The Player Next Door: A Novel

by K. A. Tucker

  My chest tightens with a flare of panic. The last thing I want is to be at odds with Wendy, especially so early in the school year.

  I take a deep breath to calm myself. “Do you mean Shane Beckett, my next-door neighbor and childhood friend?” I ask in an equally composed tone.

  “Yes, that’s right.” She pauses. “Are you saying your relationship is strictly of a platonic nature?”

  This is where I could lie to Wendy. By the hopeful way she’s looking at me, I’m thinking she’d prefer it. Ignorance is bliss and all that.

  And yet I find that I can’t. What’s more, I don’t want to.

  I decide on simple honesty. “It is very early days, but Shane and I have gone out to dinner a few times, yes.”

  “I see.” Her brow puckers. “This isn’t a comfortable conversation for me, Scarlet.”

  Then let’s not have it.

  “I know this is your first year teaching and you might not be familiar with policies—”

  “There’s no policy against a teacher having a personal relationship with their student’s parent.”

  Her breath hitches. “So, you have checked.” She seems caught off guard.

  “My job is important to me. I didn’t want to break any rules.” That it was Shane who did the actual checking isn’t important here.

  “Right, well, while it’s not against the rules, it is definitely not recommended, given the strain it can put on the child’s happiness and classroom experience. What if the relationship doesn’t work out? What if it ends badly? And, even if it does work out, children can face ridicule from their classmates. I’m sure we both agree that Cody deserves a safe and happy year in your class. Wouldn’t you say so?”

  “Of course. I want nothing more than that for all my students.”

  “Okay.” She waits. For me to respond, I suppose. What does she want, though? For me to agree to cut ties with Shane? That’s not happening.

  “Look, Shane and I have a history. We hadn’t seen each other in a long time. Now that we live beside each other, old feelings have resurfaced and we decided after careful consideration to pursue them. We’re doing it slowly, to make sure nothing happens that would jeopardize Cody’s happiness.” I’m making myself sound mature and thoughtful, not like the jealous drunk who was screaming at Shane and nearly taking his best friend home that night at Route Sixty-Six.

  “I see. So, it’s not just a matter of casual dating.” A pensive expression takes over her face. “I assume you haven’t told Cody yet?”

  “No. It’s too soon. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  Wendy’s lips twist. “Does his mother know?”

  “She suspects but Shane will tell her when it makes sense. Like I said, this is all still new and, because of Cody and our living situation, we’re not rushing anything.”

  “Right. Well, Cody’s mother can be …” She searches for the right word. She settles on “problematic.”

  “Believe me, I know what Penelope Rhodes can be,” I mutter, my voice more acerbic than I intended.

  Understanding passes across Wendy’s face. Yes, Penelope was a mean girl. Yes, the affair between her father and my mother pitted us against each other. “When Lucy”—she winces, as if she wasn’t planning on revealing her source—“came to me, she did so because she was worried about you.”

  “Worried?” I laugh.

  My reaction earns Wendy’s confused frown. She doesn’t understand why I’d find Bott’s concern for me amusing. She doesn’t know the story of what Lucy Bott did all those years ago. I don’t want to drag out old memories, though, no matter if Bott deserves to be fired. In the end, karma dealt her the ugly hand she deserved.

  “There’s no need to worry about me,” I say instead.

  “I know Lucy is a bit odd, but regardless of what some students might think, she doesn’t wish ill on others. She doesn’t cast spells on them.” Wendy rolls her eyes as if the idea is preposterous. “She came to me because she saw the connection between you and Cody’s father, and she became concerned about the backlash you might face. It’s no secret around here, the drama that unfolded between Penelope and Shane. I had to referee a parent-teacher meeting when Cody began kindergarten because they were in the midst of an ugly custody battle. We all know why.” She gives me a knowing look.

  Because of Penelope. Because she was still in love with Shane and she’s a vindictive bitch.

  “I’m aware of their history. But she’s living with a guy now, so hopefully she’s finally retracted her claws.”

  “Out of Cody’s father, yes. But you’re now placing yourself as the other woman in her son’s life. People like Penelope Rhodes don’t handle that well. They can be difficult and loud and angry. Be ready for that, when you do make her aware of your relationship. The last thing I want to see is your reputation at the school suffer unfairly because of this. Or for Cody to struggle.” She hesitates. “I’m telling you this not only as the principal of this school but as someone who remembers a little girl many years ago, crying because of choices her mother made.”

  She’s talking about my mother’s scandal.

  I remember. I sat in this office—maybe in this very chair—in tears after Chrissy Moorhead callously teased me at recess about the infamous incident. Half the kids didn’t understand what exactly Dottie and Mayor Peter Rhodes were doing in the janitor’s room, but they knew it was indecent. Wendy must have expected the backlash because she found me crying behind a portable, the frigid winter temperatures an oddly soothing balm to my pain. She brought me in here to escape or to talk, I can’t be sure. Either way, it was a kindness when I needed it.

  “This is not the same thing.” I’m not Dottie Reed and Shane is not a married political official, and I’m certainly not giving anyone blow jobs anywhere, let alone in the school’s broom closet.

  “I know it’s not.” She pats the air with her hand. “But people have a way of connecting dots to suit their needs and make something out of nothing. I would hate to see another scandal follow you around. Just be careful. That’s what I wanted to say to you. Be careful and make sure he’s worth it.”

  He is. There isn’t a moment’s hesitation with that thought.

  The bell rings to signal the end of morning recess.

  “I’ll let you get back to class, then.” She sighs and, in its weighty sound, I sense her fatigue. She’s been the principal at this school since I started second grade. Is she tired of it all yet?

  Does she regret hiring me?

  I stand and push in my chair, feeling more like a student than a teacher. “For what it’s worth, I was going to tell you, when I thought there was something worth mentioning. When we figured out how far this might go.”

  “You don’t have to explain. I get it. I do.” She smiles. “And, between us, I think you’ve got a good one there.” She drops her voice to add more to herself, “He’s certainly a handsome one.”

  With a smile, I duck out of her office. A black swirl of fabric catches my attention. Bott is at the photocopier, churning out papers.

  Careful, Scarlet. That’s what she said to me that night at the Patty Shack. Could it have been out of genuine concern? Is Bott capable of that for the daughter of Dottie Reed, whom she seems to hold animosity toward, all these years later?

  She turns suddenly, as if sensing eyes on her. We lock gazes for a few beats, her expression revealing nothing, before she turns back to the photocopier output tray.

  She is so fucking strange.

  I rush back to my classroom.

  Twenty-Three

  A jack-o’-lantern stares at me from a bedecked porch as I trek home, the strap of my bag digging into my shoulder from the weight of papers to grade this weekend. That pumpkin will be a rotten mess by the time we reach Halloween, a month away. But some things clearly haven’t changed in Polson Falls, like the urge to haul out the ghost and goblin decorations the day the calendar page flips to October.

  It makes me smile.

  Th
e smell of fresh-cut grass fills my nostrils as I round the tall cedar hedge that divides Shane from the neighbor on his other side. Shane’s been out manicuring his yard this afternoon, his lawn groomed in tidy, straight rows.

  He didn’t stop at his, though. My front lawn has also been cut.

  I turn into his driveway, eager to see him again after his twenty-four-hour shift. He’s nowhere to be seen, but the lawnmower sits outside the open garage.

  Climbing his porch steps, I knock on the storm door, stealing a glimpse through the glass into Shane’s house. I can’t see much save for a few pairs of shoes lying haphazardly by the front closet and a long, narrow hall.

  “Come in!” Shane hollers from somewhere inside.

  The door creaks as I pull it open. “How do you know I’m not a stranger?” I call back, dropping my heavy satchel onto the modern-style charcoal-gray tile landing by the door. It’s my first time inside.

  “Because you always come home around this time. Plus, a stranger still wouldn’t just walk in.”

  I pause to survey the living room—a plain, white-walled room with plush leather furniture in camel tones, a sizable flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, and the enormous bay window that overlooks the front yard. While Shane’s house is an older bungalow, it appears the interior has been remodeled. The planks of dark walnut hardwood floor gleam, the moldings are wide, and pot lights line the ceiling throughout.

  I find Shane at a deep kitchen sink, scrubbing a pot.

  “They would if they’re a murderer,” I counter, quickly dismissing the enviable custom cabinetry and subway-tile backsplash to admire Shane’s sculpted arms and the way his track pants hug his ass.

  He casts a smirk over his shoulder. His hair is an untamed mop, with wavy tendrils around his ears and at the nape of his neck. It’s incredibly sexy. “Murderers going door to door in Polson Falls, looking for unsuspecting six-foot-two firefighters?”

  “Exactly.” I ease in behind him to press my chest against his back and slip my hands around his taut waist. “You cut my grass.”

  He turns his upper body to lean down and kiss me. It’s a slow, sensual greeting that momentarily steals my ability to breathe. “It needed cutting,” he whispers when he finally pulls away.

  My heart is racing. “That was sweet. Thank you.”

  He tosses the sponge into the sink and hastily dries his hands with the dishcloth lying nearby before turning to face me. He stretches his heavy arms over my shoulders and pulls me into him until we’re chest to chest. He smells of soap from his shower and clean sweat from working outside. The intoxicating mix only stirs my blood more. “How was school? Was my kid good today?”

  “He’s always good. And school was … interesting.” I relay the conversation with Wendy.

  He bites his bottom lip in thought. “So, she’s okay with it?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. But she seems more concerned about Penelope causing trouble than anything else.” I pause. “Is she right to be worried about that?”

  The muscle ticks in Shane’s jaw. “Penelope does not get a say in my life.”

  Her meddling is clearly a sore spot. She must have put him through hell with the custody battle.

  “You’re right. She doesn’t.” I stifle the urge to point out the more likely issue—her say in who’s in her son’s life—and smooth my palms over Shane’s chest. It feels tighter than usual, likely from a long workout in the station gym.

  He sighs, as if trying to expel the tension that mounted with mention of his ex-girlfriend. “I know you were worried about your job. Do you feel better now that your boss knows about us?”

  “Yeah. Lighter, anyway. I didn’t realize how much hiding this from Wendy was weighing on me.” But now it’s in the open and that lingering shadow that I’m doing something wrong has faded.

  “Good.” He threads his fingers through my hair.

  I imagine him gathering that hair in his fist and gently pulling it. That thought has the muscles between my thighs clenching. “I like your house,” I say, my voice huskier than a moment ago. “Did you buy it like this?”

  “No. It was a dive when I bought it. I’ve been fixing it up over the last three years.” His eyes graze over the cupboards on the wall beside us. “This room was the most work.”

  “You did all this on your own?”

  “A lot of it. Not all. There’re a lot of guys at the station who do renovations on the side, so I got a bit of help. They taught me a lot.”

  Thoughts of a sweaty, dirty Shane tearing apart the room makes my pulse quicken. “You really aren’t just a pretty face.”

  He grins, his dimples appearing in full form.

  “What do you want to do tonight?” Just being with him is enough for me, but Shane always was the type to keep busy with friends and plans, and that doesn’t seem to have changed.

  “I don’t know. A couple people were talking about Route Sixty-Six for the band. I was thinking we could head there a bit earlier and grab dinner on the patio. Should still be warm enough.”

  That would mean the risk of running into Dottie again, seeing her in action. I haven’t talked to her since the night I found out about her dalliance with Dean, and aside from a text a few days later in which she told me I can’t possibly be angry with her—because I must understand how she couldn’t say no to that opportunity—as expected, I haven’t heard from her.

  But going out to meet up with friends later, together, means our discretion will fly out the window. There’ll be no hiding this relationship anymore, regardless of what we tell people. I mean, Bott saw the chemistry between us from afar.

  Shane must know that.

  “Why? What do you want to do tonight?” he asks, his warm, strong fingers working in small circles over my shoulders and back.

  I imagine those same hands peeling off my clothes, and heat courses through my veins.

  I know what I don’t want to do.

  I peer at him from beneath my lashes. “I don’t want to take things slow anymore.” Not physically, anyway. I punctuate my meaning by pressing my body into his.

  In his eyes, lust flares.

  Against my stomach, his erection swells.

  He opens his mouth and I brace myself for him to give reasons why we shouldn’t—I might scream—but whatever words he was planning on saying fall away, unspoken. A decision flickers across his face.

  In one smooth move, Shane leans in to crash his lips into mine and seize the backs of my thighs. “Neither do I.” He hoists me into the air with no effort. I scramble to get closer to him, throwing my arms around his neck as he guides my legs around his waist. I squeeze tightly.

  “I’ve waited forever for this,” he whispers, his hands finding their way to my backside. We’re moving then, Shane’s strides purposeful, his lips still on mine as he carries me into his bedroom.

  Together, we dive onto his bed, tangling in a mess of limbs and fervent lips. We fumble with our clothes, in a rush to rid ourselves of them. My anticipation to finally feel Shane inside me is making my hands tremble with excitement.

  “I’m such an idiot for ending things between us,” he murmurs against my mouth, fitting his hips between my thighs, his bare skin searing against mine as he covers my body with his. “I’ve been thinking about this nonstop since I saw you sitting on your porch.”

  “You perv. But same.” I part my legs to welcome him in. “Except when I wanted to kill you.”

  He laughs, but it instantly morphs into a primal moan with a single roll of my hips. His tip prods at my entrance, as if begging to slide in. There won’t be any foreplay this time. These six weeks have been one long, torturous stretch of seduction.

  “You’re impatient.” He nips playfully at my earlobe. “Hold on.” He rolls off me and fumbles in his nightstand for a condom.

  My heart pounds in my chest as I admire his firm, tanned body, stalling at his erection—thick and long and rigid. What would it be like to pleasure him with my mouth? I wondered that many
times that summer, back when I had no experience and was afraid of cultivating rumors.

  Okay, maybe a bit of foreplay.

  “Wait.”

  Shane freezes as he’s bringing the packet to his teeth to tear it open. His eyebrows arch in question. And perhaps trepidation that I’ve changed my mind.

  My lips curl with a smile. I maneuver to hover over his hips, letting my breath skate over his hard, perfect flesh. There isn’t an inch of this man that isn’t, dare I say, pretty.

  “Oh, fuck,” he whispers when he realizes my intention, and his breathing grows ragged. “I thought maybe you were against giving them because of, well, you know.”

  “Shane?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  I swirl my tongue over the tip of his penis much like I did my Patty Shack ice cream cone, earning his sharp inhale. “When a woman is about to put your dick in her mouth, you shouldn’t start talking about her mother.”

  His abdominal muscles clench with his grating chuckle. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  I shift my focus, giving the underside of his length the flat of my tongue, beginning at the root and sliding all the way back to the end, where I’m treated to a bead of salty moisture. I slide my lips over his head.

  He makes a strangled sound that I feel between my thighs and then he reaches down to scoop my hair back, wordlessly coaxing me to continue. Wrapping my hand around the base of him, I fall into a steady tempo of sucking while I jack him off, relishing the taste and feel of him as he whispers soft “deeper, faster, more” instruction and moans sweet praises that convince me I could happily pleasure him like this for hours. Every so often I steal a glance upward, to find intense, molten eyes watching me, his expression one of raw desire.

  The slow pace I started at quickly escalates as his grip of my hair tightens and his breathing grows raspy and his hips rock, first subtly and then with a smooth rhythmic roll. The only warning I get is the pinch at my nape as his fists clenches to grip my hair tight and then, with a guttural moan, Shane releases into my mouth. I take him all in.

  His body is relaxed when I pull away. He’s sprawled across the bed, his chest heaving. “Holy shit, Scar. That was … ” He stretches his arms above his head to rest on his pillow, his mouth opening as if he’s about to speak but then closing as if he can’t decide what to say, several times over. He finally settles on, “Can you please do that again, soon?”