Atlas Wolfe
As soon as I got back to the house, Lucy was already waiting for me with her arms crossed in front of her chest, an unamused expression plastered on her face.
“You weren’t supposed to use your car,” she raises her brow at me.
“And you’re not the boss of me,” I retaliated with a playful smirk, dangling my keys in front of her to taunt her.
I’ve known Lucy since the first day we moved into this house. She’s around her mid forties, but because she has no kids, no husband, or any other possible stressful factor in her life–excluding my brothers and I–she looks like she drinks from a fountain of youth somewhere and could be mistaken for someone still in her thirties.
I may be a d i c k, but I’m never purposely a d i c k to her or the other helpers around here. I just like to
