Watching these clowns preen and posture, laughter bubbled in my chest. I swallowed it.
Elisa was already burrowing into Kevin's embrace. Since she was occupied, I decided to leave.
I stood. Walked out.
By the time the bus deposited me at the villa, it was past eleven.
The house was in Elisa's name, but I'd lived here for three full years.
As I stepped inside, a foreign scent hit me—red wine, heather, and a pungent men's cologne that made my nostrils flare.
I recognized that cologne. It had clung to the air in the private room all night.
Aggressive. Cheap. Carrying a lewd undertone that made my skin crawl.
The master bedroom door on the second floor hung ajar. Sounds drifted down the hallway—sounds no one should have to hear.
"Mmm... gently... you're so annoying..."
Elisa.
At the company, she was a terror. Subordinates fell silent mid-sentence when she entered a room. When she scolded me, she transformed into a drill sergeant. But now? Her voice dripped with false sweetness so thick it curdled my stomach.
"Kevin, the company's been a bit tight on cash lately." She cooed between breaths. "The investment you promised me... it can't fall through."
"Got it, got it. That little bit of money? Nothing. Pocket change." Kevin's voice oozed lust and arrogance. "Elisa, what I'm more curious about is this—if you let that useless boyfriend of yours watch us right now, what do you think he'd do?"
"Why bring up that buzzkill?"
She scoffed. "He's just a useful dog. Tell him to go east, he won't dare go west. Tell him to eat shit, he won't even complain it's hot. If my mom hadn't made me promise to keep him, I'd have kicked him to the curb years ago."
"Hahahaha, true." Kevin sounded incredibly pleased with himself. "I saw how cowardly he was in the private room. Didn't even dare let out a fart. A man like that is just wasting air by being alive."
"Stop talking about him." She moaned. "Do it again..."
I stood at the bottom of the stairs, expression blank.
Then turned and walked toward the storage room at the end of the hall.
Elisa always claimed the "poor sour smell" on me was too heavy—that I wasn't worthy of sleeping in the master bedroom. I'd been relegated to the guest room. Often, the couch.
I pulled a battered tin box from under the guest bed.