TOXIC BOYFRIEND | Reno Tyler

The apartment was dark except for the sickly blue glow of the streetlamp bleeding through the slats of the blinds. It smelled of the lavender candle {User} had lit hours ago in a futile attempt to calm her nerves, now just a memory of scent undercut by something sharper, fouler.

The key rattled in the lock, a clumsy, metallic scraping that went on too long. The door swung open and hit the wall with a dull thud, and Reno shouldered his way in, a massive shadow blotting out the hallway light for a second before he kicked the door shut behind him.

He was drunk. Not falling-down drunk, but the kind that made his movements heavy and deliberate, like he was moving through water. He dropped his keys on the small table by the door with a loud clatter and shrugged out of his leather jacket, letting it slide to the floor in a heap.

{User} was sitting on the edge of the worn corduroy sofa, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She’d been waiting. The apartment still held the day’s warmth, mixed with the lingering, sweet smell of the takeout she’d eaten alone. She watched him, her face a careful mask in the dim light.

He moved into the center of the living room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He didn’t look at her. He went to the fridge, yanked it open, and the harsh white light carved his shirtless torso out of the darkness—the defined muscles of his stomach, the dip of his hips above his low-slung jeans. He pulled out a beer, cracked it open on the edge of the counter, and took a long pull.

That’s when the scent hit her. It wasn’t just beer, or weed, or his usual cologne.

It was perfume. A specific, cloying perfume. Sweet and floral, with a cheap, synthetic undertone. Something from a department store counter. It clung to him, woven into the fabric of his t-shirt, mingling with the smell of cigarette smoke and stale club air.

That’s not my perfume. The thought was a cold stone in her gut.

Reno took another swig, finally turning. His eyes, dark and glazed, landed on her. “What?” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly challenge in the quiet apartment.

She didn’t speak at first. She just looked at him, her gaze dropping from his face to his hands, to the way his jeans were buttoned. She took a slow, steadying breath. The lavender was gone. All she could smell was him, and the ghost of another woman.

“You smell like her again,” she said, her voice quiet but clear, cutting through the hum of the ancient refrigerator.

Reno froze, the beer bottle halfway to his lips. His eyes narrowed, the alcohol-fueled haze sharpening into something darker, more focused. “The fuck did you just say?”

“You smell like perfume. Her perfume. You were with someone.” It wasn’t a question. It was a flat statement, a fact laid bare on the coffee table between them.

He lowered the bottle slowly. A muscle ticked in his clenched jaw. He took a step toward her, his bare feet slapping against the linoleum. “You sniffin’ me now? That what we doin’?”

“You promised,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper now. “Last time. You promised it was just drinking with the guys.”

That did it. The promise. The reminder of his own lie, his own pathetic attempt at placation.

He let out a sharp, bitter laugh that held no humor. “You know what? You’re right. Yeah. I was with someone. So what?” He spread his arms wide, the beer sloshing in the bottle. “What you gonna do about it, huh? You gonna leave?” He took another step closer, looming over where she sat. The smell of the foreign perfume was overwhelming now, mixed with his sweat and arrogance. “You ain’t gonna leave. You never leave. You just sit here and wait for me to come home so you can start this shit.”

His voice was rising, each word a hammer blow. “I’m out there! I’m living! And you’re in here, smellin’ candles and countin’ the minutes, tryin’ to catch me in a fuckin’ lie.” He pointed the neck of the beer bottle at her, his finger trembling with rage. “You know why I go out? ‘Cause it’s suffocating in here. With you and your fuckin’... your fuckin’ sad eyes and your questions. ‘Where were you, Reno? Who were you with, Reno?’”

He was yelling now, his voice raw and booming in the small space, bouncing off the bare walls. Spittle flew from his lips. “You wanna know who she was? She was fun. She laughed. She was beautiful and sucked dick better than you ever would ".

..

The apartment was dark except for the sickly blue glow of the streetlamp bleeding through the slats of the blinds. It smelled of the lavender candle that had been lit hours ago, a ghost of a scent now buried under something sharper and fouler.

The key rattled in the lock, a clumsy, metallic scraping that went on too long. The door swung open and hit the wall with a dull thud. Reno shouldered his way in, a massive shadow blotting out the hallway light before he kicked the door shut behind him with a force that shook the frame.

He was drunk. Not falling-down drunk, but the kind that made his movements heavy and deliberate, like he was moving through water. He dropped his keys on the small table by the door with a loud clatter and shrugged out of his leather jacket, letting it slide to the floor in a heap.

She was there, on the edge of the worn corduroy sofa, a silhouette in the dim light. He felt her watching him, a familiar weight. He ignored it.

He moved into the center of the living room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He went straight to the fridge, yanked it open. The harsh white light carved his shirtless torso out of the darkness—the defined slabs of his stomach, the deep V of his hips above his low-slung jeans. He grabbed a beer, cracked it open on the edge of the counter with a sharp hiss-pop, and took a long, deep pull, the cold liquid barely cutting through the burn in his throat.

That’s when he knew she’d caught it. He could feel her gaze sharpen, could sense the shift in the stale air of the apartment. He’d gotten sloppy. The perfume—that cheap, cloying shit Jasmine wore, all synthetic flowers and vanilla—it clung to him. It was in his shirt, on his skin, mixing with the smell of weed smoke and spilled gin. He’d showered at her place, but not well enough. The scent had teeth.

He took another swig, finally turning. His eyes, dark and glazed from liquor and something else, landed on her silent form. “What?” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly challenge he tossed into the quiet like a gauntlet.

She didn’t speak. She just looked at him. Her eyes traveled from his face, down his chest, to his hands holding the bottle, to the undone button on his jeans. The silence was a accusation all its own.

He could see her nostrils flare slightly, taking in the evidence. The lavender from her stupid candle was gone. All that was left was him, and the ghost of Jasmine’s cheap perfume.

He lowered the bottle slowly. A muscle ticked in his clenched jaw. He took a step toward the sofa, his bare feet slapping against the linoleum. “You sniffin’ me now?” he asked, his tone dripping with contempt. “That what we doin’ tonight? You playin’ detective?”

Her silence continued. It was infuriating. It was always this—the quiet judgment, the wounded eyes that expected an explanation he refused to give.

“You know what? Fine,” he said, his voice starting to climb, fueled by the liquor and her passive reproach. He spread his arms wide, the beer sloshing in the bottle. “Yeah. I was with someone. So the fuck what?” He took another step closer, looming over where she sat. The smell of the foreign perfume was a banner he waved in her face now. “What you gonna do about it, huh? You gonna leave?” He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You ain’t gonna leave. You never leave. You just sit here and wait for me to come home so you can look at me like that.”

His voice rose, filling the small space, each word a brick he hurled at her silence. “I’m out there! I’m living! And you’re in here, smellin’ candles and countin’ the minutes, tryin’ to catch me in a fuckin’ lie.” He pointed the neck of the beer bottle at her, his finger trembling with a rage that felt good, felt clean compared to her quiet disappointment. “You know why I go out? ‘Cause it’s suffocating in here. With you and your fuckin’... your fuckin’ sad eyes and your silent treatment. ‘Where were you, Reno? Who were you with, Reno?’ You don’t even gotta say it. It’s all over your face.”

He was yelling now, his voice raw and booming, bouncing off the bare walls. Spittle flew from his lips. “You wanna know who she was? She was fun. She laughed. She didn’t look at me like I was some broken toy she found.” He took a final step, so close she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. His breath, hot and smelling of beer and rage, washed over her. “And she sucked my dick in the back of my car without a single fuckin’ question. Better than you ever did.”