Page 33 of Deafened By Silence
The floorboards thump beneath my boots, either from the press of people jammed into every inch of the place or the bass pounding from the DJ booth set up in the living room to the left. A staircase runs along the right wall, with the faint glow of the kitchen at the end of the hallway.
I don’t know what I expected from Rhys’ house, but it was something extravagant. Unnecessarily vulgar. A life-size portrait of him dripping in jewels and blood, or a diamond-studded chandelier. Instead, I’m met with plain gray walls, no photographs, not a single personal touch. This place feels cold and calculated, an ideal space for a dark entity to fester.
Glass bottles cover every inch of the kitchen counter. A keg and a tower of plastic cups crowd the central island. Addy makes a beeline for the vodka, pouring herself a heavy measure and knocking it back in one go. Grinning, she pushes a cup toward me, but I don’t get the chance to take it.
Rhys appears as if out of nowhere, plucking the cup from her hand and passing it to a random stranger. He wears an open black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his torso on display above dark fitted jeans. Whilst eyeing his tattoos and abs, I unclip the mini microphone from my belt and attach it to his collar. His blue eyes are on fire, dangerous energy circling within as he places a prosecco glass in my hand, pale liquid fizzing with a strawberry floating on the surface.
“She’s not drinking that shit,” he says to Addy without looking her way. Beyond his shoulder, Addy shrugs, squashing her cleavage together in a punky black dress trimmed with pink lace, happily reclaiming the vodka and drinking straight from the bottle.
“You’re lucky,” Rhys licks his lips, his heated gaze raking over his jersey covering my body, “I normally lose interest when girlstry to play hard to get.” He lifts the newly colored ends of my hair, deep rose-pink sliding through his tattooed fingers like silk. A smile curves across my lips, bathing in his fascination.
“Who said I’m playing? Iamhard to get.”
Following the flare of his nostrils, I swear his pupils dilate slightly. I lift the glass to my lips and drink in slow sips, Rhys tracks the hollow of my throat. Bubbles pop on my tongue, taking off the edge enough to just enjoy Rhys’ attention. The desire oozing from him right now makes it hard to remember this is the same guy who chased me through the woods in a pig mask and assaulted me. But I haven’t forgotten, and I fully intend on making him pay when I’ve had my fun.
Finishing my drink, I place it on the counter and I take a step back from his overpowering presence.
“Where’s Klara?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Rhys barely reacts, his fingers back in my hair. I wonder if he knows his head tilts to the side when he’s in deep thought, his eyes roaming over me like he’s trying to memorize this moment. Maybe I’ll allow him to continue his soul searching in my hair later, but right now, I have a mission in mind.
A gorgeous jock with ebony skin and dreadlocks is finishing mixing up a cocktail for the brunette hanging on his arm when I gesture for the shaker. He passes it over with the pink gin, but I shake out of my jacket, laying it over a stool and head straight for the fridge instead. Two eggs, a tub of cottage cheese, whipped cream, and an expired pack of prawns later, I dump my finds on the table and start assembling the vilest concoction imaginable.
“Care to explain?” he wrinkles his nose at the smell. I have to admit, it’s gag-worthy, and it’s perfect. I shake my head, keeping my eye out for a shine of blonde hair amongst the crowd. I can sense her nearby. She never strays far from Rhys. A small crowdgathers, their voices leaking through Rhys’ mic through holding their noses.
“Is she going to drink that?”
“What is she doing?”
“I’m gonna throw up.”
I scrape everything into the shaker, add a pour of tequila—because I’m classy—and lock the lid. Rhys remains by my side, watching on and making no move to stop me. Blinking up, I spot her leaning against the staircase, not so suitably curious about the gathered crowd. I have to tilt my head down to contain my grin. Satisfied it’s as smooth as it’s going to get, I pour the pale, lumpy mixture into two cups and hand one to Addy. It smells as bad as it looks.
The crowd lurches back to create a path as we cut through, my gaze locked on my target. To her credit, I suppose, Klara holds her ground. Arms crossed with a rally of cheerleaders at her back, all glaring at my hair with equal distain. They didn’t think I’d be here, never mind looking like I own the room. Addy catches my eye, winks, and darts up the stairs without a word. I clear my throat, the rancid tang of stale beer and sweat coating the back of my tongue, and the cheerleaders behind her immediately back off, their faces twisting at the smell.
I close the distance between Klara and me until our noses are almost touching, and even without hearing it, I can feel the hush ripple through the house.
“Apply generously and leave for fifteen minutes for a luxurious shine,” I grit through my teeth as I tip the contents of my cup over her head, watching the thick liquid cascade down her face in slow rivulets, while above us Addy attacks from the rear with her own. When the last gloopy drop has slid from the cup, I crush the flimsy plastic in my hand and let it fall onto her glittering gold heels. Klara gags and chokes beneath the gloop, her make-up running in equally thick streams.
I pivot sharply, flicking my cotton-candy hair over my shoulder, and stride through the circle of applause to find Rhys. A jock is at his side, leaning in to murmur something I can’t hear through the mic. Rhys’s expression darkens with every word, his gaze sharp and unreadable. Replying with a clipped order, the jock rushes out of the backdoor. Rhys waits for me to reach him, carefully lifting my wrists and dragging me towards the basin. He flicks on the water and pumps soap into his own hands to wash mine.
“I feel like I’m missing something.” He tentatively scrubs any gloopy residue left between my fingers, turning my hands back and forth in his before washing them off. His own knuckles are red and swollen, thin slices tearing across his hands but he pays them no mind. I lift one shoulder in a shrug, unwilling to admit that I’ve entered myself into some bitchy rivalry on his behalf. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“You’re missing a lot of things, Rhys.” Sharp, blue eyes slide to me and he doesn’t say anymore. Grabbing a towel, he pats me dry and hooks my arm into his. His grip is tight, as if I’m a wild animal he is trying to wrangle. Pushing through the backdoor, where the jock jogged out, I catch the tail-end of a speedy clean up. The jock ushers naked people from an adult-size bounce house, while another breaks up an orgy in an equally-nudist boxing ring.
Rhys turns me right, using his body to block my view. At the end of the porch, a junior is swiftly scooting empty cups into a trash bag around the hot tub. He keeps his eyes low, not addressing Rhys and sneaking away as we approach. A minute later and we’re alone, the slam of the back door echoing in Rhys’ mic. The kitchen blinds are pulled down just after.
Rhys doesn’t say anything at first. I watch him unclip the mic and attach it to a thin chain hanging around his neck. Shimmying out of his shirt, he pulls a cigarette from his jeanspocket and lights it before shedding those too. Between lighting the cherry, he slips out of his shoes and jeans, and leans against the railing in just his boxers.
“If you’re expecting me to-” I instinctively wrap my arms around myself, but Rhys waves me off.
“Seeing you wearing my number is…” he inhales on his cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke through his nose, “intoxicating.” Balancing the stick between his lips, he crooks his index finger in my direction. Despite hating the smell, I inch closer and Rhys’ hand falls to my belt. Deftly, he unhooks the buckle, letting it crash to the floor and then points at my boots. I play along, thoroughly enjoying the way his breath quickens when I obey him so easily. My submission must be something he’s been waiting for. Standing bare foot, I wait for my next instruction. Rhys swivels his finger in the air and I turn around.
“I think you like being a good girl for me,” he mumbles, sinking his hands into my hair. I don’t respond, surprised when his fingers find my scalp and start to softly massage. “I think you like being the good girl for the villain that everyone fears.”
Rhys kneads and rubs, dragging his fingertips over my scalp, lingering until I shiver. Not from the cold, but from the unexpected pleasure of simply being touched. Of being cared for. His thumbs sweep over my temples, gentle and reverent, making it difficult to stand still in the winter’s air. The low hum that slips from my throat betrays me, and I feel his chest expand with satisfaction against my back.
Guiding my newly-pink hair on top of my head, he secures it with something to give him full access to my neck. His hands slide over my throat, lingering for a moment before continuing over my shoulders. Brushing over the neckline of the jersey, my nipples harden against my will and my breath stutters. Rhys takes one more pull on his cigarette before flicking the ash lazily over the railing, the ember glowing faintly in the dark.
