Big Man Next Door

by Penny Wylder

  He gets a good punch in, hitting me in the eye, but I counter with one to his nose and an uppercut to the jaw. All of us are brawling. Fists are flying, there's grunting and barking, blood and sweat.

  And it feels good. It feels really fucking good to get this out of my system. Sometimes you just want to fuck something up, and today is one of those days. Most people might see this as me being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I don't. I'm right where I need to be.

  Sirens blare in the distance, growing louder and louder. Red and blue lights flash off the windows around us. The two kids break away, scattering in different directions.

  Before I have time to react, a set of hands are on my shoulders, ripping me off the leader on the ground. I'm not even sure if I lashed out at the cop, all I see is red.

  There are voices shouting as I'm thrown against a car, and my head is pushed onto the hood. Metal cuffs clasp my wrists, cutting into the skin.

  “You need to calm down,” an officer says, pulling me up straight by looping his arm into mine.

  “They tried to rob me!” I yell, trying to jerk myself free. “Arrest them! I didn't do anything wrong!”

  “It certainly didn't look like you were having any trouble at all.”

  “I was protecting myself!”

  “We'll figure this out down at the station. Get in,” the officer commands, pushing my head down and shutting the door as I climb in.

  At the police station, they take my fingerprints, and stick me in a cell. I'm not sure what happened to the other guy, but I don't see him.

  Pressing my face against the bars, I call out to the officer at the desk. “Hey, don't I get a call or something?”

  “You will,” he says, not looking up as he types on the computer.

  Rolling my eyes, I drop back onto the bench and place my arms over my head. Sighing to myself, I close my eyes. Dozing off, I wake up, disoriented and confused.

  Popping upright, I rub my eyes, realizing I'm still locked up in jail. Standing up, I grip the bars. “Hey, what the hell? When do I get that phone call?”

  The officer glances up at me and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Fine, you can get your call.” He comes and unlocks the door, stepping to the side.

  Bringing me to the phone, I dial the only person I can. My brother. He isn't happy, he isn't happy at all. It's four in the morning, and he has to come bail me out of jail.

  It doesn't take long. Grey shows up about twenty minutes later. He powers through the front doors, and heads right to the desk.

  “I'm here for Ian Mason.” His tone is short. Tapping his fingers on the top of the desk, he breathes in slowly through his nose.

  I know he's pissed. I can see it all over his face. His lips are down and there's a crinkle running across his forehead. Every muscle in his face is tense as his fingers rap against the wood.

  The officer comes to the cell and lets me out. Grey glares at me as they push a small yellow bucket in my direction. Stuffing my wallet into my back pocket, I put my watch back on my wrist, and stuff my feet into my boots.

  We walk out of the double doors together. Grey hasn't said a word to me, he's barely even looked in my direction.

  “They tried to rob me, Grey.” He ignores me, continuing to his car. “I mean it, they tried to rob me, and when I wouldn't give in, they jumped me.”

  Spinning on his heels, he pokes a finger hard into the muscle of my chest. “I don't give a fuck, Ian. I just had to waste two grand getting your ass out. I'm not sure what's been going on with you lately, but this shit needs to stop.”

  “Dude, this isn't my fault.”

  Grey scrubs his jaw, shaking his head side to side. “I haven't seen you like this since Dad walked out.”

  “I told you what happened, you can either believe me or not believe me, I don't really give a shit.” Taking a step forward, my brother grabs my arm and holds me firmly. “Let me go, Grey.”

  “You got your shit together once for Mom, and we did what we needed to until she—”

  Yanking my arm free, I snap through clenched teeth, “I'm done talking. I'm going to work.”

  “No, you're not. I'm taking you home. Have you seen yourself? You look like shit.”

  “I don't care, I'm not going home. I'm going to work.”

  “You need to go home and get some rest.” Grey attempts to reach out and grip my arm, but I take a long step away. Tipping his head into his shoulder, he furrows his brows. “I just think—”

  Cutting him off, I hold up an open palm. “I don't care what you think. I want to work, so I'm going to work. You can either take me with you or I'll fucking walk there myself.”

  Grey's eyes jump between mine. He sees it. He knows I'm not going to do what he wants me to do.

  “Fine, get in the car.”

  I can't go home. I'm not ready to.

  I still can't see Heather.

  9

  Heather

  It's twelve thirty in the morning, and Ian still isn't home. I heard him slam the door not long after he stormed out of my apartment. I didn't go after him, even though I wanted to. I just don't think it would have helped at all.

  He's mad, I'm mad, and all that will equal is another blow out. Running after him will fix nothing if we don't cool down. But it's been hours now, and it's starting to worry me that he isn't home yet.

  Peeking through the blind in my living room, the parking lot is dimly lit, and his truck is parked in the same spot it always is. Wherever he went, he didn't drive.

  Dropping onto my couch, I pull my knees in and hug them against my chest. My phone is attached to my hip. I keep checking the time every few minutes. I can hardly sit still as my heart races and my stomach twists into a ball of knots.

  I should have reacted differently.

  I was excited to cook for him and ended up throwing out the entire meal because I didn't even want to look at it. It's immature, I know, but anger makes you do things.

  And yet, I'm up, worrying myself to death because he's gone, and I have no idea where he is or when he's coming back. I'm not even angry anymore, I actually feel stupid about the whole thing.

  My eyes grow heavy. I'm having trouble keeping them open. I'm trying, I'm trying so hard to stay awake. Blinking slower and slower, I drift in and out of consciousness.

  A beam of sun streams into my apartment, hitting me in the face and waking me up. Sitting up straight, I check the time and see that it's six in the morning. Jumping up from the couch, I check the lot again and his truck is still there.

  His truck shouldn't be here, he should be at work right now.

  Every inch of my body begins to shake as my nerves take over. I can't shake the thought that something happened to him. Pacing my apartment, I tap my lips with the pads of my fingers.

  I need to go check and see if he's home.

  No, he's not my boyfriend, he doesn't need to tell me shit.

  But what if something's wrong. . .

  My brain is battling with itself. But it's my gut that makes the final decision.

  Tearing my door open, I cross the hall in three long steps. Holding my hand up, I hover for a long second before knocking on his door. Nibbling on my bottom lip, I rest my hands on my lower back and wait.

  Nothing.

  Knocking again, I hit the door a little harder. “Ian, are you home?” I ask, pressing my ear to the door and listening.

  There's a chance he came home while I was out and is now crashed himself. I have no clue if he got drunk and is out like a light.

  Silence.

  Slamming my fist on the door, I make sure it's loud enough that he can hear no matter where he is in his apartment. “Ian?”

  Silence.

  Where is he? Is he alright?

  My heart begins to slam inside my chest and my palms are sweaty. I haven't known Ian long at all, but this doesn't seem like him. His truck is here, and he's not.

  Darting back inside my apartment, I pull the sticky note o
ff the fridge with his number on it. Typing his number into my phone, I press the receiver to my ear. I don't really care if he thinks I'm crazy at this point for checking on him, I just need to know he's okay.

  Pressing the phone harder to my ear, it rings over and over, until a robotic voicemail answers.

  Fuck.

  Hanging up, I stand in my kitchen with no idea what to do. He's been gone all night, and my gut is telling me something is wrong. My phone vibrates in my hand with a text message.

  'Who's this?'

  It's Ian. I let out an audible breath. Opening my screen, I text him back.

  'It's Heather.'

  'What do you want?'

  'I just wanted to check on you. I thought something happened to you when you didn't come home.'

  There's a long pause as the little text bubbles spin letting me know he's typing. Waiting impatiently, I squeeze my phone tighter, and stare at the screen.

  His message pops in, short and to the point. 'Don't worry about me, I'm a big boy.'

  There's a tone to his message, sarcasm mixed with a hint of contempt. But I still smile just knowing he's alright.

  'I'm sorry, I just wanted to make sure.'

  Sitting down at the counter, his message pops in quicker than the last one. 'You missed me, I know.'

  Laughing to myself, I shake my head. 'Not exactly.'

  'Yeah, right. You miss me, just admit it.'

  My smile grows wider and I blush. He's a little right. Maybe I did miss him. Maybe there's feelings I can't control building inside me. I don't have to understand them to know they're there, I can feel them with every piece of my body.

  'I'm not admitting anything.'

  'That's fine, you don't have to say it for me to know it.'

  'But you are okay for real?'

  'Yeah, I'm good. I gotta get back to work.'

  'Alright, I'll see you later.' Setting the phone down on the counter, I watch it for a reply, but this time I get nothing.

  It's okay though, I feel better. I know he's at work, I know he's not dead in some ditch, and I know he's calmed down a bit since last night.

  Besides, we're not together. He doesn't owe me anything, and has no obligation to tell me where he is or what he's doing. It's just he left and how we ended things that made me question his safety.

  Exhaling a long slow breath, a calmness falls over me. It's just good knowing he's fine.

  How the hell did I get here? How am I so wrapped up in Ian already?

  Standing, I stretch my arms and grab my guitar. The lightness I feel is giving me inspiration. Ian has somehow opened a door inside me, one where my creativity seems to flow.

  The second I pick up my guitar, my fingers are all over the frets. Working on my new song, I let myself get lost in the words and the music and the way it all fits together.

  Boom!

  I hear a car door outside, and then the sound of mumbling voices in the parking lot. Picking up my head, it's already getting dark out. It's almost six o'clock. Time slipped through my fingers today. I spent all day working on my new song.

  Kneeling on the couch, I look out the window and see Ian standing outside his brother's truck, and talking to him through the window. I can't hear what they're saying, but both men are smiling. Ian slaps Grey on his shoulder and turns to come inside.

  He looks up, causing me to duck out of the way. My heart thuds in my chest as the front door opens, and squeaks shut. Ian's feet are on the steps, echoing as he climbs to our floor.

  Will he come see me?

  My eyes move to my door, waiting to see what he does. There's a flicker of hope that burns inside. Wishing for him to knock. Wanting to see him.

  With my hands in my lap, I fiddle with my fingers nervously.

  Shutting the door to his place, I hang my head slightly. Deflating, I'm disappointed that he went straight home. It was silly for me to dream that he'd come see me first, but I can't deny the hope that tickles my skin and causes my heart to speed up.

  Holding my phone, I pluck at my bottom lip, debating if I should message him or not. Opening up a new message, I type it, and hover my thumb over the send button.

  Give him some time.

  Taking in a deep breath, I lay it down on the coffee table. I'm not a stalker, and I don't want to come off as an obsessive fling. Resting back, I cross my arms over my chest and stare at my phone.

  What the hell are you doing, Heather? He's not your boyfriend, you're not his girlfriend.

  The small voice inside my head is trying to rationalize with me, but there's another voice. The one that wants to see him, that wants to smell him, and touch him, and fuck him as many times as my body will allow.

  Pursing my lips, my eyes keep shifting to my phone. I'm trying to ignore him. I'm trying to ignore what my body is telling me it wants. And I just can't anymore.

  Picking up my phone, I decide to just send him a simple message. How does dinner sound?

  Holding the phone in my hand, I clutch it like it's alive and might jump from my grasp. The screen stays still. There are no text bubbles indicating he's sending something back.

  The little check marks next to the message light up purple, telling me he's opened my text. Resting my head in my hand, I sit anxiously, waiting for him to respond. Seconds turn into minutes, and I get nothing.

  He saw it, so why isn't he texting back?

  Giving him a few more minutes, I finally text him again.

  Hey, did you get my message?

  I know he got it. I'm just trying to not be too confrontational.

  Still nothing.

  I'm annoyed now. He's seen both messages and is deciding to ignore me all together. What reason could there be? My eyes are frozen on my screen, and my brain is all over the place, trying to rationalize his choice to ignore me.

  I'm about to text him one last time, telling him to forget it, to forget me, to just pretend like neither of us exist. I'm not going to play games. This good guy, bad guy routine isn't going to work for me.

  I've got enough on my plate already. I don't need some unstable man-whore who doesn't know what he wants.

  Tossing my phone onto the table, I lay my head back and close my eyes, when I hear a loud knock on my door. Flipping my head up, I stand slowly, walking to the door, and looking through the peephole.

  Ian. . .

  Pulling the door partially open, I hold the handle in my hand as I block the doorway. “What's up?” I ask. My voice wavers slightly as the nerves start to get to me. I'm angry, but I'm also excited.

  Smiling, he pulls his phone from his pocket and looks at me. “Obsessed much?”

  I hug myself protectively and lean against the door frame. “Screw you, I'm a concerned neighbor, that's it.”

  “Right,” he says, tucking his phone back in his pocket. The light from the hall catches his face. He has a swollen, cut lip, and a black eye. The upper part of his cheek is slightly puffy, and there are faint scratches on the side of his face.

  “Holy shit,” I say, reaching out my arm, I grab his chin and force his face up to the light. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “It's nothing, I'm fine.” Pulling his jaw free, he takes a small step back.

  “Fine? You have a busted lip and a black eye. What the hell did you do last night?”

  “Forget it, I'm fine. Really, it's nothing.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he lets out a heavy breath. “Do you want to go get dinner with me?”

  He's avoiding telling me what happened to him. He's shifty, uneasy about me asking altogether.

  “I still owe you a dinner. I can cook—”

  “No, let's go out. I know a decent place not far from here. We can walk it's so close.”

  “I don't know.”

  Ian smiles, holding out his arms. “Come on, I was a bit of an asshole, let me buy you dinner.” Placing a hand on his chest, he drops his head slightly. “I'll be on my best behavior, I promise.”

  “Is this your apology for last night?” />
  “Take it however you want. But I'm starving, I haven't eaten all day. So, I'm going to go grab food, you're welcome to come with me if you'd like.” Ian starts to back away from my door and head for the stairs. “I'd really like you to come, but I can't force you.”

  He climbs down the first two steps, and I quickly stop him. “Okay, I'll come. Let me grab a coat and I'll be right out.”

  Grabbing the red cardigan off the back of my chair, I throw it over my shoulders and meet him on the steps outside.

  “So, where are you taking me?”

  “It's a little place called The Den. They have good food, pool, you know, all things bars have.”

  Ian starts walking, and I walk with him. He's got his hands in his pockets, his eyes set straight ahead.

  “Is your truck broke?”

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “I don't know, I guess I just figured since your brother brought you home.”

  “So you were spying on me again?”

  “What? No, no, I wasn't spying. I was working—”

  “I'm kidding,” he says, cutting me off. “You're not the only person around here to pay attention to their neighbors.” He looks over at me and gives me a cute little smirk. “I heard that song you've been working on, and it sounds really good.”

  “Meh, it's not ready yet. The foundation is there, but it's not what I want.”

  “Well, it's good, it's really good.”

  “Thanks.”

  There's an awkward silence that falls between us. I can hear the soles of our shoes on the sidewalk, and his breathing as he inhales deep breaths. I can hear the sound of a train whistle in the distance, and a car alarm going off somewhere in the city. It's the type of silence you want to fill, but you just don't know how.

  “So, you said you're from Georgia?” he asks, with a hint trepidation in his voice.

  “Yeah, a little town most people have never heard of. It's nothing special, your typical small town. Everyone knows you, they know all your business, all your family, and so on.” Rolling my hand in the air, I giggle. “I never got away with anything, that's for sure. There was always someone around to rat on me to my parents.”

  “That sucks.”