Page 13 of Filthy Beautiful
I went back into the poolhouse. Peeled off this ridiculous banana hammock—it was flossing like fuck. Who wore this shit?
Not me.
I just couldn’t resist the temptation to put it on, try to get a rise out of her. And damn, did it work. Pissed her right off. I could practically see the smoke coming out of her ears through the window.
I tossed the thing in the bathroom wastebasket. Pretty sure I had Dickhead Dean to thank for it. Now I knew why he’d come by to see Cary last night—while I was out.
I took a quick shower, then grabbed some underwear from the half-empty drawer. Apparently I’d interrupted Courteney midway through her purging mission.
But she had to know it would take a hell of a lot more than tossing my clothes in a garbage bag to evict me.
She couldn’t evict me. It wasn’t her damn house.
And I wasn’t here to see her.
I was here to see Cary. And yes, I’d seen him on Saturday. If I knew she was gonna show up,maybeI wouldn’t have stayed. But now that I was here, and I was hoping to see Cary again soon… I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to take off.
I opened another drawer, searching for my shorts. Empty.
Opened the next one. Empty. Opened the one at the bottom; socks.
And a pair of huge, hot-pink panties.
Dickhead Dean, for sure.
Then I started digging through the first garbage bag. All mixed in with my stuff, I found the treasury of “gifts” my lead singer must’ve stashed in my drawers. For Courteney to find, un-fucking-fortunately.
Every fucking ridiculous sex toy you could imagine.
And granny panties. Lots of them.
Aaand then I found the fucking granny porn. Some dirty old lady fetish magazine.
Actually, there were three of them.
Totally reeked of Dean’s handiwork. For a lead singer in a decently successful rock band, Dean Slater had way too much spare time on his hands.
It took me a while to locate some shorts and a sleeveless shirt in the depths of one of the garbage bags. I pulled them on, then took a good look around. The bedside table was covered with Courteney’s cleaning supplies. There were more garbage bags on the other side of the room, stuffed with what had to be the bedding that she’d stripped off the bed.
I glanced at the vacuum. The tongs. The rubber gloves still lying on the bed.
She’d really been putting her back into this. Her little bra top had been soaked with sweat and all clinging to her when I found her. Her juicy tits, squished out the top, were gleaming with perspiration, and her long blonde hair, falling out of her ponytail, was stuck to her face.
Not to mention her honey colored eyes, blazing with all the murderous loathing.
She wanted me out of here, bad.
Not a good start.
She could go right ahead and hate me—and clearly she did—but the last thing anyone needed here was a civil war between us.
Time to call a truce, and clearly, I was gonna have to be the grownup here and wave the white flag. God knew she wasn’t gonna do it.
Because she’s barely a grownup.
I’d just have to work around the she-hates-me thing. Take the high road. All that shit. Because it really didn’t matter if Courteney Clarke was colder than a witch’s tit toward me.
Didn’t matter at all.
