THE INMATE: Cells (Ch.5)

Guillermo shuffled his feet along the hallway wearing his navy blue flannel pajamas, intending to reach the kitchen, pour himself a glass of ice water, and shut himself back in his bedroom before the apartment began to breathe. He still hadn't recovered from the fright of the previous night when, crossing the arch of the American kitchen, his body tensed again.

In front of the coffee maker, barefoot, wearing only tight gray cotton briefs that outlined a fibrous ass and a tank top that left his tattooed shoulders bare, was not Viktor.

It was Santi.

The bar owner turned when he heard Guillermo's steps. He was holding a fine porcelain cup in his hand—one of the cups Guillermo's mother had given him when he moved—and took a sip with absolute calm.

—Well… you must be…—Santi clicked his tongue trying to retrieve from memory a name he had more than learned—…Gonzalo, right?

—Guillermo —said the young man in a rough tone.

Santi sketched a mocking smile that wrinkled the corners of his eyes.

—That's all right… I'm very bad with names —he answered, approaching and extending a hand. —I'm Santiago, Viktor's boyfriend.

Guillermo noticed how Santi had pronounced the word boyfriend more clearly. Blood began to pool in his temples. The anger, accumulated after weeks of intrusion and worsened by the previous night's collapse, struggled to leave his throat upon seeing that individual in his house again. And this time without warning. He straightened up, adjusting the collar button of his pajamas in an automatic gesture of defense.

—Viktor didn't tell me he was going to bring anyone —said Guillermo, trying to make his voice sound firm, although the tremor of the emotional hangover betrayed it—. This is my house. It is not pleasant to get up and find a stranger.

Santi set the porcelain cup on the marble counter with a sharp thud. He crossed his arms over his hairless chest, flexing his biceps, and took a step toward Guillermo with that provocative, streetwise attitude that characterized him.

—Your house? —Santi mocked, scratching his chin with a finger—. You mean both of you's house. As far as I know, Vik lives here too.

—Temporarily. And he hasn't asked my permission for you to stay the night. Or to snoop around my kitchen —he said, driven by anger and frustration.

—Vik has already told me how posh you get when you're angry —he said, laughing. — Look, kid, I'm where my boyfriend tells me to be. And last night he wanted me close, you know, to tuck me in with his steel muscles —he said, biting his lip and squeezing his package without shame—. So if you have a problem with me using your kitchen, your coffee maker, or your sofa, you tell him. Let's see how he takes you coming to him with your rich-kid nonsense.

—They're not nonsense, it's basic respect —Guillermo replied, taking a step forward, clenching his fists inside his pajama pockets—. This...