean up after. I make a mental note not to be too hard on her. Though she probably makes good money, no one really wants to be someone else's bitch.

"Make yourself at home. We'll see you in the morning, Finn'" Mr. Hummel says, yet again clasping my shoulder. What the hell's with this guy? I'm not your kid, jackass. The Hummels and their housekeeper head back to the (main) house. I drop my bag and sit on the bed, falling backwards to stare at the ceiling. This place is unreal. I feel like Little Orphan Fucking Annie. Kicking my shoes off, I close my eyes. Fully dressed, I fall asleep, on top of the covers, refusing to feel the least bit comfortable here. Like I said, I won't be staying long. These people will forget me the minute I step through their front door. They'll spend the holidays with friends and champagne, laughing about time they let that charity case stay the night.

-xxxxxx-

I feel the sun on my face and I groan, turning over and covering my head with a pillow. Who's brilliant idea was it replace all of the walls with windows anyway? I'm in a fucking fishbowl, the sun pouring in, trapped, with no plants or fake submarines to hide behind. Ok, so maybe I'm a tad cranky until I've had a cup of coffee - which is rare at my house, when all the money is spent on liquor - so I imagine that's where my bitchiness comes from. I'm forever PMSing over a lack of caffeine. My mind wanders to the mansion's kitchen. There's bound to be a coffee machine in that endless abundance of appliances. I get up and - thinking of Rosa - make my bed.

I squint, the sun ever brighter as I enter the backyard. Whatever I saw last night, did no justice to the picture before me. There's a pool - ya know, one of those with only 3 sides, and the fourth looks like it just ends, and the water free flows off the side, into the horizon.. an infinite- intimate- or whatever it's called kind of pool- at the end of the yard, which did I mention sits on a fucking mountain? Seriously, this house is on a cliff, giving it the perfect view of the entire shoreline below. To the left of the pool there's a patio with tables and chairs. Surrounding the table is what looks like an outdoor kitchen - increasing this properties kitchen count to three so far- with a grill, sink, fridge and bar. It's the epitome of a California Hills home. Deciding I can't possibly be any more floored by the amount of money dripping out of these people's asses, I remember my venture for caffeine and head into the house. The smell of breakfast deliciousness hits me like a Mac truck, and I inhale deeply. Yum.

"Oh! You must be Finn," the master of all that is breakfast says from his perch at the stove, a little too cheery for my liking. He's young, probably my age, but he's dressed like he's on his way to a fancy dinner (it's 10 fucking AM!), in dark blue dress pants, a matching jacket with gold buttons (neatly pressed), not a hair out of place on his perfectly brushed head, the look completed with a tiny gold sailboat pin and - what the hell - a fucking sailor hat. Who the hell dresses like this!? Clearly he's a Brokeback Mountain fan, not that I mind. What gets a man off is his business. Who am I to judge?

Oh, by the way, he's wearing a fucking apron, tied in a neat bow in the back. I clear my throat, his outfit distracting my brain and stealing my words. "Yeah," I manage to spit out. "And you are?"

"How silly of me, I'm Kurt! Kurt Hummel, Burt and Carole's son." Ah, so they had offspring after all. Not surprising. I mean, who would they leave all their money and shit to when they kicked the bucket? He wipes his hands on this apron and offers me one, walking towards me. I shake it. "It's nice to meet you, Finn."

I mumble a mess of sounds, attempting an 'uh huh', my brain still a mess of words. He goes back to the stove and continues cooking. "Eggs? Pancakes? Toast? Bacon? I wasn't sure what you prefer, so I figured I'd just make everything, buffet style." I like this guy already, I decide.

As if in complete approval, my stomach growls. "It smells great. Any coffee?"

"It's already made, grab a cup," he says, gesturing to the cabinet next to him.

I make the coffee to my liking, the smell instantly lifting my mood, like a drug. I take a seat at the kitchen table, while 'fancy pants' sets the food on the table and takes a seat across from me.

"Bon Appetit," he speaks in a mock Italian accent, reaching for the food, but only taking small amounts of each - probably watching his figure. I load my plate with some of everything and dig in like it's Christmas morning and I just woke up to a room full of presents, the quicker I eat, the closer I get to opening presents - not that I would know the feeling.

Mr. Hummel enters the kitchen, hands full of groceries, looking strikingly different dressed in casual clothes, his bald head covered with a baseball cap - SF Giants - my favorite team. Out of the suit, he's less intimidating and dickish. Setting the bags down, he heads to the table, eyes devouring the buffet before us. He sits next to Kurt and faces me, speaking while filling his plate. "I see you've met our son, the Master Chef, Kurt." Subtlety mocking the amount of food on the table. It's enough to feed an Army.

I nod, my mouth full of food.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Dad. It provides the right amount of sustenance necessary for a challenging, extensive day. Plus, I need the energy now because it's light grazing for the rest of the day. I can't have a full stomach for the talent show. It's incredibly tacky, not to mention an imposition. And the stage adds a few pounds." Kurt grimaces. "I need my voice in tip top shape if I'm gonna steal the show from Rachel." He turns to look at me. "Take seconds, Finn, please. There's plenty of food."

Mr. Hummel responds in a perfectly parental way, I'm sure. But I don't hear it because my mind zeroes in on one of Kurt's words: Rachel - the hot piece of ass brunette I met last night - the neighbor from heaven, dressed in the color of the devil. She mentioned some bullshit about her vocal cords, too. Shit, her and Kurt even talk alike. They must be friends - chicks love the gays. He has ties to Rachel and he's basically stuffing food down my pie hole. Awesome. The Rachel fog in my mind suddenly lifts. The talent show.

I swear these people can read my fucking mind, because suddenly Mr. Hummel says, through a mouth full of bacon, "Any plans tonight Finn? How about a trip to the local high school?"

-xxxxx-

To everyone reviewing, following and favoriting, THANK YOU! It means the world to me! :) This is my first story. Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Loving the Finn/Kurt bromance. The talent show will fun!