by Roya Carmen
The Man Next Door
Roya Carmen
Contents
Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
A note from the author:
About the Author
Also by Roya Carmen
The Ground Rules - Excerpt - Chapter One
Acknowledgements
The Man Next door
Roya Carmen
The Man Next door © Roya Carmen, 2020
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. Copyright property of the author. No part of this content may be reproduced or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without prior written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and locations are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is purely coincidental.
Cover design and formatting: Calico Images
Editing: CKMS Media Group
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“The future for me is already a thing of the past. You were my first love and you will be my last”
― Bob Dylan
Blurb
The Man Next Door
The past is always with you.
I was just a girl, a young neglected girl with issues. I was a mess. A mess he wanted nothing to do with. He knew better. But I certainly didn’t. All I knew was that I liked what I saw.
I grew up in small town Michigan, raised by a single alcoholic father and two older brothers who never gave me the time of day. All I had were my best friends, Izzie and Gavin, a reclusive broken man, ten years my senior. My father forbade me to see him, but I didn’t listen. I was crazy about him and he adored me. Even when our small community was rocked by a heinous crime and Gavin was the main suspect, I still loved him.
When tragedy struck, I finally escaped. As far away as I could.
I’ve been in Chicago ever since, trying to forget. Yet, I find myself still thinking about my past, about Gavin and Izzie, about my other life. I’m not truly living anymore, just going through the motions. Until…
Noah Parker. My new neighbor. Beautiful, sweet and intoxicating. There’s something about him I just can’t put my finger on. He’s the first man since Gavin I truly let myself fall for. I think he might be the one. Until…
… the day I discover his secret.
Author’s note: THE MAN NEXT DOOR is the second novel in the Orchard Heights series, but can be read as a standalone. If planning to read the whole series, it is best to do so in chronological order to avoid spoilers. This novel contains some sexual content and coarse language. Audiences of 18+ only.
1
The sun is shining so bright, it’s blinding. We’re lost in the woods. Not lost in the literal sense, but lost in childish abandon. I’m ten years old again. I’m wearing dirty sneakers and frayed jean shorts. I marvel at the rainbow streamers at the end of my handlebars, flailing in the summer wind.
I’m deliriously happy. Jenna and Mackenzie are ahead of me, and they’ve let me ride with them. I wonder where we’re heading. I’m sure it’s somewhere exciting. Jenna says there’s an old abandoned treehouse not far.
I close my eyes for a second and tilt my head up to the sky, soaking up the warm sun. I wobble on my bike and my heart runs away from me, but I quickly regain control. Jenna’s long dark hair blows in the wind, and Mackenzie’s curly red locks bounce as she skates over recesses in the rough trail. We’re having a blast.
In a fraction of a second, the sky turns dark. Jenna stops dead in her tracks. Her back tire spits gravel at my face, and I can’t seem to get the flat chalky taste out of my mouth. My heart is pounding.
Her skinny freckled arm extends to the trees. “Look.”
I turn to the dark eerie forest and spot a rainbow baseball cap. We get off our bikes and my limbs are so heavy, I can barely walk. I don’t want to go further. I know what I’ll see… my best friend.
Izzie is as beautiful as she’s always been. Her golden blonde hair splayed around her porcelain face. A cupid’s bow mouth, and wide blue eyes stare up at the sky. Her jean shorts and her favorite Adidas t-shirt are covered in blood. I reach for her neck. I want to touch the red choker necklace she wears, a choker of red and blue bruises. When I reach her, she disappears. Her face decays and collapses until there’s nothing left but a skull in my hands.
I wake with a start.
My pulse races and I struggle to catch my breath. I clutch my duvet and stare at the coffered ceiling of my bedroom. I just need a minute. I turn my gaze to my bookshelf. My favorite stories and knick knacks soothe me; the wooden elephant I got in Kenya and the decorative plate I picked up in Mexico are my favorites.
I glance over at the clock on my bedside table. 6:45 AM. It’s still early.
I blow out a breath. It’s been months since I’ve had the dream. Or nightmare, rather. It’s always exactly the same. It never changes, yet every time, it terrifies me. The blood, the vacant look in Izzie’s eyes, her beautiful face turning to skull in my hand. It always leaves me so shaken.
I know there was no blood, and that when her lifeless body was found, she had not turned into a skeleton, yet this is the scenario my subconscious sees in the middle of the night, every now and then, usually in times of stress.
Eighteen years later, Izzie is still with me every single day.
I decide to stay in bed until my alarm clock goes off at seven. I’ve had a terrible sleep, thanks to the racket next door. Mrs. Flores has gone on a six-months-around-the-world trip. It’s been her lifelong dream, and I won’t deny that I won’t miss her. She knocks at my door at all hours of the day to borrow stuff. And when she’s not doing that, she’s blasting her television. I know she’s older and probably has hearing problems but it’s still annoying as hell. She told me she was leasing her loft, and that I should expect new neighbors this week.
The new tenants have obviously moved in and unfortunately, they’re not any quieter than she was. Apparently they like to move their crap at eleven o-clock at night.
God, and that nightmare did not help. I must be stressed. Of course I am. In approximately two hours, I will be sitting across from Melanie Adams, vying for a position at Warden Social Services. And jobs don’t come easy these days. I should know. I’ve been looking for a decent one for the
past six months.
The familiar ear-assaulting beep of my alarm clock jolts me into action. I bounce off my bed, eager to find the perfect outfit for my interview. I walk over to my closet and flip through my office wear, stuff I haven’t worn in half a year. The red silk blouse brings back bad memories, Michael’s spindly hands rubbing my shoulders. I flick it on the floor. I’ll need to add it to my donation pile.
I settle on a flowery blouse with a scarf tie at the neck, elegant, upbeat and professional. I pick out a grey pencil skirt, praying it still fits. Being unemployed has left me with too much time on my hands, too much time to bake and watch Netflix and binge on junk food. Those Doritos and cupcakes have caught up with me.
I’m thrilled when I manage to zip up the skirt, albeit with a little effort. Thankfully, the Spanx I’ve worn has helped the situation. Now for the hair…
A simple up-do with a clip and basic makeup will do the trick. Jeez, when was the last time I put on makeup? My friends always look amazing; Gretchen and Mischa in their flawless little skirts and blouses, and Claudia with her long flowing dresses and shampoo commercial hair. I usually look homeless compared to the lot of them.
But today… not bad, I think with a final assessment of my reflection in the mirror. I dab on some pink lipstick, and am startled by a loud knock on my door.
Startled and annoyed.
I glance at the Bulova watch Daniel gave me on our fifth anniversary. I don’t have time for this. It’s probably one of the girls. Occasionally one of them will do a pop-in.
And I’m not just about to open the door without knowing who is on the other side. I quickly peek through the peep-hole. Nope… not one of the girls. A man. A young man.
He probably wants something from me. Or he wants to assault or rob me. I’m cynical I know, but it’s no wonder, growing up like I did, seeing the things I’ve seen.
I study him for a long beat and he knocks again, a little too loudly. He seems harmless enough. And I have Daniel’s old baseball bat by the front door. He wanted it back initially but he let me keep it when I pointed out that I needed it, being a woman, alone in the city. Yes, alone because he chose to leave me for his young secretary. So cliché, I know. And I know.… it’s not secretary, it’s administrative assistant.
I unlock and open the door very cautiously. At first, we’re both speechless. I’m caught by his eyes, as blue as the sky. He offers me a tentative smile, and it draws me in immediately. There’s just something genuine about it, something good.
I’ve always trusted my instincts, and for the most part, they’ve never led me astray.
He extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Noah Parker,” he says. “I’m your new neighbor.”
I smile and shake his hand. I don’t invite him in. Of course, I don’t. He’s a complete stranger. Although, I know where he lives, which is a plus.
“I just wanted to come over and introduce myself,” he says. He’s tall and has an amazing dirty blond mop of hair. He reminds me of Daniel, but younger and cuter.
“Uh… that’s nice,” I mutter, still caught off guard. “I’m Abigail.” My eyes scan the length of his torso. “But you can call me Abby.” He’s wearing a black vintage Led Zeppelin t-shirt, and—
Shit, his fly is undone.
My gaze snaps back to his face, so fast I almost get whiplash. “Uh… it’s nice to meet you,” I manage to say. Should I tell him about his fly? Really, I should.
“This is a great building,” he goes on, “and I’m looking forward to meeting everyone.”
“Yeah, Orchard Heights is great. Everyone is really friendly,” I tell him. “Well, except for the guy in the penthouse upstairs. He’s kind of a snob.” Should I tell him about the fly? Or should I just pretend I didn’t notice? What if he did it on purpose? What if he’s some weird creep with exhibitionist tendencies?
He cocks a brow and eyes me dubiously. “Well, anyway… I should get going. I’ve got lots of unpacking to do. It was nice to meet you.”
I nod and wince a little when I finally summon up the courage to tell him, “Your… um… your fly is open.”
I stare down at the floor, not able to face him. This is so horrible.
“Uh… fuck.” He fumbles and quickly does himself up. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know. Uh… and sorry about the cursing.”
This could not be more awkward. I want to crawl behind the fake potted plant in the hall corner. “No worries, it’s okay,” I say, finally managing to look up at him again. “It’s fucking okay, buddy.”
He grins widely, and I get caught up in his smile again. There’s something about it, something so damn sweet. How old is this man? Twenty-five maybe? Too young.
“Well, I was hoping for a slightly less embarrassing first meeting, but I’m glad I met you, Abigail.”
My heart skips a beat at the sound of my name on his lips. “Me too… it was nice to meet you, Noah.”
With a final smile and a nod, he turns back to his apartment, and what do I do? I stare at his ass. Of course I do. And those dark jeans are doing him all kinds of favors.
As I hop in my Rav4, I’m still thinking about my weird encounter with Noah. He definitely left an impression. My pumps are already hurting my feet, perhaps because I rarely wear heels these days. I’m most often seen in sweats and sneakers. And slippers. Always slippers at home. Truth be told, I’ve been getting a little too comfortable with unemployment. It’s been fun being able to have coffee and lunch with my friends at my leisure. Gretchen is a homemaker at the moment, and Claudia works nights and weekends mostly. Mischa works from home and makes her own hours. If I get a day job, they’ll never see me.
Traffic is a pain just as it used to be. Why did I agree on a nine o’clock interview? Thankfully, the drive to the Warden Social Services offices is not too far. Yes, it’s been nice being unemployed, but it’s also been miserable. I’ve been bored and unfortunately, I just don’t have enough imagination to entertain myself. And I miss helping people. It always gave me purpose.
My nerves get a strong hold of me when I finally reach my destination and find a parking spot. I smooth down my skirt and check my face in the rearview mirror. “Here goes nothing.”
2
“Melanie will see you now,” the receptionist says with a smile. I already like the vibe around here, very casual, no pretenses.
I get to my feet and follow her down the hall. “Thank you.”
When I finally get to Melanie Adam’s office, she stands and greets me. She is a small woman with dark hair and a wide friendly smile. She shakes my hand enthusiastically. “So nice to meet you, Abigail. I’m Melanie, the Family Services Coordinator. Please take a seat,” she urges, motioning to the two chairs across her desk.
I study her office. She’s a family woman. The bookcase behind her is full of pictures of kids and a photo of a cute orange cat. Her kids appear older, tweens perhaps. She must be in her forties, yet she looks younger. I already like her.
She settles in her chair and stares down at a red folder. She flips it open and digs out what looks like my resumé. “So I’ve been perusing your resumé and I really like what I see.”
I smile. God, I remember now how I hate interviews. Never are you more judged as when you’re in an interview. Well, perhaps a first date is similar. I despise dating as much as I hate job interviews. My friends have been bugging me to get back out there. I’ve been single two years now, since the divorce was finalized.
“I see that you’ve worked in addiction support, with youths and families. How long have you been doing social work?”
“Well…” I quickly do the math in my head. “I graduated with my MSW in 2009 and started work right away, so about eleven years or so.”
“I see you have your BASW. What were your plans when you first undertook your studies?”
“Well, I was planning to become a psychologist. I just wanted to help people, people battling addiction and foster kids, youth at risk…” I don’t tell her how I’ve seen firsthand
how fucked up life can be for some people. I don’t tell her my mother died in a drunken fall and my dad was an alcoholic. I don’t tell her about the troubled kids I knew when I was young: drugs, sexual assault, even murder. I really don’t want to scare her off. “Then I realized I could help just as much being a social worker.”
She smiles. She likes that answer.
“Well, you have everything we’re looking for, Abigail. BASW, MSW, CSWE accreditation… LMSW, and over ten years experience.”
I nod. Yes, I’m kind of awesome. Now offer me the job.
She flips to the second page of my resumé. I hope she doesn’t ask me to speak Spanish. I indicated a knowledge of Spanish, but really, my Spanish is pretty rudimentary.
“Your first position was Youth Counsellor at the Juniper Juvenile Center. How was that?”
Before I can help myself, I blow out a breath at the recollection. “Tough,” I say honestly. “I was young… so I thought they could relate to me, but they still saw me as an authority figure, still rebelled against me, but eventually we all clicked. I grew up with kids like that… I mean kids at risk.”
Why did I just say that? Please don’t ask me about my past.