I heard bags rattling, paper crinkling. The sweet sugary scent of candy combined with Finn’s lemongrass aftershave almost made me want to puke, then I felt more pressure, and realized Finn had sat on top of me too.
Brothers.
Fucking pains in my ass.
God love ‘em.
"Why are you here anyway? Aside from critiquing my cat?"
"It’s weird, Conor. You’re like some Bond villain. Except, at least, Blofeld’s cat was alive."
"This one doesn’t shit or piss or need feeding. Which part of my lifestyle makes you think me having something alive in here would be a smart move?"
"Do you think it’s wise that Aidan’s staying with you? I don’t want him to become something ‘dead’ because you’re incapable of keeping something alive."
Conor grunted. "He’s autonomous. Mostly."
Finn snorted. "Good to know."
Paper rattled some more, a bag creaked. "Why are you here anyway? Thought it was your day off?"
"Yeah, and I should be dick deep in Aoife right now but that fucking friend of hers—"
"Which one?"
"Jen." He huffed. "She showed up. Some guy screwed her over."
"She’s hot. Can’t blame him for the screwing."
"She’s insane. The guy dumped her so she took a key to his Ferrari."
Conor snickered. "Sounds like fun."
"Well, it might have been at the time but now the guy’s suing."
"For how much?"
"Forty grand for the paint job and thirty for emotional distress."
Conor guffawed. "Emotional distress? For the paint job?"
"Probably after being in a relationship with Jen." Finn grunted. "Anyways, she’s there, snotting all over my fucking furniture and Aoife being Aoife is way too goddamn soft where that shark’s concerned."
"Which is why you’re here? And why we’re being graced with your charmingly miserable company?" Conor queried.
Finn lived just across the way. You could see his building from every angle in the room we were currently sitting in.
"Well, that, and did you hear?"
"I mean, I might have. I have ears. What in particular?"
"Such a pain in my ass," Finn muttered under his breath. "Davidson’s making a speech about the Sparrows."
Conor cackled. "So, Mr. Oval Office has decided to fly his yellow belly into the nest, huh?"
"More like out of it. It’s on Channel Four. Took him long enough."
Through my misery, I saw the infomercials I’d been watching flick over to Channel Four. I didn’t complain, because what the fuck did I care what we were watching? What the fuck did I care about the Sparrows or the President or—