The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 134

Chapter 134: 134 | The Aggressiveness of California Gold

The days between acceptance letters and Saturday morning dissolved into training sessions, meal prep, and the specific domestic chaos that surfaces when two women with strong opinions find themselves on the same shared furniture document. Diane’s list ran by room, sorted by vendor. Sloane’s ran by vibe, populated by screenshots from Instagram that she’d zoomed in on until the pixel count gave up.

Three separate throw pillow arguments by Thursday evening.

I stayed out of it. Two months in this body had taught me that the single most dangerous position in the Fitzgerald household was between Diane and Sloane when they both needed to be right. My job in those moments was to nod at the correct intervals, agree with whoever had eyes on me, and find somewhere else to be when the conversation turned to thread counts.

Saturday arrived the way California mornings always did, with that particular golden aggressiveness that had no interest in my sleep schedule. Boundless Stamina meant four hours was sufficient. I’d gotten three, because Diane had decided eleven PM was an appropriate time to find out whether the enhancement effect scaled with intensity, and it did, emphatically, for the better part of ninety minutes.

Showered. Dark jeans. White fitted henley that Diane had purchased for me on Thursday, described as "casual but competent," which I understood as her dressing me like a display model because she genuinely could not help herself.

The sleeves pushed back past my forearms, where two months of training had left something worth noticing. The collar sat open wide enough to show the collarbone that Sloane had bitten hard enough to matter, three days ago.

I looked good. I looked like someone who belonged in a furniture store spending money he hadn’t technically earned on apartments he’d gotten into through a combination of genuine effort and a dating sim engine that paid out for sleeping with his guardian and her daughter.

My life was a fever dream with a credit card attached.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs, the Range Rover’s keys hanging from my right hand. Morning light came through the tall windows and spread across the hardwood floors in that particular California gold that turned everything into a magazine spread. From upstairs, movement. Running water from one bathroom. A hair dryer from the other. The recognizable chaos of two women who had agreed on a departure time and were now treating it as a general suggestion.

"We’re leaving at nine," I called up the staircase. "It’s eight forty-two."

A door opened. Sloane’s voice came off the hallway walls.

"Twenty minutes!"

A second door. Diane’s voice, warmer and lower.

"Twenty minutes, sugar!"

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