Page 9 of Filthy Beautiful
Since I was pretty sure my brother didn’t actually own a blowtorch—he was a musician, not a metalworker—I went back into the house to gather what I could.
I stripped off my T-shirt as I went; the temperature was already climbing and it would be another hot day. I had sweaty work ahead, so my shorts and yoga bra would do. I found a big plastic bin in the garage and collected what I needed. Including disinfectant spray, some wiping cloths, and a giant box of garbage bags. Rubber gloves. And a long pair of barbecue tongs.
Yup, that should do it.
I hauled everything out to the poolhouse, where I cranked up some mood music on my phone—Dua Lipa’s “IDGAF,” because I really didn’t give a fuck. Not about the man who stayed here from time to time and thought he owned the place, or about his premium gin and hemp seed protein powder, or his organic-greens-and-wheatgrass breakfast smoothie mix. Nope. Not one little bit.
Those few “food” items left behind in the kitchen were the first things I stuffed into a garbage bag. I scrubbed out the sink and wiped down the counters, which were already pretty clean.
Then I tackled the true cleaning—in the bedroom. Which was seriously disturbing. As it turned out, Xander Rush had every cliché in the sexually-depraved-manslut handbook nailed.
Congratulations, buddy. You’re a total pig.
Condoms, like a metric ton of them.
Flavored lube.
And yes, porn mags. The extra twisted ones.
Massive dildo… I didnotwant to know who or what that was for.
Cock ring…
Florescent orange butt plug?
Ew.I stopped looking directly at them after the fifth or sixth obnoxious, gaudy sex toy.
But seriously. Xander never had girlfriends for long. Or ever. Was this all stuff he played with by himself? Or did he really whip out this shit with some one-nighter?
Hey baby, I know we just met, but do you mind if I stick this giant dildo up your butt?
Such a gentleman.
Nope. Do not want to know.
I opened the top drawer of the dresser, cautiously. Who knew if some self-inflating fuck doll was about to pop out of there?
Athletic shorts. Tank tops that still smelled like him.
I tried not to inhale through my nose and tossed them in the garbage bags. Damn, though. Even his clothes smelled good.
Next drawer, T-shirts. Tossed those in the garbage bags. Along with everything in the next drawer. And the next.
I tried not to look at the random panties I discovered. Pretty hard to ignore, though. Especially when they were cheap and lacy, canary-yellow, and… granny style?
Shudder.
So. Gross.
But it was also strangely cathartic as the disgust really let me tear into it. Plus, I was singing along to Jessie Reyez, “Figures,” and really getting into the angry-lament vibe. I hadn’t exactly been gifted with my brother’s musical skills, but I could hit a note or two.
“Redecorating?”
I screamed. Like legit, an-ax-murderer-just-snuck-up-on-me SCREAMED.
And spun around.
Xander.
