BOUND BY HATRED | TOM KAULITZ

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | TYRA KÄUTNER |

TYRA KÄUTNER

Tom gets up early, quietly slipping into the bathroom and closing the door so he doesn't wake me up with the noise of the shower.

When I finally come all the way awake, he's long gone, probably headed off to some meeting.

I can still smell his shampoo and aftershave in the air. A scent that's becoming increasingly erotic to me.

I'm basking in the satisfaction of the night before.
I never would have believed that Tom Kaulitz had the capacity to be so passionate or sensual.

Frankly, it's the best sex I've ever had, with the person I like the least. What a conundrum. Because it almost makes me feel friendly toward him, and I wasn't planning on that at all.

My head is spinning. What the hell is going on? Is this Stockholm Syndrome because I've been enmeshed with the Kaulitz's too long?

Luckily, I'm going home today, so I can regain a little sanity.

I wish it were for a happier reason. It's the anniversary of my mother's death—a day I always spend with my father and brothers.

I'm looking forward to it. I haven't been back since I got married. I wonder if it will feel different now that I technically live somewhere else.

The Kaulitz' mansion sure as shit doesn't feel like home. There's a couple of things I like about it-mostly the theater room and the pool.

Everything else is always annoyingly tidy, like someone's coming to shoot a magazine spread any minute.

Most of the couches look like you're not supposed to actually sit on them, barricaded with stiff pillows, and devoid of comfortable accessories like books or blankets.

Plus, their house staff is enormous. Cleaning ladies, cooks, assistants, drivers, security guards... it's hard to feel comfortable when you know somebody could come creeping into the room at any moment, always retreating politely if they see the space is occupied, but still reminding you that you're not alone and that you're in some awkward class above them.

I try to talk to "the help".

especially Marta, since I see her most often.

She has a seven-year-old daughter, and she listens to reggaeton and is the Michelangelo of makeup. She seems cool, like we could maybe be friends.
Except that she's supposed to wait on me hand and foot, like I'm a Kaulitz.

It's funny, because the Käutner's aren't exactly poor, either. But there are levels to rich, just like everything else.

Anyway, I'll be glad to get back to reality for a day.

Nessa kindly lends me her Jeep to drive home. I don't actually have my own car. At Papa's house, there were always enough random vehicles in the garage that I could take whatever I wanted, assuming Nash hadn't removed the engine for his own bizarre purposes.

I guess I could get one now. I've got plenty of money in the bank. But I hate the idea of begging the Kaulitz's for a parking spot.

I head over to Azabu, feeling like it's been months instead of only weeks since I was here last.

Driving up these familiar streets is like becoming myself again. I see the shops and bakeries I know so well, and I think how funny it is that Tom and I lived only a few miles apart from each other all this time, yet our worlds are so different.