The Other Guy: A Textdoor Neighbor Romance
Jennifer Van Wyk
The Other Guy: A Textdoor Neighbor Romance
Copyright © 2020 Jennifer Van Wyk
ISBN-10: 9798627298580
Cover Designer: Kate @ Y’all. That Graphic.
Cover Photography: Stock photography
Editing and proofreading services by: Julie Deaton and Kaitie Reister
Copyright © Jennifer Van Wyk 2020
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and event are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Please be respectful of the author’s work.
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Contents
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CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Epilogue
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books By Jennifer Van Wyk
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A Better Place Prologue
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CHAPTER ONE
JACK
Unknown: Last night was amazing.
Me: It was.
Unknown: You warned me of your size but I really had no idea.
Me: **sends smirk emoji
Unknown: When can we do it again?
Me: Anytime, babe. Anytime.
I tip the bottle of beer to my lips and take a long swig, relaxing against the back of my plush chocolate brown suede couch. Head leaned back, eyes trained on the game that’s playing on the TV hanging above my stone fireplace. Legs spread wide, hand resting on the inside of my leg right next to the area that Unknown just mentioned, even if it isn’t me she’s talking about. And just in case anyone was wondering, I have no doubt that whatever size she’s discussing, I’m bigger. Well, unless we’re talking one of those freakishly long and misshapen dicks that only belong in pornos.
The fact that I’m replying to some random chick simply because I’m bored is pathetic. It’s not the first and probably not the last time it’ll happen, though. Ever since people started texting neighbors became a stupid fucking thing, I’ve been dealing with this shit on a nightly basis. And apparently the dude who is my phone number neighbor is a freak in bed and gets it on with a different chick every. Fucking. Night. And then gives these chicks my number. It was right after the Text Your Number Neighbor thing was all over social media so it didn’t take me long to figure out that’s what was happening.
At first, I wasn’t really bothered because it was kind of entertaining. Now, though, I’m getting annoyed. Some of the texts wreak of desperation. A few call him out on being an asshole while others must have ended their night a bit more… positively… and have nothing but praise and accolades.
What a jerk he must be. I’ve considered telling whoever this guy is to stop using my number, but I figure he’ll just find another number to use and who knows if that person will be even remotely kind in letting them know that whoever they had sex with the night before just completely ghosted them. Plus, I don’t know exactly which number is his. I tried both “neighbors” to me, up one and down one, but both people claimed not to have a clue what I was talking about. So either one of them is lying, or I’ll have to just keep randomly texting until I find him. And that isn’t going to happen.
My phone chimes again and I groan.
Unknown: Care for round 2 tomorrow?
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This is the worst part. When I have to keep brushing them off until they get the point.
Me: Unfortunately I have plans for tomorrow. Rain check?
Unknown: Oh, bummer. I was hoping to show you something.
Unknown: **Download attachment
As soon as I click on the picture my phone fumbles from my grip. Who the ever-loving fuck is this guy? Freaking Spartacus or something? This definitely isn’t the first nude I’ve — he’s — been sent. But holy shit. Every single one is a ten. No. A twelve. The women are Sports Illustrated Swimsuit cover material. They’re the secrets Victoria’s always bragging about. Sure, some of them know exactly how to lay so their breasts are pressed together showing as much cleavage as possible, stretching their upper bodies so I don’t see the inevitable rolls in their stomach. Spoiler alert: everyone has them. I know. I’m the owner of a boxing gym and see incredible bodies every day. I also have plenty of packs in my abs and my body is fit.
Back to these women. Better question is, where is he finding them? If he has a number similar to mine, I would think that means he lives in the same area and nothing against the women here but they’re not… this beautiful. Fuck, that makes me sound like an asshole but it’s really not the way I mean it.
Regardless, this woman is gorgeous. But now I’ve spoken to or seen… I count it out in my head: fifteen. That’s right. Let this settle a little bit. Fifteen women he’s slept with and have texted me. This doesn’t count the women who chose not to contact him. Which, I hate to break it to the guy, but I’m sure it’s happened. Probably. Maybe.
And how many days? Oh. Twenty-two. The guy’s obviously a master at picking up women and has great fucking stamina. I should probably contact him and see if he belongs to a gym. He’d probably be great in the boxing ring.
After I recover and adjust my already hardening dick, I grab my phone, take another look because I’m not dead, and reply.
Me: You have my attention.
I should probably stop it now but I can’t help myself. I haven’t been with a woman in a while. Mainly because I’m too focused on building my business to care enough about building a relationship. That, and I grew up in a small town not far from here and everyone within thirty square miles knows my life story already and I already know theirs. There’s no mystery. No one new to discover their pasts. It’s impossible to walk into a store or restaurant without knowing and being greeted by several people. And I love it.
Unknown: Enough to have you change your plans for tomorrow?
I hate being the asshole but…
Me: Sorry. No can do.
Unknown: Another time then.
I don’t respond. Within the week, I’ll have channeled a nicer version of Toolbag and broken up wit
h her, just as I’ve done with the last fourteen because something about his magic dick has them begging for more. And in the meantime, I’ll probably have received at least three or four more texts from his latest conquests. Asshole. I might be a little jealous. Not for the treating women like shit or sleeping with a new one every single night. But that he’s putting himself out there, something I haven’t made an effort to do in so long.
Tossing my phone aside, I lift the bottle to my lips and drain the last of my piss warm beer and wince.
The game isn’t holding my attention so I turn it off, make my way to the kitchen, and dump my bottle in the recycling bin. Leaning over the counter, I look out the window that sits above my kitchen sink that looks out at my snow-covered backyard. The stillness of the night is peaceful but still makes me pause and think about what else could be out there for me. I’m content with my life the way it is, but there’s something niggling in the back of my mind that tells me I’m settling.
I spin away from the window and grunt at the thought. I’m happy and plenty satisfied, though possibly a bit lonely even though I have a large family that lives close and gets together often. I turn off all the lights, plug in my phone to charge it in the living room rather than on my nightstand, something I had to start doing after Toolbag began using my phone number and I was being woken up from receiving texts all hours of the night, and get ready for bed. Toolbag’s life is clearly far more interesting than mine.
Stripping down to nothing, I climb between the stark white sheets and stare at the ceiling. I don’t worry about an alarm. I’m up by five a.m. every single day regardless, my internal clock working overtime. From the living room I hear my phone chime with a text and I roll over, bringing a pillow along with me to cover my head.
“Fuck me.”
I snort, thinking those are probably the same words Toolbag’s girl of the moment said to him earlier tonight.
Lucky bastard.
CHAPTER TWO
JACK
Unknown: Tonight was great.
Me: It was.
I finally respond to the girl who texted Toolbag last night while I was trying to fall asleep and roll my eyes at how predictable my evenings have become.
The longer I let this go on, the more disgusting I feel about it. Sure, my intentions are good. I don’t want these women to feel like shit just because they slept with a guy who doesn’t care about them. But to not immediately let them know that they have the wrong number is a total dick move.
Yet, I can’t stop myself.
Call it boredom or being a douche or just a guy, whatever it is, I try not think too much into it. Because when I do, I realize that it really is a dick move to not immediately tell them.
Unknown: About time you replied.
I almost rub my hands together in excitement. The first woman to call me out has me sitting up a little straighter and looking forward to spending my Friday night hopefully chatting it up with Unknown 16.
Me: I know. I’m such a dick.
I grin at my phone because if I were talking about Toolbag, I’d say I am a dick. The three little bubbles pop up letting me know she’s about to reply and I set down my phone, go to the kitchen and fill up my glass with water and ice, and open the fridge to see what I have to make for dinner. Grilled chicken boneless skinless breast. My usual. I don’t know why I expected to find a big ribeye there marinating and ready to be grilled with some golden potatoes. Or maybe some leftover spaghetti or a creamy chowder of some kind.
Groaning in annoyance, I grab the container, start heating it up along with some frozen broccoli that I’ll dress with a little bit of lemon juice, lemon pepper, and a tiny bit of salt. Even my meals are boring. I once wanted to be a chef like my dad, James. Even went to culinary school. Then the gym that I once boxed in with my mom came up for sale and something told me I needed to buy it, leaving behind my dream of becoming a chef. After all, boxing is what gave my mom her confidence back after my sperm donor, Vince, became a complete dick and put his hands on her in a way that wasn’t remotely okay for a husband to do. Mom and I left him, came to Liberty, Michigan, and never looked back.
Mom met James a few years later and even though I was almost eighteen, he still adopted me. I wanted nothing to associate me with Vince and when James asked Mom and I if he could adopt me, neither of us hesitated.
I don’t have any regrets for changing up my career path, but I do miss cooking for the joy of it. That’s how I am, though. I never do anything halfway. When I became a gym owner, I shifted my focus and admittedly became obsessed with training and setting an example for my members. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that eating healthy doesn’t have to be boring. The meal itself isn’t boring, it’s the repetition of it that is.
Tomorrow I’m going to the grocery store and spicing things up because this is getting ridiculous.
I gather my plate and bring it into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table my dad built out of pallets, and snatch my phone back up.
Scrolling through some of the other texts, I ignore the pictures because I’m not in the mood to torture myself.
The first one is still one of my favorites.
Unknown 1: I think you broke my vagina last night.
I stared at my phone for at least thirty minutes wondering if I read the text right. I finally replied, letting her know she’d sent the text to the wrong person and she replied with how mortified she was. I laughed it off, telling her it wasn’t a problem, and didn’t think much of it. Until…
Unknown 2: Had a great time. I didn’t know I could orgasm on the bottom.
After this one I just left it unread, not knowing even how to respond. But when the next came through, I absolutely knew something was up. I couldn’t help but laugh, and thought maybe a friend was just messing with me.
Unknown 3: I’m curious about something. Are you always such a generous lover?
Unknown 4: I have a funny feeling this isn’t your real number. If I’m wrong and it is your number, I had a great time. If it isn’t, well, I’m glad I was drunk off my ass so I don’t remember much about you.
This was the text I received when it finally clicked with me that some guy was giving my number to people. I had asked my friends and family if they had a hand in it, and none of them admitted to it.
Unknown 10: Thanks for giving me your number. Last night was really amazing. We had a real connection, you know? I’m sure you felt it, too. I can’t wait to see you again.
That was a tough one. I didn’t pretend to be Toolbag for a second. Just let her know that she had the wrong number and never heard from her again. I hated that she was hurt and couldn’t let it continue. Not that I let others continue for long, but I knew in my gut that she deserved to know immediately.
My phone reminds me that I was actively texting someone and I’m pulled back into my current conversation.
Unknown: Well, I wasn’t going to say but… yeah. You kind of are.
Her response makes me grin.
Me: Sincerest apologies.
I start eating and curl my lip at my meal. I may have planned on changing things up, but I didn’t take the time to do it. My parents would smack me on the back of my head for not using the cooking skills they so diligently taught me. Hell, one of the reasons my dad and I connected so well was our love of cooking.
My mouth waters thinking about the shrimp and grits Dad used to make every Sunday. Cheesy, creamy grits covered in spicy sautéed shrimp and sauce. Damn. I haven’t had his home cooking in so long. There’s nothing he can’t master in the kitchen. Whether it’s something as simple as meatloaf or something complicated like Beef Wellington, his food is always delicious. Maybe I need to go see them. It’s not that they even live far away. I flip to the notes app in my phone and go to my grocery list, adding the ingredients and promising myself that I’ll make shrimp and grits soon. I work out almost every day. I can eat comfort food once in a while. Then I add several more ingredients so I can stop th
is cycle of tasteless food.
Unknown: Do I detect a hint of smartass in that text tone?
Me: Me? Nooooo. Never.
Unknown: You know, you weren’t a smartass last night.
Me: No? How would you describe me, then?
Before I can stop myself, I plug her phone number into my contacts and label her 16. I have a feeling that even though we’ll never meet and she’ll likely never see Toolbag again, she could be entertaining to text with once in a while. Plus, she hasn’t sent me a nude so I don’t feel so gross chatting with her.
16: Honestly?
Me: No. Lie to me. That’s my favorite.
16: Kind of a toolbag.
I choke on my chicken. A hunk flying out of my mouth as I cough and pound on my chest. Then start laughing at the fact that I choked the chicken and shake my head at my immaturity. I’m thirty-three years old, for fuck’s sakes.
Me: Well, don’t sugar coat it or anything.
16: You were the one who said not to lie!
Me: I did say that.
Me: So tell me how I came out like a toolbag?
16: You really wanna know? Really?
Me: Of course. You first said that last night was great then you follow it up with calling me a toolbag?
16: Well, toolbag or not, the four orgasms you gave me were fantastic. I’ll deal with your less than stellar personality to get the good orgasms.
The Other Guy: A Textdoor Neighbor Romance Page 1