Page 7 of Devious Corruption

The man’s ego generally shows up before he does.

“Thanks for bringing this by. You can go now.” I try to snatch the key from him, but as my fingers get close to his open palm, he clenches a fist around it.

“It’s good to know you have some manners.” He brushes past me and inserts the key.

“I’m not the one who is always bulldozing my way into situations,” I mutter.

“Bulldozing?” He cranes his neck to shoot a disapproving glare over his shoulder.

“Yes. I mean, not today, obviously, but the other night.”

He drops his hand from the key protruding from the lock and turns around. “You mean when I found you piss drunk at the bar with my sister? Is that what you mean?”

“I wasn’t piss drunk,” I argue.

“Drunk and roofied if I remember right.” His jaw clenches. “That stupid game you were playing, who could get the most numbers and drinks. You’re lucky all you had was a horrible headache the next day.”

“How do you know I had a headache?” I shove my fist onto my hip.

I did have a horrendous headache and was dehydrated and sick most of the day. But how did he know that?

“And I never asked you swoop in and save me. I would have gotten home perfectly fine that night on my own.”

“Nicolette was in no condition to get you home, and you could barely take a step before you started giggling yourself silly again.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

A low rumbling sound, like large boulders starting to roll down a mountainside, comes from deep in his chest. Irritation flashes in his eyes, but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s lost the argument or because he wants to shake me and can’t.

“I should forbid my sister from hanging out with you,” he mutters to himself as he spins back around to the door.

“Your sister is an adult and doesn’t need you telling her what to do.” Marion meows at the same time I make my statement. She always has my back.

He fusses with the key, but nothing’s happening.

“Are you sure this is the right key?” He asks, removing it and sliding it back in again.

I move to his side and inspect the key. “Is it square or round?”

He pulls it out and shows it to me. My shoulders drop. It’s the square key. The square key is old.

“No. It’s not.” I grab it from him. “Shit. I never gave her the new key. I thought I had.”

“You had to change your locks?”

“It’s nothing.” I wave away his concern. It’s none of his business.

“Why did you have to change your locks? Did someone break in?”

“No, Sherlock, no one broke in.” I sigh.

“Who is Sherlock?”

I stare up at him. He can’t be serious.

“Sherlock Holmes? The detective? Nearly sixty books and short stories were written about him? Not to mention, movies, television shows— are you being serious you don’t know who he is?”

He pushes his lips together in a straight line that suggests he’s not enjoying this topic.