by S. M. Shade
Pissed off and embarrassed, I press play and try to focus on my show. My mind keeps wandering and I catch myself trying to picture him in his room. Is he asleep? Stretched out in bed in boxers? Naked? My dirty mind just has to go there. He wasn’t far off earlier when he said I need to get laid.
Twenty minutes later, I give up and turn off the T.V. Just as I’m starting to doze I hear his voice. “Good night, Ayda.”
Asshole.
I wake to the sound of thunder shaking the apartment. Torrential rain rattles the windows while I flop on the couch with a piece of toast and a new book. Stormy days are meant to be spent curled up on the couch with a good book. The wind has knocked my internet out as usual, so I feel totally justified in taking the day off from work.
After a few hours, I manage to drag my lazy ass from the couch to the bathtub, soaking until the water gets cold. A dull roar from next door tells me Dare is taking a shower, and I can’t help but try to picture him, all naked and wet, probably getting ready for a date. I haven’t been on a date in over five years, and I don’t see it happening anytime in the near future. He hit a nerve when he said I’m jealous, not of him, but of anyone who has a normal sex life when chances are I never will.
It’s times like these I try to count my blessings. I’m alive, and generally in good health. The scar tissue causes me some pain, but nothing like the agony I survived after the burns. I have enough money to take care of myself, a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and a good friend. That’s more than a lot of people ever get and I’m grateful.
Without brooding any further about my permanently single status, I pull on my jeans and a t-shirt. It’s after nine when I grab my duffel that holds my dance gear and head out the door. The good thing about being a night owl is I rarely have to deal with much traffic. Only ten minutes after I leave the house, I’m unlocking the door to the On Pointe Dance School.
The last class ended at eight, so the place is dark and silent. I flip on the lights, illuminating the shimmering wooden floor and wall to wall mirrors. Sadie’s sister, Lisa, owns the studio, and when Sadie found out I used to dance, she arranged for me to come after hours to practice as part of my rehab. That was a few years ago and Lisa has since given me a key and permission to come at night. She also asked me to consider a job teaching here, but I’m not ready for that.
I’m happy practicing alone, or occasionally with Sadie. I started ballet lessons when I was eight and fell in love with it. When I’m dancing, I don’t feel the pull of skin or the pain that comes along with it. There’s only the floor beneath my feet, the wind whipping across my body, the music filling the world with beauty.
When I emerge from the dressing room in my leotard and tights, Sadie is digging through a box of CD’s. “Hey girl, want anything in particular?”
“Anything is fine until we’re warmed up. I brought my iPod for the choreography I want your help with.”
“You know I can’t choreograph to save my wide ass. You should come during business hours and have Lisa help.”
“I’ll think about it,” I lie. We laugh and chat while we run through our stretches and warm up at the barre.
As much as I adore dancing, it’s bittersweet. I had just been accepted in the corps de ballet for a prestigious dance company in New York when Talbot took that chance away from me forever. It’s taken years to get to the point where my body can handle ballet again, but I’ll never get full range of motion back. Add that to the fact that ballet is about beauty, the beauty of the dance and the dancer, and you can understand why my plans changed.
Still, dance is my escape, and when Sadie and I leave a few hours later, I’m exhausted, sweaty, and perfectly content.
I’m starving when I return home. Dancing always makes me hungry and it’s also the reason I can pretty much eat whatever I want without gaining weight. It makes up for the fact that my job is so sedentary.
A thump rattles the kitchen, followed by the sound of a chair being scraped across the floor. What the hell is Dare doing over there? I probably don’t want to know. As I fry some sausage and peppers, I hear a mixture of male and female laughter coming from next door as well. Great. He’d better not keep me up all night with his bedroom antics.
Two scrambled eggs get tossed into a skillet before I add the sausage and peppers to make an omelet. I can’t stand to eat eggs for breakfast, but dinner is another story. “Damn! Something smells good,” Dare announces. “What are you cooking?”
I swear he’s so loud he could be right beside me instead of standing in his kitchen on the other side of the wall. Ignoring him, I slide the omelet on a plate, grab a glass of grape juice, and head to the living room. My favorite show is on, full of zombies and gore. By the time it’s over, my eyes are getting heavy, so I move to my bedroom. One of the comedy podcasts I listen to has released, so I find it on my tablet and hit play before snuggling under the covers.
I’ve never been able to fall asleep quickly. My brain just won’t cooperate, and I find myself thinking too much about the past, so I usually fall asleep with something playing to distract me, a T.V. show, podcast, or audiobook. It doesn’t matter which as long as I can listen to something other than my own internal dialogue that’s so depressing. It’s weird, because while I’m not exuberantly happy, most of the time I’m content.
“What the hell are you listening to?” Dare’s voice rumbles through the wall.
Really? Can’t he just pretend he can’t hear me? We’ve done it for nearly a year. I decide the best plan is to ignore him.
“Ayda, I know you’re there.”
I could switch to headphones, but they aren’t really comfortable to fall asleep in, and why should I change anything for an obnoxious neighbor anyway? It’s not like it’s blaring. I doubt he can even make out the words at this volume. He’s just being an ass.
“What is your fascination with British shows? Everything you listen to has an accent.”
I’m not engaging him.
“Is it a porno? Do I get to hear your vibrator tonight?”
Ugh! “I don’t watch porn!” I shout, forgetting I’m supposed to be ignoring him.
A deep chuckle follows. “Nothing wrong with porn.”
“Can’t you just shut up?”
“What were you cooking? It smelled great.”
“You seriously want to have a conversation through this wall?” I huff, pausing the podcast.
“Or I could come over.” The delicious threat delivered in that deep come-fuck-me voice makes me shiver. It does more than that, if I’m being honest with myself. I haven’t had sex in five years, but not because I want to be celibate. My sex drive is fine, overactive if anything, but it’s hard enough for a beautiful women to find a man who won’t jerk her around, much less a scarred mess like me. Hence the vibrator.
“No!”
“Okay, then. What did you have for dinner?”
“A sausage and pepper omelet.”
“Sounds good.” I hear a faint scrape and picture him leaning against the wall, maybe sitting on his bed. “Do you want to know what I had?”
“I’m going to assume this is all so you can tell me you ate pussy.”
His laughter rings out loud, and I find myself wishing I could see his face when he laughs. It’s such a great sound. Smooth and deep. I wonder if he has a dimple when he smiles?
“That wasn’t what I was going to say. I had leftover pizza actually. I’m not much of a cook.”
“Hmm, too bad.” I yawn and turn on my side.
“A nice neighbor would invite a poor bachelor over for a home cooked meal.” The amusement in his voice makes me smile, despite my aggravation.
“Well, I bring food to the homeless man who sleeps by the dumpsters. Maybe if you wait out there, I’ll bring you a sandwich sometime.”
“Harsh, Ayda. Now I’m really hurt.”
I can’t hold my eyes open anymore. “Good Night, Dare.”
“Good night, Ayda.”
Chapte
r Two
Dare
“Derek!” My sister, Leah, barrels into me as soon as I enter her house, wrapping her arms tight around me. She’s the only one who still calls me Derek.
Her gaze is filled with barely restrained excitement. “Hey, kid. Are you ready to do this?” I know she’s grown now, nearly twenty-two years old, but I still don’t like the idea of her moving so far away. She’s spent the past few years taking classes at a nearby community college, and now she’s moving a state away to work towards a doctorate in psychology.
“All packed up!”
A small rented moving truck sits by the curb, packed and ready to go. I’m driving the truck so she can drive her car. After locking the door and leaving the keys in the mailbox for the landlord, she practically darts to her car. “Keep to the speed limits!” I call, climbing into the truck to follow her.
Rolling her eyes, she dismisses my warning with a wave of her hand. I pull out behind her and a few minutes later we’re cruising down the highway. Summer is stubbornly hanging on with its heat and humidity, though Labor Day is right around the corner, and I wipe at the back of my neck with my palm. For the money I paid to rent this damn truck, you’d think the air conditioning would work, but when I try, all I get is hot stinking puffs of air.
Highway driving is dull and monotonous even with my favorite playlist blaring, and my mind begins to wander. Ayda. Messing with her through the wall has been the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I’ve always been able to hear her, but it never occurred to me to talk to her. Maybe because I was too busy listening to her with her vibrator and trying to picture the look on her face when she comes.
She’s so introverted, staying in her apartment most of the time. I assume it’s because she’s self-conscious. I’ve seen her a few times, lying beside the pool, or coming from her car, but I don’t think she noticed me. Her eyes were always trained on the ground as if she hoped to find a wad of money on the pavement, her long hair hanging half in her face. It wasn’t until I saw her a few days ago talking to the homeless man in the parking lot that I actually saw her smile, and got a glimpse of why she hides herself away.
Crinkled skin, somehow warped and bubbled, extends from the corner of her jaw up to her temple on the right side of her face. It must be from a burn. I don’t know how long she’s had it or what happened, but she’s obviously not comfortable letting people see. I can’t blame her. People can be assholes.
I found myself staring at her, but not because of the scar. It was the expression on her face as she spoke to the homeless man the rest of us have completely overlooked. It wasn’t a look of pity or disgust, but compassion and understanding. She cares. And that’s a hard goddamned thing to find these days.
Leah puts on her turn signal, and I follow her small silver car onto the highway ramp and through a neighborhood dotted with apartment buildings. Instead of living in the dorms, she’s opted to share an apartment close to campus with two of her high school friends. Neither are present when we arrive, but the apartment is already lightly furnished with their belongings.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay until one of your roommates shows up?” I ask as she starts unpacking her boxes.
Getting to her feet, she approaches me and lays her hands on my shoulders, looking up at me. “I’ll be fine. You have to quit worrying. I’ve been on my own a few years now, you know.”
“I’m aware.” My gaze sweeps around her bedroom before I continue the search out in the hall. “Do you have a smoke detector?”
Laughing, she rolls her eyes. “Yes, right there.” She points to a detector in the center of the hall ceiling. “And there’s a carbon monoxide detector in the kitchen and a fire extinguisher under the sink. Now, get going so you won’t have to drive the whole way in the dark.”
“Fine, I know when I’m not wanted.” She squeals when I dig my fingers into her ribs, tickling her like I did when she was a kid. When I stop, her demeanor turns serious.
“Thanks Derek. For everything. I know how much you sacrificed to save me and I promise I’ll make you proud. I’m going to work with kids who were hurt just like I was.”
My throat tightens and I pull her into a hug. “Just live your life and be happy, kid. That’s all I want.”
She squeezes me, then steps back. “I am happy.”
“And stay away from boys.”
“No problem. I prefer men now.”
“Real funny, critter.”
“Don’t call me that!” She shoves me, laughing, then returns to unpacking.
“See you, Leah.”
“Bye,” she calls, her head buried in a box.
The drive back is interminable, but after seeing where she’s living I’m not as worried about her. She’s happy. Maybe I should try for a little happiness myself.
The past year since I was released from prison, I’ve been partying, trying to make up for all the lost time, block out the memories and the misery of those gray walls. I’ve never had trouble attracting women, and since I put on about twenty- five pounds of muscle while I was locked up, it’s become even easier. My bedroom has been a revolving door of women, mostly one night stands I picked up at a bar. Just a little fun for both of us with no strings attached. I thought I was happy with that, that getting laid and hanging out with my friends was enough, but now I’m not sure.
My work makes me happy. In Safe Hands—or ISH—is the best thing I’ve ever done, made even better because I started the organization with my best friend, Landon. Jeremy and Justus came along later, but they are just as dedicated and trustworthy, which is a necessity when hunting down online predators and child molesters. All of us have hacking skills that help keep us anonymous and allow us to aid the police while also hiding our own criminal activities.
We are criminals, never doubt that, but I’ve never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. We’re largely funded by our ability to hack the hackers and steal their stolen funds, most taken from the sale of credit card and bank account numbers. I never have to worry about money. Our main concern is not getting caught when we dispose of the predators who don’t go in our reports to the cops.
Repeat offenders and child molesters of the worst kind aren’t reported. Most have done multiple stints for horrible acts against children and the system has failed to lock them up for good. Sometimes, the justice system fails, and we step in to clean up their mess.
When I was first released, banging random women, hanging out with the guys, and tracking the predators was enough, but now I’m not sure. It feels like something is missing.
It’s late when I get home and without the guys here, it seems so quiet. We’ve recently moved ISH from my apartment to a house Landon inherited from his uncle, and while I’m glad to have my place back to myself, I’m not used to silence. Prison was always loud, with prisoners yelling and banging around all day and night. All I wanted when I was inside was a few minutes of quiet, but now I’m not sure how to deal with it.
I grab a cold piece of leftover pizza from the fridge and eat it while kicking my shoes off before plopping on my bed. As soon as my back hits the wall, I can hear Ayda’s T.V. The opening theme song for The Walking Dead plays, reminding me I’m about to miss my favorite show. Grabbing my remote, I turn my T.V. to the correct channel. While the commercials are playing, I can’t resist talking to Ayda, curious whether she’ll still respond.
“I’ll bet Daryl is your favorite isn’t he? Probably the reason you watch the show.”
The sound of an exasperated sigh reaches my ears, and I think maybe she’s going to ignore me this time when she finally replies, “Actually, I like Michonne.”
“So you’re into women.”
“If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”
“Hell no. I’d love to see you with a woman.”
“Trust me, you wouldn’t,” she snorts. “And just to make sure that image is wiped from your brain, I’m not into women.”
“Probably better in the long run. I don
’t like to share.”
“Are you going to shut up when the show comes back on?”
“Come over and watch it with me.” The words jump out of my mouth before I can think about the consequences. I learned a long time ago not to sleep with women I work with or live near. Causes too much drama when it’s over. And there’s no way I could have this woman beside me on my bed without taking her.
“Not going to happen.”
“Then we’ll just have to watch it together like this.”
“Whatever blows your skirt up,” she says, but I can hear amusement in her voice.
I’m winning her over, getting her to talk to me, but why? Why am I so determined to pursue her when she has no interest? I may have just answered my own question. I want her because she doesn’t want me. She isn’t going to trip over herself to get to me or go out of her way to do what I want like all the other women I’ve been with. Plus, she has an amazing little body.
We fall silent when the show comes back on, engaged by a world of the undead. When they break for ads again, I remark, “He’s a dead man. They’re finally going to kill him off.”
“Bullshit. He’s a first season character. This isn’t Game of Thrones.”
Holy shit. She watches my other show too? I’m not big of T.V. but those are the two shows I try not to miss. “If you tell me you’re a Lannister fan…”
“Nope, Targaryen all the way.”
“I can live with that.” I can hear her giggle, and it puts a smile on my face. “You should read the books,” I advise.
“You read?”
“Try not to sound so shocked.” I read everything I could get my hands on while I was locked up, but I’m not volunteering that information.
“I’ll do my best…shh, it’s coming back on.”
Silence descends again until I shout “What the fuck!” at the same time I hear her yell, “Holy shitballs!”
“Shitballs?” I repeat, seized by laughter at her choice of curse word.
“The kid just got his head chomped on!” she defends.