Hate Thy Neighbor

by S. M. Soto

  Olivia gasps when my hand encircles her wrist, and she climbs on, shakily, behind me. I reach for her hands and try to guide them around my waist, but that’s where she draws the line.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The accusation in her tone is clear, and I glance heavenward, silently asking for strength.

  “Unless you want to fall off and skid the flesh right off your pretty little face, I suggest you hold on.”

  She pauses, then lets out a defeated sigh, and finally wraps her arms around me. About as gentlemanly as I’ll ever get, I hand her back my helmet and wait for her to put it on, before I take off.

  The ride is silent and awkward. There’s no mistaking the strain in my jeans is one hundred percent from her hands on me. Her nails dig into my abdomen, as she tries to hold on. It’s a sensation I’m not used to, but one that I find I quite enjoy. I don’t normally ride with women. I find it all too romantic. I’m not a guy who’s here for hearts and flowers. When I do have time to fuck, it’s usually a no-strings kind of deal. Relationships are an absolute no-go for me, so that’s why the dichotomy of enjoying the feel of Olivia’s hands on me is so frustrating.

  I don’t do this. I don’t think about anyone but myself. It’s all I can afford.

  Halfway through the ride, I feel her body relax. The same way mine does after a long day. Sometimes, I just need a ride. A long ride to forget why life fucking sucks. I purposely take my bike down the scenic route. The streets here are a bit steeper than the ones downtown, and she must be able to feel the dip in her stomach, because she tightens around me and giggles.

  Her lilting laughter in my ear has my chest squeezing with a tight, uncomfortable sensation. It’s been so long since I’ve listened to a laugh as carefree as hers. The guys at work are different. I rarely ever share my time around a woman, unless it’s to fuck her, and even then, those encounters begin to feel transactional and just a way to let off steam. I haven’t shared any real connections with anyone in over six years.

  When we turn onto our street, I pull into my driveway, throw the bike into park, and cut the engine. I take my time helping her off the bike. I don’t know why I do it. She doesn’t need my help, and I sure as shit shouldn’t be giving it to her.

  “Hey, Roman, listen, what happened back at the bar, about starting a war—”

  I turn on her with a cold smirk. “Oh, no, sweetheart. This means war, baby, and there’s no backtracking now.”

  Her mouth drops open in shock, as I turn on my heels, leaving her. If I stay near her a second longer, I’ll end up doing something we both regret. I won’t be in charge of my actions.

  Once inside, I head straight for the shower and rub one out. I grip my dick with a resentment that chafes and burns, hating myself for getting off to the thought of her. The thought of touching her, tasting her, fucking her.

  When I pad out of the shower, my damp feet slapping along the wooden planks as I go, I pause in the threshold of my bedroom and glance up toward her house. I can make out her petite form in her bedroom. I doubt she’s looking over here. I doubt she’s even thinking of me at all, but that doesn’t stop me from what I do next. I purposely drop the towel, waiting to see if she’ll run. She doesn’t.

  Hell, I swear I even see her step closer, as if she’s subconsciously trying to get a better look.

  Interesting.

  Very interesting indeed.

  Despite my better judgment, I wake up the next morning and head to the local hardware store, asking if they have the correct supplies I’ll need in stock. After that, much like I do every Saturday, I dial the house of the one woman on this earth, who I can’t stand more than my own mother, and wait for her to pick up.

  The line rings and rings, and I grit my teeth when I get the same message I got last weekend when I called.

  “We’re sorry, this mailbox is full.”

  I redial and wait again, as the line rings incessantly, only this time, I’m not giving up until someone picks up. I cringe at the volume on the other end of the line, when someone finally answers. There are kids yelling in the background, someone is crying, and that’s either music blaring or the sound of the TV.

  “Hello?” the nasally voice asks, with unnecessary attitude. I know by that tone who it is, without having to ask or needing an introduction.

  “Ms. Wallace. It’s Roman. I wanted to check in on Ryder.” The words practically taste like acid on my tongue. I hate that I have to kiss ass to a woman who doesn’t deserve any of my manners.

  She makes a disproving grunt before answering me, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get ’im for ya.”

  I listen intently at the sounds that travel through the phone, as she walks through her wild home. No doubt.

  I loathe this part of the weekend. I hate having to call this piece of shit human being to check on my blood. Ryder is my little brother, and since our mother is an absolute good-for-nothing piece of shit, I lost him to the system. Believe that? Now, he’s stuck there in that shithole of a place, until I can get my own shit together. Scratch that, until I can prove to the state that my brother belongs with me.

  That’s why routine has always been so important for me. I’ve worked steadily at the garage for a while now, and I officially own my own home. I just have about a month of probation left, before I can fight to get my little brother back again.

  Even though we have different fathers, Ryder has always felt like more than just my half-brother. He feels like the other half of me, the better half. The one I want to give a better life to.

  We grew up in Oakland, where my mother was more interested in drugs than keeping us alive. Before my brother came along, I spent most of my youth taking beatings from her or any of the men she would bring home for the night.

  “What you looking at, boy?” the strange man barks. He’s splayed out on the couch, lying down on it like it’s his.

  It’s not.

  He’s the second man who’s been here this week. As evidenced by the black eye I’m sporting. I don’t know where my mother finds these men, but the minute they step over the threshold, their gaze zones in on me, and their jaw clenches. Sometimes, I feel like these strangers hate me more than my mother does.

  I curl my hand into a fist, not looking away from the disgusting man. I won’t let him know he scares me. Not like I have with the others. That was the problem; these men knew they could come in here and treat me like crap, because my momma didn’t care. She’d sit on the couch and laugh. She thought it was funny, watching a grown-ass man hit a child. She said I needed the discipline.

  He lets out a frustrated growl, shooting up from his position on the couch, and stalks toward me. “I asked you a question, you little shit!” His spittle lands on my face, but I remain stoic, trying not to show how frightened I really am. My heart is banging in my chest. I don’t want to feel the pain of his fist, but maybe if I stand up for myself, maybe if I—

  “Think you’re funny?” he grits, shoving me in my shoulder. Pain rips through the tender flesh, and I go sailing back into the couch. When I see his fist sailing toward my face, I realize I was wrong.

  Standing up for myself doesn’t help.

  I brush the memory away, gritting my teeth against the phantom pain reverberating from those hits. It was challenging, growing up the way we did. I tried to shield Ryder from a lot of it, but when you grow up having nothing, and your sole responsibility is to keep everyone alive, it’s hard to show someone what the right thing is. It was tough for me, just a twelve-year-old kid, to make money and take care of my baby brother and me, all while trying to keep a roof over our heads. With the twelve-year age gap between us, I felt like I was his sole parent most of the time.

  I tried to take care of him, as long as I could, but I failed at that, too, just like everything else in my life. In order to make money just to keep us afloat, I had to do things, things no kid my age should ever be forced to do—like stealing. Whether that was from stores, homes, or anywhere I could slip in and out without b
eing seen, I did it. Something a child should never have to deal with is trying to figure out how to ration and make food last to keep two mouths fed. I had to learn where to hide what little money I’d make or cash I’d stolen. Because the second my mother ever found anything of monetary value, she used it for drugs, and I knew we’d be left with nothing.

  When I was fourteen, I finally got caught stealing. It was an everyday thing, so I’m not really surprised it happened. Hell, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner, seeing as the people I stole from weren’t dumb. They had to have caught on at some point. I think they knew our circumstances, and for the most part, they tried to help, but they couldn’t do it forever. I wasn’t their responsibility, and that was just a sad fact. I was the responsibility of a woman who didn’t give a shit about me—about anything really.

  I would carry Ryder to Rosie’s house, a Latin woman who lived on the same shitty apartment floor as us. She’d watch my little brother for me every day, then from there, I’d walk to school. I ended up getting caught on charges of stealing, and to make matters worse, I was caught with a zip because I was selling weed on the side to help pay for food and the bills, just so we’d survive at home. Without my side hustle, we would’ve starved, and I wasn’t going to let that happen.

  I was taken to juvenile hall, and Ryder was taken into foster care at just two years old because my piss-pour excuse of a mother couldn’t even find it in herself to take care of him. Without me dropping him off every day, Rosie knew something was wrong. She knew just how hungry and tired we always were, but I think she hoped things would change for us. That our circumstances would be different, but they weren’t. We were nothing but another statistic.

  If it weren’t for her calling child protective services, who knows what would’ve happened.

  I lost track of him while I was in juvie. By the time I finally got out, my mother lost her piece of shit apartment, and I was left, at just eighteen, trying to pick up the pieces of my broken life. I had to cram to finish high school, while simultaneously trying to find my baby brother.

  It took three years to do all the above. I was in and out of trouble after that. When you spend most of your life stealing, it becomes second nature to you. When you spend a handful of your teen years amongst other young criminals, you pick up bad habits. I learned, long ago, in juvie that I needed to cut my emotions loose and focus on surviving—on getting out and getting to my little brother. I was on my last strike when I finally found him. One more fuckup from me, and it wasn’t just juvie or jail anymore; it would be prison. Someplace I knew would change me indefinitely.

  Ryder wasn’t as bad off as he was when I was sent to juvie, but he wasn’t doing great either. The family he was sent to was absolute shit. I have scars marring my flesh that’ll last a lifetime, and I didn’t want to subject my little brother to the same fate.

  I’ve spent the past few years, trying to get my shit together, since my last stint in jail. At twenty-six, you’d think I’d have a lot more accomplishments under my belt, but instead, I’m just a jailbird and a fucking mechanic. I’ve tried to win him back from the system and the state before, but I never could because one, I didn’t have a great job at the time; two, I didn’t have a proper home; and three, I didn’t have the proper care for him. In the eyes of the state, I was a criminal who was in and out of jail. I was a risk they weren’t willing to bet on.

  Now, I am finally trying to be seen as worthy enough to win him back and give him the life he deserves. One of the reasons I work so hard and stay so focused is because my little brother needs me. I don’t have time to worry about anything else. Our time was running out. At thirteen, almost fourteen, he’s spent most of his life in the system. I wouldn’t give up until he was home with me, where he belongs.

  My childhood is why I’m afraid to have kids. Because, in a sense, it feels like I already have my own kid. I was the one who cared for Ryder when he was a baby. Trying to juggle life and school, while making ends meet and taking care of a baby, I did it all. Everything has been going according to plan. That is, until Olivia moved in next door. She is a distraction I can’t afford. She reminds me of a life I could have, if I didn’t have my brother to worry about. If I hadn’t screwed up as a kid or been stuck with a shit mother.

  She makes me wish for things I’ll never have. That’s why I have to force her out of my life and my world. I have to snap at her and be rude, because that is my only deterrent; the only way I’ll protect us both from inevitable heartbreak.

  There are few things I know in this world, but one of them is I’ll break Olivia’s heart. There is no doubt about it in my mind. It isn’t that I want to, but I just won’t be able to stop it. I don’t know the first thing about relationships, and when you look at Olivia, she screams relationship and commitment.

  Two things I’m unfamiliar with.

  My little brother’s voice finally erupts over the line, and my lips turn up into a real genuine smile, as we catch up.

  “How’s school going?”

  “It’s all right, I guess. The kids can be jerks, but it’s not too bad. Could be worse.”

  My stomach muscles tighten. “Why?”

  “They know where I live and who I live with. Doesn’t exactly make me popular.”

  I grit my teeth. Blowing out a steadying breath, I try to reel in my ire. “I’m trying, bud. Just a few more months, then we’re doing this. You hear me? I promised you I’d have you back before your fourteenth birthday, and I’m keeping that promise.”

  He’s silent for a beat. “Okay, Rome. Are you coming to visit soon?”

  “I am. I have a few things I need to do today, so I’ll be by tomorrow.”

  “Is she going to let you come?”

  Fury simmers low in my gut. “She won’t have much say, when I’m at the door, now will she?”

  Ryder snickers, and I swear to God, it’s the best sound. “Yeah, you’re right. See you tomorrow, Rome. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Ry. Call me if you need anything.”

  He sighs. “You know I can’t call you. She doesn’t let me use the phone that often.”

  I grit my teeth. Fucking bitch.

  “I know.” I heave a deep sigh, rubbing at my forehead and the looming headache. “I’ll figure something out. Bye, bud.”

  “Bye.”

  Raking a frustrated hand through my hair, I add something else to my list of activities for today. On top of the hardware store, it looks like I’ll be going to add my little brother to my phone plan. I don’t care if he’s not allowed to have one. I’m tired of waiting and doing everything by the rules. This is the one thing my brother deserves. And fuck anyone who thinks otherwise.

  I drop all the supplies at my feet and ring the doorbell. I know she’s home. It’s not hard to tell. All I have to do is close my eyes, and I can practically hear her shitty music, bleeding through the walls. It also helps that her car is in the driveway.

  Olivia swings the door open, and as usual, she’s much too lively and chipper for a mood like mine. Like I said before, not compatible. She frowns when she sees me with all the supplies at my feet. A part of me wants to bark at her for being so dense. Obviously, if you see someone with a shitload of supplies at their feet, at your front door, wouldn’t you let them in, so they can get started? Guess not in Olivia’s world. I refrain from calling her out, not wanting to take out my impatience on her. I’m trying to do something nice. There’s no need to put a damper on it, if I don’t have to.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Your piping.”

  Her eyes grow round, the hazel softening. “What? Roman, you don’t have to do this.”

  I nod, pick up my shit, and turn to leave. “Fine, I won’t.”

  “Wait!” she yells, stopping me in my tracks. “Do you really have to be such an asshole? You weren’t supposed to turn and walk away!”

  I shake my head at her, fighting the itch to grin. She makes it hard to hold on to my exasperation. I have
to work overtime, just to pretend I don’t care. It’s a façade I created to make her hate me. To make me seem unapproachable to her. Though, for the most part, that plan has backfired. You’d think I’m more than approachable, what with the way she acts around me. Like she doesn’t give single shit if I’m an asshole.

  I follow Olivia through her house, taking in all the recent changes she’s made. She’s finally primed most of the walls. It’s not the best job, but it’s also not the worst I’ve ever seen either. I recognize the boxes from last time still stacked in the center of the room. I’d imagine, once she’s finished painting, she’ll declutter and start unpacking more thoroughly.

  I pause in her bedroom, taking it all in. I try not to stare too long or focus too intently on anything. I brush past her into the bathroom that’s damn near identical to mine and get to work. Olivia goes back to her task at hand, whatever that may be, and I start working my way through her bathroom. I won’t be able to finish the job in one day, and I tell her so, yelling over her god-awful music, so she can hear me. About halfway through working, she comes in with an ice-cold glass of water, and for that, I’m thankful.

  Her piping is shit. At least the guy wasn’t lying about that. It’ll take some time and patience, but I should be able to have this fixed for her, so she can avoid a hefty fee.

  “So, where did you learn to do this?”

  I roll my eyes, using the wrench to tighten a bolt around the pipe. “Don’t remember.”

  “Where do you work? I just realized I never asked you.”

  I blow out a sigh. “I fix cars.”

  “How did you—”

  “You plan on asking me questions all day, or are you gonna let me get to work?”

  She raises her hands in defense and slowly slips out of the bathroom, leaving me to work in peace. Of course, that doesn’t last long. She’s back, not long after, asking more questions. And talking some more.

  I’m so caught up in trying to listen to her but also ignore her, at the same time, that I accidentally tighten the bolt too hard. It snaps off, and water starts spraying everywhere. Olivia screams as the blast of ice-cold water drenches us both. We both reach forward, trying to stop the spray and keep it from causing too much damage to the floor and the rest of the bathroom.