What's Mine is Yours

There are advantages to clawing your way up tooth and nail through Los Santos's various gangs and crime hierarchies. After all the blood, sweat, and tears are shed, you can pick the smaller nuisances off your back and begin to actually reap the benefits of the past decade of your life, claiming the world as your own. And once you find yourself super fucking loaded, there's only one thing you can really do with it.

Live in the lap of luxury.

"Holy fuck Geoff. This place has fucking talking fridge."

Unfortunately, it also means sharing your riches with your shithead friends who helped get you here.

"Hey, stop poking at it," you tell Michael, swatting him away from your yet-untouched refrigerator. "I paid good money for this shit, I don't need you breaking it on the first day."

"Isn't it supposed to be poked?" Michael asks, indicating the touchscreen imbedded in the glossy black surface. "It's like, made for poking."

"He has a point," Jack chimes in. She's standing at the far end of the kitchen/lounge combo, cheerfully fiddling with the automatic shades and occasionally plunging the room into darkness. "I mean, I don't blame him. I kind of want to come over there and poke it myself. Tantalizing."

You sigh in exasperation.

The penthouse—your penthouse—is brand new, not even lived in for a day before the rest of your crew invited themselves over. For all you know, Michael is using the fridge right, but damn anyone if they think you're going to admit that.

"Fine," you grumble. "Knock yourself out."

The truth is, you don't really know how to be rich. Sure you've been dreaming of it ever since you realized how small and shitty the apartment you were born in was, even compared to other first graders, but that doesn't mean you actually know what to do with all this crap that came with your first big purchase. In fact, the only reason you're not joining them in pushing all the fancy buttons is because you had a test drive last night.

"Geoffrey?" Gavin's voice chimes in suddenly, voice mixing equal parts delight and alarm. "...Is my bum getting warm?"

You leave the kitchen, walking into the open plan living room so you can better see Gavin. He's sprawling in a black leather chair, shoulders back so far they're practically toughing his ears, and expression that of a mouse who knows the cheese is too good to be true.

"It's a heated seat," you explain, to Gavin's ever growing amazement. "It turns on when you sit down."

"Good lord," Gavin says, melting further into the chair because apparently that's possible.

"Here," you say, leaning in to the left armrest. "Watch this."

With a press, you activate the massagers in the back of the chair, and you get to see the exact instant Gavin's soul leaves his body. The one time you've witnessed Gavin smoke weed has nothing on the total slack-jawed high that takes over him now.

"Geoff knows all the tricks in the house of magic," Jack's voice floats over, since she's now standing in front of the sink and trying her hand at the touch-activated faucet.

"That's because it's my house," you remind her and the rest of these freeloaders. "So don't forget that if I catch you trying to steal my roomba."

"But we can come over whenever we want, right?" Michael asks, now examining your microwave which no doubt has a million and one secret features you haven't discovered yet.

"Well...yeah..." you admit.

"And there's a couple of spare bedrooms, isn't there?" Jack adds blithely.