The Player Next Door

By the time my final exams came around that year, I’d mastered the art of giving head, pulling declarations of undying love from the guy I was pseudo dating—and he wasn’t the type to throw around those words casually, even in the heat of the moment.

I didn’t love him, though. I’ve never loved any of them.

“And how long has it been since anyone’s dusted down there, by the way?” Justine asks, looking pointedly at my crotch. She’s never been shy about sex talk.

“I don’t need anyone. Have you seen the latest additions to my collection? I labeled the box ‘Me, Myself, and I.’”

Justine cackles.

Meanwhile, I silently admit that it’s been too long since toys weren’t my source of pleasure. Nine months, to be exact. Five, if I consider the disastrous blind date Bill set me up on with one of his stock trader friends. He was cute, though not my type, but it’d been awhile and I was desperate to feel something besides a pink vibrating object inside me. The guy got slobbering drunk on red wine, so much that his entire mouth—teeth included—was stained purple. And when he went down on me later in his apartment, I couldn’t help but liken it to a drooling golden retriever working away at a bowl of Dog Chow. I faked the orgasm and when he stumbled to the bathroom, I yanked my dress down and called it a night.

Justine sighs and then a devilish smile takes over her pretty face. “You should mess with him.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Your neighbor. You know … a little game of cat and mouse.” She waves her hand in front of her as if she’s a feline batting at a toy. “Make him think you’ve forgiven him. Tease him. Then, when he’s begging you for it, send him home with his dick in his hand.”

I snort. She can be so crass sometimes. “Have you seen him? That sounds like as much torture for me as it does him.”

“Right.” She pauses. “So then play him like he played you. Play the player. Bang him and then treat him like trash.”

“Tempting.” Thoughts of a naked Shane swirl in my head. I’ve felt his erection before and remember it being impressive, but we never got far enough for me to take measurements. “I’m too old for stupid games. Besides, he stopped being interested in me years ago.”

Justine smirks. “I haven’t met a guy who isn’t interested in you.”

“Sure, you have. Bill isn’t interested in me.”

“You’re right. He’s interested in you and me. Together.”

“A guy can dream!” comes Bill’s holler through the open window.

We break into a fit of laughter as my cheeks redden, and I wonder how long those two idiots have been listening.

A loud crack sounds and suddenly I’m falling into Justine, spilling beer over myself. “What the …” Peering down, I find a piece of the rocking chair lying on the porch floor, the wood snapped in half.

“Shit,” Justine mumbles. “That can’t be good.”

Dammit. “I guess these relics were bound to go at some point.” Still, it sucks that it had to happen on my first night here.

“It’s just an old wooden chair. It’s not like the house is falling apart.”

“Right.” My gaze drifts over the place, noting how the front steps lean to the right, and the eave separates from the roof over in the far corner.

And just how many fence pickets need a fresh nail.

But it’s nothing I can’t fix, I tell myself with a smile. This house is the start of my new life, and it’s 100 percent mine. That’s all that matters.

Five

I do a slow turn in the center of my attic bedroom, taking in the countless corners and moss-green walls. The room eats up most of the second floor, leaving only enough space for a cramped three-piece bathroom and a walk-in closet on the other side of the staircase opening. There isn’t even a door to close off my bedroom from the main level. The Rutshacks hadn’t used this bedroom in years, the stairs too steep and narrow for them in their old age. Instead, they settled into a tiny room off the kitchen that I’ve earmarked for an office slash spare bedroom.

Between dormer windows and the steeply pitched roof, there must be a million edges in here. It’s going to take me days and a boatload of patience to paint this room, neither of which I have, not when it’s stifling hot up here, not when I have an entire main floor to freshen up first.

With a yawn, I flick the wobbly light switch, throwing my room into darkness. I amble for my bed, intent on passing out face-first, covers off, after a long, hot two days of settling in.

A room in the back corner of Shane’s house glows, stalling my march to unconsciousness. I have an unobstructed view through a large window into Shane’s bedroom, I’m guessing, by the king-size bed adorned in navy-blue bedding.