The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER NINE

Under the moon's watchful gaze, Royce Milton's two-story wooden beach house came alive with a pulsating energy that rippled through the very sand it stood upon. Its exterior, a fusion of rustic elegance and nature's creativity, retained its original beauty.

Weather-resistant windows offered panoramic views of the vast ocean, the waves painting stories with each rise and fall. A wooden fence traced a serpentine course along the perimeter as if the phenomena of the physical world and the course of residential construction had formed an alliance.

Despite the flux of time, Royce's spectacular seafront home, aged to perfection, bore the magic of longevity, utmost care, the qualities of pride and the worthiness of preservation like badges of honour. The wrap-around porch, which encompassed the man's place of residence like a safety net, is more than architectural craftsmanship. It was the heart of the home. It exuded a sense of familiarity that transcended generations. Each moment spent upon its planks was an invitation to slow down, embrace the present and find serenity in the shadows.

A sense of nostalgia welcomed me as I stepped onto the decking, the very wood whispering stories of long-forgotten memories.

Bugger the party. I would rather stay out here, beneath the stars, where it's quieter. That comfortable-looking seating area, with plump yet frayed cushions, beckoned me to submit to relaxation.

"Here." Connie handed over a bottle of sambuca. "Keep it safe. Drew is a sucker for anise-flavoured liqueur. If he catches you with that, I will be alcohol-less."

My nose crinkled. "There is no such word."

"Alright, Brain of Britain," Connie delivered a sardonic retort as she headed for the door. "Not everyone is verbally adept."

"I prefer to be proficient in language," I replied with a little shrug. "Are you sure this is a good idea? Royce did not extend an invitation to me. He might go berserk if I walk through the door."

"Angry to the point of madness? Yeah, that sounds like him," she joshed, not that I understood her dry sense of humour. If anything, I paled in complexion, and she noticed. "Oh, chill out, Olivia. It was a joke. Royce is one big, friendly giant. He doesn't bite." Pausing by the threshold of the ajar door, she pondered over the prospect of Royce being pushed over the edge of insanity. "Unless, of course, you want him to bite..."

"Connie!" My eyes popped out of their sockets. "What kind of a woman do you take me for? I am married."

She chuckled dryly, waving her hand dismissively. "So you keep telling me."

And with that final notch of acerbity on her belt, she threw the door open fully, a wave of sound and heat rushing out to greet newcomers, and disappeared through the horde of obstreperousness.

The house was a farrago of colours and laughter, an extravaganza of senses that stretched the boundaries of my reservations.

Loud rap music spilt through the open doorway, the thunderous lyrics, bold and unfiltered, populating the space with an unapologetic energy.

Connie, with her devil-may-care smile, is a bad influence on me. She led me down a path that would permanently reconstruct the landscape of my expectations, then fed me to the wolves of ravenousness without an ounce of remorse or a smidgen of hesitation.

A makeshift bar had been set up in the entryway, and a motley crew of bartenders mixed drinks with reckless abandon.

Bottles clinked, and ice cubes jingled as entertainment-seekers poured liquid into plastic cups, passing them to eager hands that relished the night's escapades.

A pop-up table in the corner of the main room groaned under the weight of countless strong spirits, empty bottles and shot glasses, a declaration of alcohol overindulgence.