Chapter 21 Bleach
He scoffed, glancing at the collection of syllables he wasn’t going to try to pronounce. It said nothing about how she was chosen, but her dossier painted the picture of a boring, goody-two-shoes. Given his reputation, the administration was likely going to push him towards her. Taming the playboy was always a more interesting story than two whores getting together.
He sneered. No way in hell was he going to talk about shades of color or whatever she’d be able to talk about. She was a scholarship student, which meant she was probably more likely to do as she was told.
Fucking boring.
Lydia’s biting, sultry voice cut through his mind again. The challenging glint in her eyes shot through him like lightning. His cock swelled, scraping against the fabric of his boxer briefs mid-stride.
“God damn it!”
He snarled and rounded the path leading to his back terrace. This was not the fucking time to think about Lydia at all.
He unlocked the door and stepped in.
A wall of bleach hit him in the face. His eyes burned. The pile of dirty clothes that had been there the day before was still there, though the dishwasher was running. He covered his face and stepped forward.
“What the—fuck!” His foot slipped, squeaked, and flew out from under him. He pushed forward, sliding across the slick stone. Squeak. Slip. Slide. Tilt. “Fuck! Shit!”
He fumbled trying to aim for the couch. He tilted and slammed his hip into the coffee table. It slipped out from beneath him, dropping him onto the ground with a pained shout.
“Dorian?” Becca called from above. “What—fuck!”
“Stay there!” Dorian shouted.
A squeak ended in a thud.
“Becca?”
“Why are the fucking floors wet?”
“Because the help is fucking incompetent!”
“Dorian!”
He snarled. “I meant what I said.”
He pushed himself onto his side. His hip throbbed, and pain pulsed up his side. Fuck his life, but this had to be some form of karma for something he’d done. He got to his knees and grimaced at the wet floor, noting the patches of discoloration on his fucking floors.
Who the hell cleaned with that much bleach?
Who the hell cleaned stone floors with bleach when the instructions said not to?
Psychos.
Incompetent fucking psychos.
A clean, fresh breeze washed in behind him. He shuffled and crawled toward the stairs, noting that the Cup had been moved, probably already on Aegis’ campus for the fucking luncheon. He got to the stairs and dragged himself up.
They were soaking wet, too.
“You okay, Becca?”
She had a towel under her feet, kicking it around to dry the floor.
“Fine, you?” She turned and grimaced. “Hope you didn’t like that outfit.”
He blinked and looked down, slowly noticing the irritation in his palms. The wet spots on his shirt and shorts were changing colors.
“It’s borrowed,” he grumbled. And knowing Animkii, he was going to charge him full price. Dorian was going to make the Clubhouse pay him double. “I’ll deal with it. Right now, I just want a shower. I left the terrace open. It should help with the smell.”
“You know where a mop is?”
“Not a clue.”
Becca sighed. “I will be extra careful then.”
She kicked the towel over his head and down the stairs, reminding him of her soccer days.
“Goal,” he called, drawing out the vowels for as long as he could.
She laughed. “Dork.”
A twinge of pain made itself known in his ribs. He was damn sure he’d healed from that last hit on the ice, but he wasn’t going to chance it. He was going to have to see the team doctor. Again, and fuck if he didn’t want to hear the nagging about that shit.
“They’re going to pay for this shit.”
Becca sighed. “Incompetent maid, yes. Just get cleaned up before you actually end up with chemical burns?”
Dorian nodded, pushing to his feet and shuffling toward his bathroom. His palms were already bright red when he entered. He stripped and rinsed off before grabbing the soap and showering. His skin burned a bit, but he was pretty sure spreading bleach around was the cause. A few minutes later, he was out, dry, and pulling on clean underwear and shorts. He was pulling on a t-shirt when his skin felt like it was on fire. He ripped off the shirt, looking down at the spreading rash across his chest and that same heat spreading around his hips.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”
“Dorian?”
He stripped quickly as the itch started to spread and darted back into the bathroom, washing again and swearing to all the gods of Fortuna that heads were going to fucking roll. The rash spread over his entire chest, down his hips in bright red, angry patches, over the slowly darkening bruise. His dick looked irritated, and his ass itched. He didn’t even grab a towel, yanking them all off the racks and throwing them on the floor.
Snatching the bottles from the shower, he scanned the ingredients and grabbed a towel, making a makeshift bag.
“Dorian? You okay?”
“Fucking incompetent bastards…”
He stomped out, throwing the makeshift bag on the bed and ripping the sheets off. The rush of synthetic laundry fragrance in the flavor Itch-And-Burn filled his nose. His face started to itch, and he made a note to thank Animkii’s nagging about not washing his face with a washcloth. He owed that man a bottle of something nice for saving, at least his face from the rash taking over his body.
“Dorian, a little warning!”
He yanked his suitcase out, scrounging through it. Most of his clothes had been dirty and promptly dumped in the laundry room, but there was hope in the form of a chiton he’d gotten for a themed party before they came back to the island.
“Do me a favor and find the laundry room?” Dorian bit out.
It would be a bit revealing, but he was in luck that there was a single pair of safe underwear in his bag. He dressed quickly and shoved his feet into the slides.
When he got downstairs with the makeshift bag, the scent of bleach had lessened. The twinge in his hip and ribs was even worse. The bruising had just cleared up for fuck’s sake.
Becca came down the hall, grimacing and holding what he already suspected all of his clothes had been washed in: that commercial, high-efficiency bullshit that he’d explicitly said not to wash his shit in.
“Dorian…” Becca started, her voice pleading. “Just calm down.”
He took the half-empty jug from her hand and hauled the makeshift bag onto his shoulder, clenching his jaw and reminding himself that Becca would be very upset if he shouted at whatever doomed soul was working the front desk of the Resort today.
He’d just snarl a bit and save all the shouting for whatever dipshit managed the help and the woman who was directly responsible for this shit if possible.
If he’d gotten Lydia fired, he was going to get her replacement kicked off the fucking island.