I closed the door behind me, thinking I was alone in the house. But with the cars parked right in front of it, I should have had a clue…
I still had that guy’s scent on me, still felt him inside me. He’d gone to town on my breasts, and my skin hadn’t forgotten the passion of his fingers.
I sat on the little bench in the entryway to take off my heels. At 1m68, you suddenly feel smaller when you lose eight centimeters and your feet hit the ground.
Some guy I didn’t know was snoring on the living room couch. Another one who works at U in the fish section—Bruno, I think—had probably started the night in the armchair before crashing onto the rug. He opened one eye as I walked by.
— Oh, you’re here, cutie? he said, as if my being home was the most mind-blowing thing in the world.
The room reeked of unwashed male, booze, stale smokes, and weed. They’d played with peashooters and thrown confetti. Empty beer bottles littered the coffee table. Glasses scattered everywhere. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes. I sighed, keeping my distance. It was still better than living in Gaza.
— You look gorgeous in that dress, almost like a siren! he whispered, rolling onto his stomach, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe it.
— I know, I replied.
— I’m not exaggerating!
— Where’s Mom?
He pointed toward her bedroom with his index finger, undressing me with his eyes.
I had better things to do, so I headed to my room. To my utter shock, I found Raoul in my bed. I’d sworn I’d locked it before leaving.
— What the hell are you doing here? I said, trying not to lose my temper.
— Your mom said we could crash wherever.
— So you picked my room?
— Yeah, I like the vibe of a girl’s room. It’s super cute. And your scent’s in the sheets.
Not spilling blood on the walls or loving my neighbor weren’t on my New Year’s resolutions, but I’d decided this kind of crap shouldn’t get to me anymore. I’d downloaded the Petit Bambou app; it had to help somehow.
— I’d locked it, I said calmly.
— I know where you hide the key.
His real name isn’t Raoul. It’s Patrick, but the first time he slept over—when Mom brought him home—I called all her guys Raoul. Back then, it was a Raoul parade. But he stuck around. And I’d gone to great lengths to get him out of our house.
This Raoul did jack shit with his life. His Hawaiian floral shirts made me want to puke on sight. He showered every three days, covering the grime with « island scent » deodorants that made me feel like I was in the toilet whenever he entered the room.
Of course, he wasn’t job hunting. He was exactly the type dragging Mom down. I’d thought he’d vanished from her life—and mine—for good.
— We ran into each other last night at a buddy’s. You know how it goes when people drink and argue over nothing. We got kicked out with the crew. She offered to let us finish the night here.
I didn’t have time to sort this out; things were getting urgent. I grabbed a tampon from my nightstand drawer and a clean thong from the dresser.
— I’m gonna do something, and when I get back, you’re out of my room, I told him without looking.
He just snickered.
— On your period, princess? he teased.
— Fuck off, Raoul.
When I returned, he was still there, of course. Sitting on the edge of my bed, shoes still off. He looked high as a kite. The earth was still spinning under his feet.
— What part of that didn’t you get? What are you still doing here?
He just nodded, staring at me like a deer in headlights.
— You’re stunning in that sparkly dress. You’ve become a real woman now. Yeah, a real woman, and damn well put together! Looks like you’ve got the goods nice and firm. I figured we could each take a side of the bed.
I let out a bitter laugh. Raoul wasn’t ugly. That was the problem—if he amounted to nothing, women still fell for his pretty-boy charm, smooth talk, and party king vibe. Cursed singer, tortured musician.
He had humor and quick wit. Over the year and a half he lived under our roof, I’d learned to distrust guys like him. Woman poison. Mom had been hooked bad. I thought we’d never shake him. Like those gross tattoos.
— Did you fuck tonight? he asked point-blank.
— What’s it to you?
— You’ve always done it for me. Remember that sexy Santa helper outfit I got you?
I laughed nervously. To think I’d worn that thing… Ridiculous hat, sexy skirt, stockings. Black boots. And I’d even been proud. Mom saw no issue; her friends thought I was awesome. Mortifying.
— You looked hot!
— You only think about one thing…
— You say that, sweetie? I can see you’re not a little girl anymore. You’re a woman now. All those sexy little sets in your drawers…
I stood there stunned by his words.
— You went through my stuff?
— Garter belts, stockings, lace bodysuit… Aubade. And that gorgeous dress. You deny yourself nothing. Who’s it for? Is that how you make money?
— Forget it, I’m too pricey for you.
He stood up and took my hand.
— You could give me a friends-and-family discount… We’re not strangers. Your secret’s safe with me.
— It’s not what you think.
— I don’t care what I think. You turn me on. You’ve never been indifferent to me. I know what your attitude toward me has hidden all these years. And honestly, a girl’s period never turned me off.
— You’re such a heavy, dumb asshole, I said, stepping closer.
— I’ve got an extra special toy; you’ve always wanted to try it.
— Patrick…
— Keep calling me Raoul, sweetie. I love it when you call me Raoul.
— You were Mom’s guy. Don’t even think about it…
I said it, but the idea was worming its way in—maybe from exhaustion, or the taboo thrill. And despite his social uselessness, I’d always wondered what he packed to drive half the women in town crazy. He pulled a condom from his pocket, showing he was a stand-up, safe guy.
— Wonder what Eric’s got that I don’t. What your mom sees in that dude.
— He can assemble an IKEA shelf without it collapsing. Cook pasta without turning the stove into a war zone. He has a job and helps Mom get by instead of drowning her.
— Forget Mom for a sec… Let’s get to know each other. Past is past, right?
He started sliding his hand up my thigh, lifting my dress slightly. What an idiot I was.
— Look at that, cute… he whispered, discovering the garter on my stockings.
I bit my lip, cursing my weakness. This wasn’t me. But I had to admit, it was me too. His hand brushed the lace, and my breath caught in my chest.
— Go lock the door so no one bothers us, baby, he said.
I moaned as his hand slid higher under my dress, to the crease of my thighs.
— Go lock the door, he repeated, more commanding, flushing my face.
He pulled his hand away, staring me in the eyes. I’m almost twenty. I do what I want with my body now. Even stupid shit.
His gaze was already stripping me. Burning me alive.
— Then come kneel at my feet and undo my belt, gorgeous.
I headed to my bedroom door. Consumed by turmoil, tears in my eyes. He watched with a radiant, smug smile. A wolf in the fold. I hesitated. I felt so weak. Despite the burn on my cheeks, the heat in my loins, I flung the door wide open.
— Get out of my room. Don’t make me say it again.
— Sweetie, close that door. We’re gonna have fun, and I’ll give you a moment you won’t forget. Once you try my gear, you won’t be able to quit—you’ll beg for more!
I glared at him with my last strength.
— Pack your shit, and never set foot in this house again. Or you don’t know what I’m capable of.
Fragment The Man in My Room — Ophélie Deslys
Thank you for coming …
The Man in My Room is an indirect sequel to Under the Glitter.
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