The Player Next Door: A Novel Page 3

  College was another story. It was like a “don’t give a shit” switch got flicked somewhere between unpacking my suitcase in my dorm room and downing the nth red SOLO cup of draft beer. I lost my virginity that very first night, to a guy named Chris who was a lot cuter at the party than he was in his bed the next morning. I had regrets—namely, why didn’t I just lose it with Shane? Someone who actually meant something to me? But I quickly washed them away with more parties, more alcohol, and more guys.

  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.

  Shane steps into view and my stomach flips.

  I haven’t seen him since our run-in yesterday morning, though I did hear the low rumble of his car’s engine as he pulled into his driveway late last night. A date, maybe? A booty call? Thankfully, I was distracted with my friends and the house to think too much on it.

  I watch as Shane kicks his shoes to the side, and then his hands are moving, grasping the hem of his black T-shirt and lifting it up … up … and over his head, revealing a smooth, taut chest, his muscles prominent and shapely.

  I groan. He was built in high school when he was seventeen. He’s thirty now, and that is all man.

  I shouldn’t be spying on him. But he shouldn’t be undressing in front of a window. It’s his fault, really. Though he’s probably used to having his privacy. He likely knew the Rutshacks slept downstairs. He hasn’t considered the possibility that a pervert moved in.

  And that’s what I am right now.

  I fully accept this as I take a safe step back into darkness and watch Shane casually toss his shirt into a corner, my fingertips tingling. What would those powerful shoulders feel like beneath my nails? What would they look like, tensing above me as I lie on my back beneath him, my thighs splayed?

  He fumbles with his belt buckle and zipper. His jeans fall to the floor, taking my jaw with them as I get a good look at that delicious V-cut of his pelvis, leading down to dark gray boxer briefs. His legs are powerful, his thighs down to his ankles perfectly proportioned.

  “Why do you have to be so perfect?” I mutter with bitter envy, staring in unabashed admiration as he steps out of his jeans, leaving them in a heap.

  His thumbs hook around the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs.

  I should not watch this … I should not watch this … I need to turn away now …

  Shane’s hands pause, his position shifting to give me his side, his attention riveted on the corner of the room. The TV, I realize.

  “Come on …” I hold my breath like the scoundrel I am, desperate to catch a glimpse of what I fought so hard to resist for an entire summer.

  Suddenly, as if only remembering his uncovered window then, he turns and peers out of it.

  I yelp and stumble backward, though there’s no way he can see me. Right? I frantically glance around, confirming there isn’t a beam of light in here that would give me away.

  After a few beats, he strolls into his adjoining bathroom, his sculpted, round ass in cotton shifting deliciously with each step. He still hasn’t drawn curtains or blinds. He’s either unconvinced that I’d be lurking in the dark at midnight on a Sunday, watching him undress, or he’s unconcerned by the idea.

  My guess—because Shane Beckett is an arrogant ass—is the latter.

  What would it feel like to be w
ith him after all these years? He used to be able to make me hot with a simple touch against my neck, a fingertip trailing along my skin. But maybe he’s a terrible lay. Maybe his talents end with those sensual, all-consuming kisses and magic hands.

  Who am I kidding? Penelope was more than willing to tell everyone within earshot about Shane’s ability to find a girl’s G-spot when I doubt Neanderthals like Steve Dip had any clue that females could orgasm.

  Shane is gone from view just long enough that I can calm my breathing and evaluate whether I want to be this person who spies on her neighbor from the shadows. Then he reappears.

  This time, without his boxer briefs.

  “Oh my God.” My mouth goes dry as I take in all of Shane Beckett for the first time. The sight of him naked has heat flooding my body. It’s only for a few seconds, and then he taps a switch and the room falls into darkness, save for the flashing glimmer from the TV. There’s a mirror on the wall to the right of his headboard, and it reflects the sportscaster on his screen. Sports highlights. Still a jock.

  Punching the pillow a few times to fluff it, he slips into bed, hiding half his beautiful body from view, hooking one arm beneath his head, his free hand resting on his bare stomach. It’s like his bed was positioned for prime viewing from my room.

  His gaze seems to settle on my window.

  And his free hand disappears beneath his sheet.

  I hold my breath, waiting to see a rhythmic rustling around his groin, evidence that he’s jerking off, but he simply lies there, a naked Adonis catching up on stats.

  What is Shane like when he comes? Does he grit his teeth? Does he yell and moan? Or is it a series of guttural noises? Does he hide his face or is he unabashed, letting you see the intense pleasure seize him? Does he come fast and hard or after a lengthy grind? It’s funny—these weren’t things I thought about as a seventeen-year-old girl but as a thirty-year-old woman, just imagining the sound of him orgasming turns my breath ragged. I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. Certainly not with Red Wine Golden Retriever Man, and I was drunk and desperate that night.

  My free hand ventures to the thin, silk strap on my camisole, my pinky finger curling under, gliding down around the deep scoop neckline, teasing my flesh. I let out a hysterical giggle. This is insane. Why am I watching this? And worse, I’m practically drooling. What happened to my bitter resolve? One look at naked Shane and I’ve forgotten all the pain he caused me? And then what happens the next time I have to look him in the eye?

  Nothing good can come of this. I’ll just be piling on regrets.

  “That’s enough for one night.” I peel myself away from the peep show, whispering a sour “Good night, asshole” as I crawl into bed.

  Accepting it’s going to be a long while before my pulse settles.

  Six

  Mom yanks the black smock off the man and sweeps the round, horsehair brush over the back of his neck to remove any last clippings, all the while chomping on her gum. Based on the clumps of salt-and-pepper hair pooled around the chair, the man came in with at least four inches more hair than he’s leaving with, his new style cropped short. “See, Clive? This is way more distinguished-looking than that comb-over.”

  The man’s soft blue eyes study his reflection in the mirror ahead with intense interest, the look in them one of happy surprise. “You were right, Dottie.”

  “I’m always right.” Her mulberry-painted lips stretch wide in a smile and her manicured hands smooth over his shoulders in an affectionate way that probably isn’t appropriate but is standard practice for my mom. “Cindy’s gonna love it. I’m tellin’ ya. She’d have to be blind not to.”

  He grins, sliding from his chair and pulling out his wallet. “So, I’ll see you at McTavish’s on Friday night?” My mom’s favorite watering hole.

  “You know it. Come and say hi.” She winks at him.

  How my mother hasn’t been run out of town by jealous wives and scorned girlfriends is beyond me. There’ve been more than a few tense face-offs over the years, some of them—slaps, tear-filled accusations, screaming matches in the grocery aisle—I’ve witnessed firsthand.

  Dottie Reed has always maintained that she can’t help attracting the opposite sex. It must be that alluring pinup girl vibe she says she gives off. That she spreads her legs for any interested man has nothing to do with it, oh no.

  Mom winks and waves bye to Clive. When he’s out the door, she acknowledges me. “What are you doing here, hon? I thought we were meeting at my place at six?” She glances at her wrist to confirm that it’s only five.

  I haven’t seen my mom since her birthday two months ago, but I’m not surprised it doesn’t spark a maternal instinct to wrap her arms around me in a welcoming hug. She only finds that motherly bone three drinks in.

  “Yeah, I know, but I’m starving, and I figured you’re here anyway, so we can walk over and grab dinner early.” And this eliminates the chance for her to rush home to down a bunch of happy-hour cocktails beforehand.

  She shrugs in a “fine, I guess” way, her indigo-blue eyes drifting over my locks. “Do you want a cut while you’re here?”

  “No. I’m good, thanks.” She offers to cut my hair every time I step inside Elite Cuts, a no-frills hair salon that’s catered to Polson Falls for decades. I haven’t taken her up on it in years, since I realized not all hair stylists are equal, and there are plenty who are a hell of a lot more competent and creative than my mom. Plus, she’s liable to lop it all off, insisting a bob suits my face shape best.

  She leans closer to the mirror, her red-clawed fingertips combing through her hair as she inspects her roots. She’s religious about hiding all evidence of gray, and she’s been doing it with platinum blond as long as I can remember. I’ve suggested maybe a change to a soft golden or a subtle chestnut would be nice, but Dottie abhors change when it comes to her appearance. She’s been trying to hold fast at twenty-five for the past two decades, in looks and lifestyle. Ironically, it’s her lifestyle that’s starting to age her beyond her forty-six years.

  She’s still attractive, her makeup impeccable, her hair always styled, her clothes on the more risqué side but flattering for her curvy figure. But under these lights, I can see the lines that her latest round of Botox injections couldn’t hide, creasing her forehead and curving around her lips, and there’s a touch of sag at her jowls that nothing short of surgery will erase.

  “So? What’s new?” she asks.

  “Nothing much. Just settling into the house. I’m going to start painting tomorrow—”

  “I’m heading out now! Scarlet’s treating me to dinner,” she hollers to her boss. She likely wasn’t paying attention to begin with.

  I roll my eyes at her lack of interest and at the assumption I’m now made of money. When she caught wind of the inheritance, she insisted she deserved at least half of it for all the sacrifices she’d made while raising me alone.

  What I remember of her raising me is nights alone with Alphagetti when I wasn’t old enough to use the stove unattended, her sneaking out of the apartment after tucking me in to head to the bar, holes in my boots because she spent the money on collagen injections and ephedrine pills or whatever other diet craze was in fashion.

  When she demanded half the inheritance, I almost caved, but Justine talked me off that ledge. Mom and I came to verbal blows—her, airing all the ways she could’ve had a better life had she not been burdened with a child; me, venting about all the ways my life could’ve been better had I not been saddled with her as a mother. I didn’t hear from her for almost three months after that. I assumed the label of orphan.

  But then she called. She apologized. She said she had been wrong. I’d never heard her use those words before, and I assumed it was the end of the world. I peeked out the window for hailing fire and brimstone.

  In the end, I accepted her apology because, well, she’s all I have, and she wasn’t all bad. She certainly never scolded me like most children’s parents did. There
were times when we’d curl up on the couch with a bowl of homemade popcorn and a movie I was far too young to watch, she’d let me play with her makeup whenever I wanted, and once in a rare while she would surprise me with a shopping spree to the mall for new clothes. I never had a curfew, or really any rules at all. Most kids might say I had it made. But I would rather have had a mother who didn’t have a reputation as the town harlot.

  Since her apology, things have been marginally better between us.

  “No problem, Dot. Have fun!” Ann Margaret Thompson, a kind, tolerant lady in her late fifties with silver hair and disproportionately wide hips, pauses mid snip on a teenage boy to grin at me. “Good to see you back, Scarlet.”

  I smile. “Good to be back.” I’m guessing she was the driving force behind my mother’s apology. The woman is basically a saint. After the scandal with the mayor, when Dottie Reed lost her job at the upscale salon in town—she was bad for business, according to the owner—Ann Margaret offered her a job here. I’ll never understand why, but I’ll be forever thankful.

  “I hear you’re gonna be teaching at the elementary school!”

  “I am! It was all rather unexpected.”

  “The best things happen when you least expect them.” She casts me a wink as her foot pumps the pedal on the chair to raise it. She wordlessly puts her hand on the back of the boy’s head, tilting it forward so she can shave his nape with clippers.

  “Ready, Mom?”

  “I just need a minute to powder my nose.” Mom opens a deep drawer at her station and pulls out an enormous apple-green bag and heads for the back, her heels clicking against the mocha tile floor. She might be the only woman in the state who is willing to cut hair in stilettos all day just to make sure her legs look good.