Title:
The Voyeur Next Door
Author:
Airicka Phoenix
Genre:
NA Contemporary Erotic
*Warnings: Strong sexual content &
language. (18+ Only)*
Release Date: April 27, 2015
Blurb:
He lived next door.
Alison Eckrich was an expert at being invisible. Having been
raised by a mother who saw only flaws, she had learned long ago to watch and
never participate. Until him. He was gorgeous from what little she could make
out through his bathroom window and he awakened things inside her she had
always been told was wrong. But she didn’t care.
She was addicted.
Gabriel Madoc was no stranger to the cold sting of betrayal.
His broken heart had left him hard and bitter and that was how he liked it.
Until her. She was a vision in the soft twilight. Everything about her called
to him. It didn’t even matter he couldn’t see her face.
He wanted her.
The rules were simple: No names. No faces. No attachments.
They both had what the other needed so long as they never broke the rules. But
what will happen when the mystery is unveiled and they both come face to face
with the truth and each other? Is what they shared in the cloak of darkness
enough to keep them together, or will reality tear them
apart?
FB Release Party: https://www.facebook.com/events/808116989263187/
Chapter
One
Ali
“God, baby, I need you inside me so bad…” My husky moan
fogged the glass, obscuring my view of the deep fried and smothered in
chocolate goodness just one creepy glass lick away from being all mine. “But I
can’t let you control my life anymore.”
The pimply faced adolescent on the other side of the counter
fidgeted uncomfortably, clearly disturbed by my affections, and possibly the
drool marks I was leaving on his pristine display
case.
“Ma’am?”
Giving the pastry one final glance of longing, I turned to
him. “Just tea. Decaf because I apparently hate
myself.”
Still looking nervous—maybe he was afraid I would start
making out with the register next—he punched in my order, muttered off my total
and then scurried off to grab me a pretty white cup and fill it with hot water.
I set my money down and waited, all the while casting furtive peeks at the
Boston cream pastry eyeing me back with a seductive, chocolaty glaze that all
but whispered all the ways it could make me feel muy mucho goodo
because that was how all my dirty fantasies started—with my food sounding like
Antonio Banderas.
My water and teabag were set on the counter and nudged
towards me the way lions were fed at the zoo—with a long stick poking their
meals in under a steel cage door. Only the stick was his finger and the counter
was the only thing keeping him safe from my all out crazy. My money was swept
into a sweaty palm and tossed carelessly into the register. The drawer was slammed
shut. Then there was nothing left for me to do but leave. Yet my weakness took
that moment to nearly win; I started to open my mouth to order the pastry
anyway, to portray that fuck it attitude I only pretended I possessed. But who
was I kidding? It would never be just the one and my ass could do without the
extra pounds.
Dejected, I took my disgusting drink and shuffled off to
find a table somewhere within the air conditioned heaven. No one wanted to sit
outside when it was hot enough to fry bacon. But most of the tables in the
small café were full by drone-eyed squatters slumped over their laptops and
cappuccinos.
Bastards.
Moving quickly down the line leading all the way to the
door, I bee-lined for the only available table out on the shaded patio. My
scalding water sloshed in the cup, but stayed stubbornly within the confines of
the ceramic.
The moment I shouldered open the doors, I knew I’d made a
mistake getting tea; it was just too damn hot.
I glanced back over my shoulder at the line. Nope. No way
was I standing in that death trap a second time, not even for a Frappuccino
with whipped cream and chocolate syrup, which was what I had originally gone in
to get, except the beautifully athletic woman ahead of me had ordered a soy,
low fat, no foam, something-something-something latte and the guilt had been
too much. When the boy had fixed me with those judgy little eyes, I had balked
and let myself be swayed by peer pressure and shame.
Resigned, I went to the table and sat. I stuffed my purse
into the seat next to me and wondered how to drink my tea without sweating to
death. I started by dropping my teabag into the water and watching as dark
tendrils escaped and tainted the clear liquid. I adjusted my glasses as they
began to slide down my sweaty nose and squinted at all the blinding brightness
around me.
The café sat in the middle of a semi busy street catering
mostly to restaurants and coffee shops and the occasional art studio. I wasn’t
normally a coffee drinker and art made no sense to me, but I liked people. More
importantly, I liked watching them … secretly … from a very great distance so
as not to have to interact. People fascinated me. The things they did half the
time made me question just how much chemicals and hormones really went into our
food. But the problem with the artsy part of town was that it was very shiny.
Everything gleamed. There were lights everywhere and everyone was dressed in
bold, flashy colors that hurt the brain.
Me, in my long black skirt and baggy blouse melded with the
décor. I could never pull off bold and sexy. Hell, I couldn’t even pull off one
of those. Most days, my face would be lucky to see makeup, just because it was
time taken away from something less pointless. No guy that didn’t require coke
bottle glasses would ever look in my direction twice. Everything about me was
all the things most men never noticed in a woman, unless they were into
lobotomizing their dates. I just didn’t have the right looks to get men
excited. It was a fact I had come to accept. Me and my lowly little decaf cup
of tea.
“Rats!”
The exclamation was followed by the ripping sound of paper and
the thud of things striking pavement. I twisted around in my seat just as an
elderly man dropped down next to his torn bag of groceries. Pedestrians flocked
around him, parting like the Red Sea to avoid stepping on him, or his things.
But no one stopped to give him a hand as he scrambled to scoop items off the
ground.
Abandoning my untouched drink, I hurried from my seat and
dropped down next to him. My hands closed around a bag of apples, a tray of
fresh chicken breasts and several cans of corn. I hugged them to my chest as he
dumped his armload into the torn paper bag.
“Here,” I said, pulling the bag to me and emptying my things
inside as well.
There was a stalk of celery and a carton of eggs that had
upended on the sidewalk. I managed to salvage the celery. But the eggs had
already begun to sizzle against the
concrete.
“I think your eggs are toast,” I told him, stuffing the
celery into the bag. “Or fried eggs, I
guess.”
The man sighed. “Figures. That’s what I get for getting them
free range eggs for about ten dollars
more.”
It was a struggle not to laugh at the disgruntled huff.
“I think I have a plastic bag in my purse,” I said instead.
“We might be able to fit all of this into
it.”
Taking the bag from him, I walked back to my table and
dragged my purse over. I opened the first pocket and rummaged inside.
The man shuffled up beside me and whistled. “Now, I’ve seen
some crazy purses women carry around, but that right there is a
doozy.”
My purse really was unique. When I first found it, it had
only had the one big pocket and the one tiny pocket sewn into the inside. By
the time I finished with it, it had about twenty pockets in various shapes and
sizes and they all carried something. I had everything from a tiny sewing kit,
to a paperback novel nestled inside. There were packets of tissue, gum, a small
set of screw drivers, several zip ties, different sizes of Ziploc bags. and
even a flashlight. I had everything a person could possibly need for just about
any occasion. Because of all that, the bag was actually kind of heavy, which
came in handy if I ever had to hit someone, which hadn’t happened yet, but I
was hopeful.
“I like being prepared,” I told him. “Here we go!” Shaking
out the plastic bag, I slid the paper one into it and held it out to the man.
“There you are.”
The man squinted at me with one brown eye. The other one was
screwed shut against the sun and he had to cup a gnarled hand over his brows to
see me properly.
He had to be in his late seventies with big, child-like eyes
and a kind face that immediately made a person like him. What little hair he
had was combed over the wide bald patch on his head and looked as fine as a
baby’s. His frail body was tucked into a pair of beige trousers and a checkered
top that was buttoned all the way to his throat.
“What’s your name?” he
asked.
Still holding the bag, I smiled. “Alison Eckrich.” I held
out my free hand. “Everyone calls me Ali.”
He took it in a surprisingly firm handshake. “Earl Madoc.”
He let my hand go and squinted some more. “Listen, Ali, you wouldn’t mind
helping an old man get his groceries home, would you? My arthritis is just
killing me today.” He rubbed his contorted hand, working the stiff muscles with
a grimace deepening his wrinkles. “I live about a block down that way. I would
pay you for your troubles.”
I waved away the offer. I was done with the whole fresh air
thing and would have probably gone home anyway. Walking him would have been no
skin off my nose, especially since he was walking in the same general
direction.
I grabbed my purse, threw the strap around my shoulders, and
took up his bag of groceries once more.
“Lead the way, Earl.”
Offering me a kind smile, he started forward at a
shuffle-limp, like his right leg had been injured at some point and hadn’t
recovered properly. I wasn’t sure if that was the case, or if it was just age,
but I wondered why he didn’t walk with a cane if it hurt him as much as it
seemed to. I didn’t ask. I figured whatever the reason was, it was his
business.
We walked in silence for several steps and stopped at the
lights.
“So what do you do, Ali Eckrich?” Earl asked as the lights
changed and we started across.
“I am currently between jobs,” I replied around a tight curl
of my lips. “I just moved here, so actually I’m kind of still
looking.”
“No kidding.” He scratched his jaw dusted with a fine layer
of white bristle. The sound reminded me of sandpaper. “Where did you move
from?”
“Portland, Oregon,” I answered.
Earl’s eyes went wide. “An American!”
I laughed. “No, I was only there for school. I’m originally
from Alberta.”
“What did you study?”
I pulled in a breath that smelled of fried hotdogs from the
cart we passed and asphalt from the construction crew working on the roads a
street down.
“I have my bachelor’s degree in business
administration.”
Earl whistled through his teeth. “That’s
fancy.”
“Four years,” I confessed.
“And they didn’t teach that here at the schools in
Canada?”
I laughed at that. It was the same comment I got from my
sister when I initially got accepted to the University of Portland. But at
least she had known the real reason behind my need to get as far away from home
as possible. Earl didn’t need to and I didn’t need to tell
him.
“It was a growing experience,” I said, using my fall back
response to most things.
“So you’re good with the books and things of a
business.”
I shrugged. “Yes, and marketing and finances.”
“Interesting.” He scratched his jaw again. “Do you know
anything about filing?”
“Filing?”
“Organizing,” he
corrected.
I had to shrug at that. “I guess. Depends on what it
is.”
We turned a corner and started down Pine Street. For a split
second, I almost stopped, thinking I was inadvertently leading the poor guy
back to my house. But Earl kept shuffling onward and I hurried to keep up.
“I just moved to this street,” I said. “My apartment is
further down.”
“Yeah? My grandson did, too,” Earl said.
I started to ask where, when Earl veered left, hobbling his
way towards a large, badly painted building that was impregnating the whole
street with a powerful stench of motor grease, metal, and sweat. The rusty sign
bolted over the trio of wide garage doors spelled, Madoc Auto Body
Repair. The bay doors were all open to the bright afternoon. Two were
empty. The middle one had a car hoisted on a lift. A man in a blue jumpsuit
stood in the trench underneath with a handheld work light.
“It’s all right,” Earl called out to me when he realized I
wasn’t following him. “This here has been in the family for near four
generations.”
Curiosity perked, I knuckled my glasses back up the bridge
of my nose and shuffled after him. Up close, the smell did not
improve.
The man beneath the Pontiac banged on the underside of the
car with a wrench; the sound swallowed the hum of jazz spilling from the boom
box perched on the red toolbox next to the car. I watched him even as I
followed Earl up a set of stairs built into the side of the garage, leading
into what appeared to be an office cut out of gray stone slabs. It was
impossible to tell what was hidden beneath the towers of paper that were
layered over every available flat surface. There was another set of doors
straight across, painted a harsh yellow that led to what looked like stairs
going up. Earl stopped at the bottom, gripping the railing bolted into the side
and leaned against the wall, his face flushed.
“The kitchen is straight up,” he panted slightly. “I’d show
you, but that heat just about did me in and I can’t trust myself on them stairs
right now.”
Concerned by the sheen of sweat glistening across his brow,
I tossed a frantic glance over the room. I caught sight of a swiveling chair
poking out from beneath the papers and hurried over to it. The wheels grated
against the concrete as I shoved it to where Earl half slumped against the
wall.
“Here.” I guided him into it. “Why don’t you sit down and
I’ll get you some water?”
Earl smiled at me. “You are such a sweet little
thing.”
“Will you be okay if I run
up?”
He waved me away as he leaned his head back and closed his
eyes.
Not wanting to leave him alone for longer than I had to, I
hurried up the stairs, grocery bag in tow. At the top, I paused as the
loft-style space came into view. The layout was straightforward with a bedroom
set in one corner beneath a grand, bay window. At the foot of it, was a sitting
area equipped with a leather sofa, recliner and TV. Across from that was a
kitchenette and a bathroom on my right. I moved towards the kitchen. I ran the
tap and occupied myself by shoving the groceries into the fridge while I waited
for the water to get cold.
“Who are you?”
The pack of chicken breasts slipped out of my hands with my
undignified squeak of fright and hit the top of my sandaled foot. I whirled
around to confront the sudden explosion of words from behind me. The booming
voice was male, but it was the volume of it, the sheer weight behind the sound
that prickled the skin along my spine. My hand trembled as I fidgeted with my
glasses, shoving them back into place so the dark, blurry shadow looming mere
feet away could come into focus.
I wasn’t blind. I could see most things without my glasses.
They just weren’t very clear. Everything had a fuzzy hue around the edges. Kind
of like a smudged pastel painting, exaggerating the shapes and size of people.
This guy was not exaggerated.
No less than seven feet with a frame that was clearly stolen
from some lumberjack catalogue, he stood blocking my escape. I mean, I could
have maybe done some crazy ninja lunge over the counter, but that probably
wasn’t going to happen. Instead, I stood there, slack-jawed, staring at the
mountain man glowering back at me with a suspicion one would normally reserve
for diamond thieves and those bitches who steal all the bikes at the gym just
to sit and talk to each other.
He wore flannel, which only made my lumberjack theory all
the more plausible. It was undone over a white t-shirt and form fitting jeans
that hugged his lean legs the way I kind of wanted to. The hems fell over
battered and really ugly boots that needed an incinerator to put them out of
their misery and were frayed around the cuffs. His chest strained beneath the
thin material with every breath and my gaze was drawn to the hard squares cut
of his breast plates and along the wide lengths of his shoulders. The sleeves
on the flannel were rolled up his toned forearms and barely concealed the raw
muscles underneath.
Definitely a lumberjack.
Shit the man was hot. Screw Boston cream pastries. I’ll take
two of him.
“Hello?”
Blinking, my eyes shot up to the head attached to that
delicious body and my steamy fantasy bubble popped.
Thick, black hair covered his jaw and mouth in a beard. His
hair was the same shade of ebony and hung uncut around his ears and over the
collar of his flannel. From amongst all that hair, I could just make out
piercing, intense gray eyes.
“Really?” I blurted in clear disappointment, my brain and
mouth having lost communication at some point.
It was his turn to blink in surprise. He leaned over and
snapped the faucet off with a smack of his
palm.
“What?”
There was no helping it. My whole day was officially ruined
and it was his fault.
Okay, I had no problem with men with facial hair. Sometimes,
it was even hot. But not when it looked like he was going for a yearlong
expedition through the Himalayan Mountains, or planned to
live with bears out in the wilderness. There was a reason trimmers and razors
were invented. And … Goddamn it! The dude was too hot for that shit.
“Are you lost?” he demanded when I could only stand there
and silently judge him.
“I don’t know! Maybe you could loan me a compass!” I shot
back. “Or a hatchet.” So I was just being crazy and I almost couldn’t blame him
for his confounded scowl. I took a deep breath. “I’m Ali,” I said calmly and
rationally. “I—”
“Gabriel?” Earl limped up the stairs, clutching tight to the
banister until he was at the top. He looked better, I noted. The flush was gone
from his face and he wasn’t panting. “I didn’t know you were
here.”
Gabriel turned to the other man.
“Really?” I was amazed at how much that single question
sounded like mine, full of indignant disapproval. “She’s not even half your
age.”
I had not seen that
coming.
“Whoa! Wait. What?”
I was ignored.
“Why do they keep getting younger?” he demanded of Earl.
“You’re going to break a damn hip … again, and I’m going to have to listen
while you explain to the doctor how you broke the fucking thing … again! You’re
eighty years old, Grandpa!” Gabriel then rounded on me. “He’s eighty years
old!”
“Dude!” I began, putting both hands up to ward off the
craziness he was spewing. “I am not tapping that.” I winced and shot Earl a
sheepish smile. “No offense.” I went back to glowering at Lumberjack. “So his
hip is perfectly safe with me.”
Gabriel looked me over. Actually looked me
over with a disbelief that was astounding. Did I have old man hooker
stamped to my forehead, or something? Like seriously? I was insulted … and then
he added salt to my injuries.
“I guess,” he mumbled. “Did he forget to return a book, or
something? I didn’t know the library did house
calls.”
How. The. Fuck. Did I go from being a
hooker, to a librarian in the span of two
seconds?
“Ali was kind enough to help me with my groceries,” Earl
piped in before I could kick his lovely grandson in the family
jewels.
Swooping down, I hefted up the pack of chicken still lying
at my feet and shoved it into his gut with all the force in me. His grunt of
pain was only mildly satisfying.
“I accept apologizes in written form only,” I growled
through my teeth. “I like to file them under
Fuckhead.”
With that, I stomped around him and started for the stairs.
“Ali, wait.” Earl hurried after me, and I only stopped for
him. Otherwise, I was ready to make my grand exit, stage left. “Don’t mind Gabriel.
His mother drank while she was pregnant.”
“Grandpa!”
He ignored his grandson, which amused me. I was really
beginning to like Earl. Enough to sleep with him? Uh, no. But definitely enough
to want to give him a high five.
“I still owe you for helping me with my
groceries.”
I shook my head. “Really it’s fine. I have to get home
anyway and continue the job hunt. But it was wonderful to meet
you.”
“Actually!” Earl grabbed my hand before I could leave.
“That’s exactly what I want to do.”
I frowned. “You want to help me job
hunt?”
“Yes and no,” he answered with a chuckle. “We need someone
with your expertise here at the shop and you need a job. I think we can help
each other out.”
“What are you doing, Grandpa?” Gabriel
demanded.
“I’m getting this place an administrative assistant,” Earl
retorted. “Someone who knows how to do the books and filing, because apparently
you got my brains when it comes to
paperwork.”
Gabriel scowled. The guy was a professional scowler. I could
tell. He was very good at his job.
“We’re doing fine,” he
grumbled.
“Have you seen the office, Gabriel?” Earl countered. “I
found a form the other day dating back to when the shop was first opened. We
need the help.”
Gabriel seemed to chew this bit of information over, possibly
literally. His face-bush kept twitching. Either that, or some unsuspecting
rodent had made a home beneath that jungle.
“Fine. I’ll call someone,” he replied. “There has to be an
agency, or—”
“Why when Ali’s right here?” Earl said, waving a hand at me.
Those smolderingly gray eyes darted to me and narrowed even
further if possible. “You met the girl two minutes ago. How do you know she’s
any good? Besides, she barely looks old enough to be out of
school.”
Yeah, this guy and I would never be friends. He made me want
to stab him, repeatedly, with something pointy and rusty. That didn’t make for
very good friendship.
“I graduated with my bachelors last year,” I informed him
sharply. “And spent the last ten months interning at one of the biggest ad
companies in Portland. Trust me, I am very good at what I do.”
“And I am a very good judge of character,” Earl added. “I
like Ali and since this is still my shop, I’m hiring
her.”
Gabriel stared hard at his grandfather. “That’s not how this
works. You need references and—”
“I’m not an idiot, Gabriel!” Earl snapped. “I’ve been doing
this since before you were born. But she’s the one I
want.”
It didn’t even dawn on me that I had just accepted a job at
a garage. At that moment, all I wanted was to rub it in Gabriel’s smug little
face. Then it hit me.
“Wait, you’re giving me a
job?”
Gabriel threw his hands up.
“Observant.”
I opened my mouth to tell him I was ten different belts of
crazy and not afraid to use all of them on him if he kept pushing me, but Earl
touched my arm.
“If you want it,” he said kindly. “It might not be all
fancy, but you can start tomorrow. Bring your papers and Gabriel will go over
them.”
With that, and a pat on my shoulder, he shuffled back down
the stairs, leaving me alone with Mountain Man.
“Are you sleeping with
him?”
Unbelievable.
“I don’t sleep with men to get what I want, Jack,” I
snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of getting through life without offering my
taco to every man that walks my way.”
That seemed to silence him. He watched me like I was some
endangered species that just made no sense. I wasn’t sure how I felt about
that. I wasn’t there for his approval. I certainly didn’t want it.
But, at the same time, I did need a job. After three months
of unemployment, my savings had begun to grow a happy family of dust bunnies
and I didn’t know when I would get another offer like that. Besides, it would
only be temporary. I could watch my mouth and temper for a few months.
Gabriel turned his full attention on me, which meant not
just his eyes, or his head, but his entire body so we were facing off. I hated
that he was taller than me. Pretending to be a bad ass took extra effort when
you were stuck glowering at a beautiful man chest.
“My grandfather is eighty years old,” he told me again in a
deep, quiet tone. “He’s trusting of pretty faces, but I’m not. I may not have
any say in who he hires, but that sure as hell won’t stop me from booting you
out of here if I smell even a hint of foul
play.”
“What exactly do you think I’m after?” I wondered. “And what
exactly does foul play smell like?”
His gaze roamed along my frame, taking in everything from
the chipped, purple nail polish on my toes to the messy knot that was my hair
bun. I wasn’t sure which of that irritated him more, because his frown never
shifted. He seemed to disapprove of all of me.
“Look,” I said, struggling to keep my calm when all I wanted
to do was throat punch the guy for making me feel about two inches tall with
just a look. “I get it. You think a woman doesn’t belong in a
garage.”
“You’re right,” he said evenly. “That’s exactly what I
think.”
It took me a full second to peel my jaw off the floor.
“That is the most sexist thing I have ever—”
“Do you know what women are, Ali? A liability,” he went on,
ignoring my irate sputtering. “They come into a place and destroy it with the
two ton bag of drama they heave around. I don’t like drama. And I don’t like
trouble, which is exactly what you are.”
Any other time, any other person and I would have taken that
as a compliment. As it were, his condescending bullshit pissed me
off.
“And how am I trouble?” I bite out with all the composure I
could scrounge up. “Is it the glasses, because I can vouch for their
character?” His eyes narrowed, but I didn’t give a shit. “You know, this is why
women don’t feel comfortable bringing their cars in to get checked, because of
assholes like you who treat them like they’re braindead and unworthy of a fair
exchange. You think just because we’re women and may not know as much about
vehicles as men that we’re somehow less superior to you. Well, you know what,
Jack, you can keep your fucking job. I wouldn’t work for you, with you, near
you if you paid me in gold bricks.”
Whirling on my heels, I
left.
I walked out of the garage without running into Earl. I
briefly wondered if I should find him and thank him for the generous offer that
I needed to decline, but thought better of it. I needed to get away from that
asshole before I did something I might not regret later.
My apartment was a two block walk from the garage, tucked
behind a towering wall of spruce trees. It sat nestled on a slight incline
surrounded by Victorian homes and other smaller apartments. Mine was one of the
older structures. The red brick was faded and chipped in places and the windows
were the enormous panes used in lofts, but the rent was cheap and I liked the
view.
The building itself had originally been two separate
structures with six stories each. At some point, someone had connected the pair
by a wall on either end, leaving a narrow gap in between that opened into a
courtyard that was never used because realistically, it was a squished alley
someone spruced up with flowerboxes. I could easily leap from my balcony into
the apartment across the way … if I was Cat Woman, or a burglar. As it were, I
was neither and had no desire to leap into an empty apartment. But the thing I
did like to do was occasionally stand by the terrace doors and watch the lives
of the people in the other building. As a person who lived on the sixth floor,
dead center, I had the perfect angle to see most of what was going on in the
other suites. Call me crazy, or a pervert, but most people in my position would
do the same, especially since there was nowhere else to look, except to maybe
count the bricks on the building. My neighbors were much more interesting.
I have always liked watching. I like seeing how people
interact and behave alone and in groups. I like wondering what they’re talking
about and what they’re thinking. As a child, I was the lone kid on the
playground, the one that said nothing, but stared at the others as they ran and
played. I was okay with that. I never cared that I wasn’t picked for teams, or
asked to play skip rope. While I wasn’t some creepy shut in that liked
collecting strands of my classmate’s hairs to make dolls, I didn’t go out of my
way to make friends either. I still don’t. Friends are great, except I never
know what to do with them. I see other people and it all seems so natural. They
laugh and talk and make plans to talk and laugh some more at a later date. I
would probably throw a fry at them and hope they were distracted enough not to
notice me running away.
So I stayed home. When I did have to interact, I did so
cautiously and tried not to make any sudden movements. Occasionally, I could
even have full on conversations with people without anyone getting hurt. But I
liked my solitary life. I cherished it even.
My apartment was designed by someone with no concept of
measurements. Everything was done in extremes. The living room was barely big
enough for a sofa, while the only bedroom was enormous. The kitchen was small,
but the single bathroom could fit an entire Russian circus. The closet in the
hall could have doubled as a second bedroom if it hadn’t been so narrow, while
the pantry in the kitchen could barely hold a stack of towels. I was only
thankful no one ever came to visit me or it would have been hard to explain why
my bedroom was in the living room and why my living room was in my bedroom, or
why all my food was in the closet down the hall near the bathroom and my towels
were in my kitchen. It all worked fine for me, but I knew it wasn’t
normal.
Tossing my keys and purse onto the glass table I kept by the
front door, I kicked off my sandals and made my way into the bedroom. It was a
short walk down a minute hall that split off in three separate directions.
Right to the kitchen. Left to the living room and bathroom, and straight for
the bedroom. My toes curled in the plush carpet that extended from wall to
wall. Underneath it was the scarred hardwood that came with the place. But
after a week of waking up to use the bathroom and having to tiptoe on what felt
like a sheet of ice, I said screw it and splurged on a carpet. Best investment
ever.
My bedroom was my favorite spot in the whole place and it
showed. It was designed for comfort and easy access to everything. My queen
sized bed faced the TV I had mounted over a glass set of shelves holding my DVD
player and surround sound. On one side of the bed was my mini fridge. The other
held an end table with a lamp and the remotes to the TV. The terrace doors were
on the other side of my bed, draped in sheer curtains. On the opposite side of
the room, against the wall that separated the bedroom from the kitchen was my
vanity. Everything was within reach.
I stripped. I rarely saw the point of being dressed at home.
There was no one there to judge me for the way I looked, or what shape I was
in. It was my place of sanctuary. Plus there was something liberating about
eating a cup of pudding completely naked.
At a little after six, I drew on a robe, turned off the TV
and wandered into the kitchen for a bowl of something. My pantry consisted
mostly of things that could easily be warmed, cans of soup, microwavable
dinners, the occasional canisters of squeeze cheese. I lived for one person.
Me. If I wanted to cook a full meal, I had the luxury of running to the grocery
store, grabbing the items and coming home. But those desires were rare. As it
were, I grabbed a bowl of cereal and made my way to the
terrace.
Seven o’clock was when my neighbors came home. It was when
the dark windows lit up and life happened on the other side of the glass. I
treated seven o’clock the way soap opera junkies treated their favorite
sitcoms, with reverence and excitement.
The steel hoops embedded into the curtains hissed as I
dragged the sheer drapes across the metal rod. I propped the glass doors open
to the muggy evening and leaned a hip against the frame.
It was still fairly bright out. The sun was just making its
final descent behind the buildings, but the narrow notch of space that I
considered my little world had shadows slinking their way across the bricks.
The lights from the other apartments were sharper, brighter, casting the
figures inside into edgy silhouettes.
There were eighteen apartments. Each floor had three windows
stamped into the side. I had given each one a name, which periodically changed
as the occupants did. For example, in the three months I’d lived there, no one
had ever rented the apartment adjacent to mine so that had come to be known as
the Empty. Levels one, two, and three were impossible to see into from my sixth
floor view. So that left me four, five and six. Four was iffy. I could only see
about six feet into their apartments. But five and six were gold and that was
where my favorite people lived.
Window one, top row: Old Man and Young Girl I had assumed
for the first three weeks were father and daughter. So. Not. I learned that the
hard way while eating spicy curry and nearly dying when he heaved the girl
against the glass and started fucking her.
Window two, top row:
Empty.
Window three, top row: Crazy Jungle Couple who fought like
piranha’s over fresh meat and made love just as intensely. They were better to
watch than WWE on pay per view. I always had popcorn ready for when they got
home. It was impossible to tell how the night would
end.
Window one, second row: an Asian Couple with Little Girl.
Watching them made me nostalgic for my own family, but then the girl would cry
and throw things and that feeling would go
away.
Window two, second row: Slutty Blonde with copious number of
lovers. That week, she was banging the occupant of window three, second row,
Handsome Dark Haired Dude with a beer belly but a seriously massive cock.
Row three was full of families.
Window one, row three: Single Mother with Little Boy. I
would occasionally see him sitting at the window with his hand held game,
munching on carrot sticks.
Window two, row three: Man and Woman with Twin Ghost
Daughters. I was convinced those two girls were from The
Shining. Creepy little shits. Every so often, I would look down and
they’d just be standing there … staring back. Not blinking. It made it even
creepier that they were both extremely pale with dead eyes and long dark hair.
I shuddered every time my gaze roamed over their window.
Window three, row three: Large, Hairy Man with a deeper love
of microwavable food than me, who spent a large portion of his time in his
recliner watching football. I had a feeling he was a gambler, simply from the
fits he’d always have when his team lost. It was irrational. But then what did
I know about men and sports? Maybe he just had rage issues. Yet that didn’t
explain why he’d get on the phone immediately afterwards and shout at whoever
was on the other end. But that also could be explained. Maybe he had a friend
somewhere else equally pissed and the two were venting to each
other.
The fun was always in the
guessing.
That evening, only three of the windows lit up. Old Man and
Hopefully Not His Daughter came home first. She sauntered into the living room,
tossed her bright, pink purse down on the sofa and flopped down next to it. Old
Man ambled his way into the kitchen and yanked open the fridge.
No fucking tonight, I thought, shifting
my gaze to the other two windows.
The Ghost Girls were back in their lacy, purple dresses,
white stockings and jet black hairs. They stood shoulder to shoulder with their
backs to the window. Their dad was hanging up their matching red coats in the
hallway closet. Mom wasn’t home yet. She was a secretary, or a lawyer. She
didn’t get home until about eleven, stooped over like her briefcase was filled
with bricks.
The third window gave me a start. The presence of the pale,
golden glow took my brain a full minute to process and even it knew something
wasn’t right.
Window two, top row: wasn’t empty. There was movement behind
the curtains. There was light!
“Holy shit!”
Cereal bowl abandoned on the glass table next to the terrace
doors, I stepped further onto the balcony. My fingers curled around the cool
metal railing and I leaned in as far as I could without forgetting my not Cat
woman notion and making the lunge over.
But as quickly as all the excitement had started, it sparked
in surprise when the light flicked off and there was nothing. My gaze darted
from the windows to the glass doors, waiting like an eager little puppy begging
someone to throw the fucking ball already.
Nothing happened. The lights remained off. Stillness
continued.
My gaze narrowed as I straightened. “All right,” I mumbled
to the silence. “You win this round, but tomorrow…”
I let my promise linger into the night as I stepped back
into my apartment.
Airicka Phoenix is a hopeless romantic with a dark
imagination and an incurable addiction to chocolate. She is also the author of
several novels written for young adult and new adult romance readers who like
bad boys, hot kisses and a gritty plot. Airicka prides herself in producing
quality material her readers can fall in love with again and
again.
When she's not hard at work bleeding words onto
paper, Airicka can be found cuddling with her family, reading, watching TV
shows, or just finding excuses to avoid doing chores.
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