Mr President's son -BoyXBoy- *ACTIVELY EDITING*

Chapter Four*

      "What do children eat, though?", Deacon asks, pushing around vegetables on a pan. "American children, I mean. What is the definition of junk food?"

    I chuckle, stretching my legs onto the other counter. I'd decided my room was feeling stuffy, and I'd caught Deacon on the way to the kitchen. I'd decided to ask if I could come help, which he refused, but said he'd be glad for the company. That's what had me sitting on a steel counter. The kitchen was empty, as it usually was when we didn't have guests and it was hours after dinner. Deacon had wanted to practice before the big guests coming in the morning.

     "Uh, pizza? Tacos, probably. Corn dogs. Popcorn. Stuff like that. And chips are junk food, snack cakes. How come you don't know this? You've never had a little Debbie?", I tease him. He glances over at me, rolling his eyes.

"No, I have never had relations with a lady named Debbie, and even if I did that is inappropriate", He says, looking over at me. I start to take him seriously, but bust out laughing once I see the small smile. "Gotcha", he chuckles. "Of course I've heard of little Debbie, but I always imagined large cakes. Not small ones. Bite sized cakes". He shakes his head, be it absurd that a cake could be so small. It made me smile, his passion for food. He said he'd been doing it forty years, and moved here when he was 10, which put him around to be fifty years old. And I'd take a fifty year old to hang out with any day.

"Hellllooo", a woman's voice sings out, then the loud slam of the door of the freezer. This makes Deacon jump and me sit up from my position. Though the annoyed expression that replaces Deacons face not only calms, but lightens me. Whoever this was, Deacon didn't like her.

"Rebecca, please announce yourself next time. We could have been having a serious conversation", Deacon rambles, stirring his broth faster. Rebecca gives me a look of annoyance and I smile, waving her off. I take a moment to look at her. She was probably thirty two, maybe fresh out of culinary school and got lucky to take this job. She was definitely new here. I could tell by the carefree way she moved. The other didn't move like that, they moved with purpose. Like they were being watched, and maybe they were.

    Rebecca was beautiful, though. Long red hair and long legs, a small build and a bright smile. The tattoo on her ankle was a Pokémon ball, which meant she was immediately cool. I was glad she was here, and I was glad Deacon was here. It made me feel like things would be okay. Like I had companions.

    "I thought we should make- oh what's this!", she says excitedly, looking into the pot. She reaches her hand like she's going for a taste and Deacon gasps. "I'm not, I'm not! Kidding, kidding. What is it though?", She held her hands up in surrender.

"Borsch, now get out of my kitchen. I don't need advice from a new girl", He says, anger filling his voice. I could tell she was pushing his buttons, probably a little too much. I stand up, taking Rachel's hand.

    I could feel heat, and I needed to simmer it. "How about you show me how to make a simple salad? I'm helpless, ya know. Momma didn't teach me nothin. Cmon", I say, giving her my best smile. She gives in easy, nodding eagerly and going over to the massive fridge.

She takes her time, showing me each ingredient. I glance back at Deacon and see him watching us, a new calm over him. He catches me looking and nods a thank you to me and I smile. We both turn back to our separate projects.

"You're going to make him lose a finger!", Deacon laughs loudly, almost falling backwards. It was hours later, nearing midnight and Deacon and Rachel were plastered. The salad still wasn't finished.

Rachel had announced she was opening a bottle of cheap wine. Deacon had started to argue, but he'd just finished his mock up meal for tomorrow and was feeling anxious about it, so he'd accepted a glass. Then another. Rachel had another. Then Deacon had another.

This went on until both of them laughed at everything I said, and I became the adult in the room. I loved it. Both of them were radiating a joy I hadn't felt in a long time, and I was soaking it in. "I'm not going to chop my finger off", I laugh, gently cutting through the cucumber.

"Imagine if he did!", Rachel shrieks, cracking up again. "Imagine you and I were responsible for the presidents son chopping his finger off!", she says, having to take a laugh break almost between every laugh. "That would be insane! We would lose our jobs. Our lives, probably! Can't be a tool with one less finger".

She says it and the entire river grows cold. Tool? I look to Deacon and he was looking at Rachel with shock. The laughter was gone. The joy was gone. "Deacon what's she talking about?", I ask, swallowing hard after I ask.

"Nothing, kid. Really. She's drunk, I'm drunk. So just go on to bed. Big day tomorrow, remember? Get some sleep and we'll clean this up", he says, waving his hand to dismiss me. I try to think of something to say, or ask. But it was evident that Deacon wasn't going to tell me. I turn to leave, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "Oh, and Tyler?", I hear Deacon ask. "Please don't tell anyone what you heard Rachel say. Okay?".

I nod, knowing the drill when you're asked to keep a secret. I didn't have to wonder why he didn't want to tell me, or why he didn't want me telling someone else. Or asking around.

My father had a plan to use me. Either way it worked. He'd put me on a soap box and make me bring my people down. Or he'd use me as an example, to show my people what he'd do to even his own son.

Rachel was right. I was just a tool to my father.