Chapter 21: The Taste of Guilt
The drive back to our two-story house was a blur of anxiety. The car’s air conditioning fought hard against the midday heat, but it was completely useless at dissipating the smell that covered us: a thick blend of sweat, the raw odor of fresh sex, and, above all, Letícia's sweet, heavy, and terrifyingly distinct perfume. Sophia sat in the passenger seat with my phone in her hands, her eyes locked onto the explicit photo the 25-year-old woman had sent, biting her lower lip with an expression that mixed amusement and pure malice.
I, on the other hand, could barely keep my hands steady on the steering wheel. The adrenaline from the changing room was evaporating, leaving a suffocating weight in its place right on my chest.
We parked in the garage and sneaked in through the back door. My plan was to run straight to the shower in my room, but the moment we stepped into the living room, the smell of home-cooked food hit us. The Saturday lunch table was already set.
Bia came skipping out of the kitchen, holding a pitcher of juice. When she saw us, she smiled, but she only took two steps in our direction before her smile faltered. She stopped dead in her tracks less than a yard away from us, wrinkling her delicate nose and sniffing the air with immediate suspicion.
"Wow... what is that smell?" Bia asked, her eyes darting from my sweaty face to Sophia's messy hair. She took another sniff of the air, and her eyes widened in pure recognition. "Wait a minute... Is that Baccarat Rouge? That's the exact same expensive perfume my aunt wears! I know that smell from a mile away, it costs a fortune. Why do you two smell like rich woman's imported perfume? And why is Lucas so red?"
My stomach plummeted. Bia's interrogation felt like a stab directly into my conscience. Sophia, sensing the danger and displaying her usual audacity, didn't flinch. She took a step forward, bypassed Bia, and, with a casual smile, smacked my girlfriend's ass with a loud, firm slap.
"Let's eat, gorgeous. Leave the chatting for later, we're starving," Sophia teased, trying to nudge her gently toward the kitchen to cut the subject short.
Bia let out a little gasp of surprise from the slap but kept her eyes locked on me, waiting for an answer.
It was at that exact moment that I glanced past her and froze entirely. Leaning against the kitchen doorframe, with her arms crossed, was our mother, Ana. She hadn't said a single word about us being late or about the scene. Instead, she maintained a deep, enigmatic, and bafflingly complicit smirk. Her eyes were fixed directly on my neck, where the faint nail marks and bites from that triple fuck had to still be clearly visible. She looked at us as if she already knew absolutely everything, without showing a shred of shock.
That smirk from my mother, combined with the innocent, curious eyes of Bia, made the guilt explode in my chest. I looked at Bia—the girl who was right there, making lunch, trusting me. I looked at my hands, which still carried the scent of another woman. I couldn't lie to her. Not after this. The psychological pressure burst a dam inside of me.
"It wasn't a free sample, Bia..." I let out, my voice coming out thicker and more shaken than I intended.
Sophia froze in an instant, the smile vanishing from her face as she looked at me with eyes wide in pure shock. She never expected me to break.
"Lucas?" Bia blinked, confused.
"We weren't just working out," I continued, swallowing hard, feeling my mother's heavy gaze still locked on me from across the room. "We went into the mall's changing room. A 25-year-old woman named Letícia caught us red-handed... and instead of calling security, she walked in. I fucked her, Bia. Sophia joined in too. The three of us fucked in the changing room. This perfume on my skin... it's hers."
The silence that settled over the living room was so violent that the sound of the phone vibrating in my pocket with another message from Letícia felt like a thunderclap. Bia remained static, the pitcher of juice trembling slightly in her hands, while my mother's enigmatic smirk by the kitchen doorway seemed to widen even further.