What a vacation this was shaping up to be…
WEREWOLF NEXT DOOR TITLE PAGE
Werewolf Next Door
by
Becca Fanning
WEREWOLF NEXT DOOR
“They just spilled chips all over the floor,” I said, walking into the kitchen.
“It’s no big deal, Tina,” my mother said. She was over at the stove, continuously stirring the pot of Swedish meatballs. The savory sweet smell was intoxicating, and I remember fondly getting swatted with a wooden spoon when I’d go in for a taste. Mom wasn’t as fast with the spoon these days, so I’d definitely risk it.
She looked fantastic. Her apron was spotless, her hair up in a bun. She enjoyed playing hostess, but this was a bit much. They’d moved into this new neighborhood just a few days ago. Yesterday my Dad walked in and said the neighbors had invited themselves over for a housewarming party. It had taken us all by surprised, so we had to whip together this party in the midst of unpacking.
I’d just enrolled at the university nearby, and classes would begin in a week. I’d hoped to spend that week adjusting to the new place, getting some nice long lazy days of napping in. But no, we had to go meet-n-greet with the two families adjacent to us.
One family was the Connors. Maggie and Jason Connor, parents of thirteen year old Conrad. He was a rude little shit, his first words on walking into the house was how it was smaller than his. His parents looked pretty embarrassed, but hell, they raised him.
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
“Must be Mr. Hoover,” my mother said.
Mr. Hoover owned the house on the other side. Dad said he was single, and Mom and I had gossiped on whether we thought he was gay or not. Not too many single men in their fifties owning homes in this suburb. Not unless they were “perpetual bachelors.”
I pulled the door open and my breath caught in my throat. Mr. Hoover was standing there on our stoop, and I was enjoying the view! He was solid, built like a younger man. He had a gray streak at the temples that cut through his raven black hair. His green eyes met mine.
“Hi,” I managed.
“You must be Tina,” he said, his teeth flashing in a perfect white smile.
“Y-yes,” I said, trying to get a hold of myself.
“Have I done something wrong?” he said.
“No, of course not,” I said.
“Then this is the part where you invite me in,” he said. I watched his eyes roll down my body. They took in my curvy body, spending a scandalous amount of time at my breasts and ass.
“Hey,” I said. “My eyes are up here.”
“So they are,” he said, his grin getting wider as he met my eyes again. “Give this to your mother,” he said as he handed me a covered glass dish. “And be a doll and bring me a beer,” he said as he walked past me into the living room. The football game was on, Mr. Connor and my Dad already hooting it up and spilling snacks.
Flustered, I shut the door and walked into the kitchen. I found my mother peaking into the living room.
“Mr. Hoover, oh my,” she said to the pot of meatballs. She straightened her apron absently.
“You’re incorrigible,” I said, leaning in close to her.
“I love your father, and I love looking at other men on occasion,” she said, smiling impishly.
“Eww,” I said. “Don’t even joke,”
“What’s that?” she said, gesturing at the glass dish in my hand.
“Let’s find out,” I said. I pulled the tinfoil back and below was a delicious looking couscous salad. I could smell the lemon and garlic, and my mouth was watering. “He probably bought it from the store.”
“That’s not generous, Tina,” my mother said.
“He’s a handsome jerk. No way is he a good enough cook to make this,” I said.
I heard a quiet cough behind me. I turned to see Mr. Hoover standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
“Is this where the beers are?” he said, pointing at the refrigerator. He was grinning that grin again.
I spun around to hide my blushing face.
“Hi, I’m Karen,” my mother said, smiling and offering her hand to Mr. Hoover.
“Delighted,” he said, kissing her hand. “My name is Richard.”
My mother giggled and nodded at the fridge. “Second shelf,” she said, turning back to the meatballs.
Beer in hand, he went back into the living room.
Arms crossed, I glared at my mother.
“What?” she said, feigning innocence.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. I could be passive aggressive with the best of them.
“Babe, them nachos done?” my Dad shouted from the living room.
“Coming right up,” she said, pulling a cookie sheet piled high with nachos out of the oven. The cheese had gone all gooey and wonderful. She popped open a can of jalapeños and sprinkled a few on top, along with some black olives. “Take this into the living room, dear. And try to remember that these are our new neighbors. Be nice,” she said.
“I am nice!” I said, picking up the tray and walking into the living room.
“Then be nicer,” my mom said behind me.
I walked down the hallway with the tray of nachos, passing by the bathroom right as Maggie Connor was exiting. We collided, and for a brief moment the whole tray of nachos was vertical and about to make the biggest mess in our brand new house. By some miracle, I caught it and didn’t spill a single chip.
“Great catch,” she said, casually walking into the kitchen as if nothing happened.
I shook my head and walked into the living room. The three men sitting around the massive television all cheered as someone scored.
My dad was so proud when this TV got delivered the other day. My mom had thrown a conniption fit, until my dad reminded her that she got to pick the house. She didn’t have much of a response to that, and had no choice but to watch the eighty inch monster get bolted to the wall.
Right now my dad was besides himself with happiness. He had a huge TV, new friends and cold beer. For the next few hours it would be solid high fives and beer farts. He was in his element.
I put the large tray of nachos down on the coffee table between them. Mr. Connor and my dad descended on the tray like a pack of starving hyenas.
“Relax,” Mr. Hoover said, quietly to me.
“What?” I said, still annoyed at him and even more on edge since almost dumping the nachos.
“Your heart rate is elevated, your cheeks are flush,” he said, taking a sip of his beer. He wasn’t even looking at me, that’s how cool he wanted to seem.
“What are you, a doctor?” I said, hitting the ball back into his court.
“I guess I do have a PhD in Propulsion Physics,” he said casually.
“Consider yourself lucky, Tina,” Mr Connor said. “Richard went a whole twenty minutes before mentioning that he’s a rocket scientist.”
Mr. Hoover gave an innocent shrug and sipped on his beer again.
I sighed and walked back into the kitchen.
My mom and Maggie were talking quietly, like little conspirators. They saw me and went silent.
“What are you two chatting about?” I said.
“Oh, nothing dear,” my mother said.
Maggie stifled a laugh and leered over my shoulder back into the living room. Her wine glass sloshed her merlot as she made little circular motions with her hand. “Youth is wasted on the young,” she mumbled.
“Where’s Conrad?” I said, wanting to change the subject.
Maggie shrugged. You’d think she would be more concerned about the whereabouts of her only child, but right now it seemed she had one thing on her wine-addled mind: Mr. Hoover.
“Your father set up a game system for him in the basement,” my mother said, pouring herself another glass of wine. “Would you go check on him?”
“Happily,” I said. I wasn’t really happy about it, but it was better than hanging around a pair of old horny hens. Befo
re leaving I scooped a spoonful of Mr. Hoover’s couscous dish.
It was magnificent. Damnit. It was so good it made me mad. I tried to convince myself that he bought it at a store, but the depth of flavors betrayed a serious culinary knowledge. Mr. Fucking Rocket Scientist, excuse me, Dr. Fucking Rocket Scientist also knows his way around the kitchen. Why did he have to be such an old asshole? Sometimes life isn’t fair.
I stepped down into the basement, floor to ceiling shelving on both sides as I descended. It was an older style, probably right after the Great Depression, when it was important to stockpile years of canned foods. The basement was going to get a major renovation, but that was far down on the to-do list. For now Dad had enough on his plate with my school and the new mortgage.
“Conrad?” I said, reaching the bottom of the stairs. The walls were a dim brown, wallpapered in a distinct 70’s design. Say one thing about our new house: it had a 70’s mindset. I walked into the main area of the basement, boxes stacked everywhere.
On top of a box was a small flat screen TV. It was making a familiar noise, the music from a video game I used to enjoy when I was younger. It was probably older than Conrad, now that I thought about it. I came around the stack of boxes and saw the system on the floor, the controller laying unattended on the ground.
“Conrad?” I said, sighing. The game brought me back to my own childhood for a second, but the nostalgia passed and I turned the TV off. No surprise he wasn’t down here playing it: it was ancient to him. He probably had better games on his phone.
But he had to be somewhere, and little boys were mischievous at the best of times. I ducked into an unfinished room in the basement. A cracked concrete floor was ice cold, and I pulled on the string attached to the bare lightbulb above. Hot white light filled the damp smelling room. No little neighbor boy in here.
I tried to be logical about it, putting myself into Conrad’s shoes. Where would a thirteen year old boy be? I let out a little scream and bolted for the stairs. The little shit! The wooden stairs creaked under me as I vaulted up them as fast as my legs could carry.
“Aha!” I said, gasping for breath in the doorway of my bedroom.
“Uhh!” Conrad said, slamming a drawer of my dresser shut. A blue lace frill of my panties stuck out of the drawer like the most cliche evidence. His was bright red, obviously caught in the act. He spun around, hiding himself from me. Hiding a particular part of his body from me.
I stalked into the room slowly. “What do you think you’re doing in here?” I said. I was enjoying this far too much. I was super pumped that I caught him in the act.
“I was just,” he said, stammering.
”You just what?” I said, getting closer to him.
“I was looking for the bathroom,” he said. His desperation was palpable.
“Does this look like a bathroom to you?” I said.
“No, but,” he said.
“But nothing! You snuck in here, you little pervert,” I said. I walked over to my dresser, ran my finger over the part of my panties that stuck out of it. “Were these what you wanted? These turn you on?”
“Eww, gross,” he said. His eyes followed my fingers, enchanted by what I was doing. He licked his lips.
I opened the drawer and took my panties out. “Do you like the lace on these? Do they look sexy?” I said. I knew I was torturing him, teasing him, and I reveled in the power.
He looked past me and ran out of my room, not saying another word.
I chuckled, proud that I’d taught him a lesson about intruding into someone else’s privacy. I spun around and Mr. Hoover was standing there. My jaw dropped, and I remembered what was in my hands. I threw my panties into my drawer and slammed it shut.
“He’s just a kid,” Mr. Hoover said. “You shouldn’t be so cruel. These are his formative years.”
“Well, he was in the process of being formed into a pervert. Do all men start off by sniffing their neighbor’s panties?” I said, leaning back against my drawer coolly.
Mr. Hoover eyed me up and down and walked over to my window. “Only the lucky ones. He’ll probably have a thing now for lace panties.” He looked out the window like a lord viewing his domain.
Now I felt a little bad about how I treated him. Yeah, he had no business in my room, but he was just a kid.
“Besides,” Mr. Hoover said, “you did that as much for yourself as for him.”
“What do you mean?” I fidgeted nervously. The power had gone to my head, but how did he know that?
“No need to be shy, Tina,” he said, still looking out the window. “I understand that. That primal power you only get when two people are communicating with their bodies. Plenty of people are tuned out of that. Too much time spent thinking, not enough time spent feeling.”
I swallowed, not knowing what to say. I found myself staring at him, my eyes spending all too much time on his legs, his ass, his wide back and his stacked shoulders. I imagined what that body could do to mine, if he wanted to. Could he pick me up? Could he pin me against a wall? My pussy ached longing to be touched. Damnit!
He turned his head slightly towards me. A small smile lighted his lips. “I’ll leave you alone,” he said. And just like that, he walked out.
I took a few minutes and just leaned back against my dresser, breathing slowly. I had a need, but it would have to wait until tonight. I had fresh batteries for my night time friend, and it would be getting a workout tonight. Of course just thinking about that got me more hot and bothered, so it was a few more minutes before I was composed and ready to go back downstairs.
Down in the living room, the men were all standing around, the game wrapped up. They were all in good spirits, so I guess our team won.
“Dinner’s ready,” my mom called from the kitchen.
I ran into the kitchen to help bring everything out. Her Swedish meatballs were in a large serving dish, and the smell was heavenly. I carried the large dish into the dining room and placed it in the center. Seeing no witnesses, I plucked a meatball from the dish and threw it into my mouth. It burst in luscious flavor, first sweet, then tanginess from the tomato, then savory from the lamb and beef.
Mom and Maggie brought the rest of the dishes into the dining room. We also had baked chicken, macaroni and cheese, Mr. Hoover’s couscous and a salad Maggie had made.
I came back with the last of it and felt a little twinge in my stomach. The only remaining seat was next to Mr. Hoover. I certainly didn’t want to sit next to that jerk, but I couldn’t deny that some part of myself did. I walked over to take my seat.
He met my eyes, his smile turning into a mischievous grin.
I gave him back my coldest glance. I was resigned not to give him the pleasure of getting a reaction out of me. I would not play into his hand. I took my seat without so much as looking at him.
As we passed the dishes around, I made it a point to take a bit of everything except his couscous. That dish was passed to me and I passed it right to him, meeting his eyes when I did it. I didn’t care how wonderful it was. It meant more to me to put him in his place.
Instead of taking the dish from me, he scooped out a spoonful onto my plate, then his own. “This is a recipe I picked up in Morocco,” he said. “The secret is the smoked cumin. Regular cumin will get you most of the way there, but in comparison it fades, like a jilted lover.” He took the dish and placed it on the table.
Bearly Protected (BBW Shifter Security Romance) (Big Paw Security Book 2) Page 55
