I smiled at her flare-up. She would kill me, but I found it sexy.
She looked out the window again. “Now go help that poor boy move.”
John was balancing a box that appeared to be very heavy on top of his muscular thigh, and reaching for something in the van with his hand. His face was strained by the effort of it. He didn't notice me at all.
I stood awkwardly and waited for him to pick up the box with two hands.
“Hey, John,” I said. “Uh...you need any help out here?”
He shoved the box onto the floor of the van. “Man,” he said, but it seemed to be unrelated to whatever I was saying. He panted for a second. “I've been wondering when your wife was gonna come out here with some lemonade or something.”
An image of Anna in a fifties-housewife dress, carrying a tray of lemonade across the small yard, right after sweating herself into a frenzy watching John through the window, took up all of the space in my mind. I didn't answer.
John grinned. “Just kidding,” he offered, taking my silence for discomfort. He looked over his van, which was half-empty. “You think you can help me with this couch?”
I surveyed the contents of the van. There was a small leather loveseat in the van, along with a flatscreen TV. It was bachelor furniture. Nice, tasteful, but not meant to really be used by anyone much of the time.
“Sure,” I said. “You don't have a bed?”
John rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb. “I never sleep,” he said.
He looked at me with the same friendly smile that he had used so many times already, and I realized it was a joke.
“It's being delivered,” he said. “IKEA.”
“Okay,” I said, maybe a little too enthusiastically. I was acting a little bit like an idiot. I wasn't sure why. John was disarming in some way.
I reminded myself that John had no way of knowing that I had fucked my wife while thinking about my wife fucking him.
Still, I was having a hard time playing it perfectly cool.
“Great,” he said. “Let me run this in and then I'll come back for it.”
I stood by the van, trying to look collected, while John bounced easily with the heavy box down the steps to his apartment. I looked up at the kitchen window. Anna had a cup of coffee to her mouth, and I could almost see the grin on her face behind it. She shook her head and disappeared.
We moved the couch and the flatscreen together, and then I helped John with the remainder of his boxes. Nearly all of them were filled with books.
After the last box was in the house, John opened the refrigerator and took out two beers. He uncapped them using the move I had never perfected, of hitting them with his closed fist against the counter. He did it casually, and handed me a beer.
I was mildly out of breath, and my arms felt strained, but I was trying to look as relaxed as John, who was not even remotely winded. I held up the beer instead of saying thanks, just in case I ended up huffing as I spoke.
It was a throwback to man's descent from primate groups, this ritual of showing or faking physical prowess, but what can I say? John was intimidating with his huge biceps and great looks.
By his proximity to my wife.
“I really appreciate the help, man,” John said. “I don't know a whole lotta people here still, and everyone I do know had some mysterious thing they had to do today.”
Even though there were plenty of reasons to dislike John, or at least feel intimidated by him, he really did seem like a nice guy. He had a way of speaking that made me feel like less of a dick. I recovered my regular personality a little and said the least stupid thing I'd said so far. “I had a buddy who ran a marathon just to get out of helping me move.” This was true story.
John gave me a wide, appreciative grin and looked down at his beer, shaking his head.
A small knock on the open door made us both turn. The lightness of the footsteps indicated that it could only be one person: Anna.
John almost instantly produced a beer from the fridge and handed it to her. She took it absent-mindedly, looking around. “This place is a lot smaller with stuff in it,” she said. Her eyes fell on the sleeping area. “No bed?”
“He doesn't sleep,” I said, surprised by my own quick thinking. Anna's comment had threatened to turn a little awkward.
Anna held her beer toward John as though for a toast. They clinked their bottles together. She did not turn to me after her cheers. “Well, welcome, and hope you like it here,” she said. “Listen, I've made way too much food for dinner, and since you just moved in, we'd be happy to share.”
I squinted at Anna.
Anna wasn't exactly in love with cooking. I was fairly certain that she hadn't made anything for dinner in three years, let alone too much of something, in the middle of the afternoon and in only forty minutes.
John's eyes shifted from me to Anna, and he opened his mouth to hesitate. “Uh...”
“Oh don't worry, we won't make it awkward or anything,” Anna said. “And we won't start doing it to you all the time.” She let the comment hang in the air by itself, long enough for everyone to get a whiff of the innuendo, and then she smiled. “Inviting you to dinner, I mean.”
I watched this unfold, and even though I had been, just seconds ago, baffled by Anna's invite and a little angry at her for inviting him without asking me (or even having made any food, as she had just promised), I abruptly said:
“We have wine.”
John set his beer on the table and pointed a finger at me. “Done,” he said.
“How about around six?” Anna said. “Or are you starving now?”
I looked at her again. She was really bluffing it. There was no way she had anything made, and the more I thought about it, the more I doubted there was any food in our house at all.
“I am starving,” John said, and I got nervous, as though I had told the lie myself and was about to get caught in it. “But I have to straighten a few things out here, take a shower...” he looked at his watch. “Six. Yeah, six is fine.”
“Okay,” Anna chirped. She had slammed her beer, somehow, without anyone noticing, and she set the empty bottle on the table. “We'll see you then.”
Anna made way for her purse as soon as we were through the door, and pulled a light crocheted sweater over her arms, tossing her hair over her shoulder and rattling keys. “I have to go,” she said. “I have to get something for dinner.”
“I thought you made something. So much food we couldn't eat it,” I said, in a mocking tone.
Anna shrugged, unaffected by my teasing. “He wouldn't have come if I...” she let her voice trail off as she dug through her purse for something. She looked up at me. “What do you think? Chicken? Steak?”
I channeled my inner valley-girl and placed my hand on my hip. “Oh, John, my hot neighbor, come over...I just made too much steak on accident...there were two people and I lost count and just threw, like, ten steaks on the grill...two hours before we were going to eat...ohmygaaaahd.”
I was being a little bit of an asshole, I could hear it in my voice. Part of me was joking, light-heartedly, but there was a knife's edge of dumb, animal jealousy.
Anna could go either way with this kind of thing. Sometimes it set off her powder-keg temper, and sometimes she just laughed.
I waited for her reaction.
She rolled her eyes. “Okay. Yeah, you're right.” She placed her hand on my chest, in mock-seduction. “You're always. So. Right.” She was annoyed by my comment, but she was in a good mood. She hopped out of the door, her hand up silently in a gesture of goodbye.
I stood in the kitchen.
Anna was not a friendly, invite-the-neighbor-to-dinner type.
And why was she in such a good mood?
And why did I find myself thinking of the evening ending with Anna and John pouring me glass after glass of wine, until I passed out in my chair, while Anna lowered herself discreetly under the table, inch by inch, until she was gone. And then John's face co
ntorted with pleasure as she put her mouth around his cock...
What in the actual fuck was wrong with me?
Anna purchased insane amounts of prepared food from the deli at an overpriced local market, and ripped open the containers, dumping them into our dishes. She was mildly frantic, ordering me around and then waving me away, the way she did when she really wanted things to be perfect at a dinner party or a presentation.
I burned with jealousy as I watched her. She seemed not to care that she was acting like this, or care if I noticed. She made no effort to hide that she was fussing about the dinner, or that she was hurrying because she wanted enough time to go upstairs and perform the elaborate beauty rituals that would lead to her coming down the stairs in a t-shirt and jeans, looking very, very natural but having orchestrated the whole look as though it were a photo shoot.
Anna, after all, was in marketing, and she marketed every single thing. She knew a complete package was the key to sales.
What in the fuck are you talking about, Brian? Your wife is not selling anything here.
But did I want her to be?
A little bit.
She disappeared upstairs after fretting about whether or not the pesto dish would seem authentically homemade or not if she reheated it, and then she pointed at one of the several bottles of wine (expensive) she had purchased. “Get one of those in the decanter,” she said in parting.
I knew that I should be suspicious of my wife's behavior, and therefore jealous, and therefore inclined to confront her about what she was doing and how transparent she was being about it. She was flirting, with her food and her wine, and her desire to get everything 'just so.'
I mean, people did not make this big of an effort for other people unless some small part of them wanted to bang the other person. Even if it seemed out-of-reach, even if it was only a sliver of a chance. I myself was the person who always said this, especially when any man was nice to Anna and helped her out.
“Just trying to get in your pants,” I would say.
“Nah, this guy was married..fat...he had no chance with me...he was old...”
“There needs only to be the smallest chance,” I would explain to her, “like, that a meteor will strike us all dead right now except for you and him, and you will have no choice but to fuck him or let the human race die out...and that small chance, is enough.”
“Or a man wouldn't be friendly to a woman?”
I always looked like I was thinking it over. “No,” I would say. “No, I do not believe they would.”
“What explains men being helpful to other men?”
“The slightest chance of gay sex being the only thing left on earth after a meteor kills everyone but you and him, or you get locked in prison together for some reason.”
Anna always laughed.
“Or that he has a girlfriend you will be able to have sex with at some time in the future.”
“Sick.”
But Anna didn't actually need any of that explained to her. She knew every man she met would gladly fuck her. She just enjoyed pretending like she was clueless sometimes, for comedic effect.
The only thing I didn't know is if she knew exactly how crazy it drove me, seeing her flirt with other men.
I looked at the clock. 5:30. Only half an hour until John arrived.
I went upstairs and sat on the bed, watching Anna through the open door to the bathroom, inhaling her soaps and shampoos. I pretended to be deliberating between two shirts as she came out wrapped in a towel, and threw open the drawers.
I liked watching her as she actually thought about several outfits. I savored the sharp-edged sweetness of watching her be choosey about what she would wear. Selecting her outfit with care, deliberately not getting fancy, and not getting too casual.
She made an unusual choice, and selected a pair of tight jeans and a white t-shirt. I watched her first slide a black lacy boy-short pair of underpants up onto her creamy skin.
Nothing unusual there. Right? She wore those all the time.
I imagined them traveling down her body in reverse, being peeled away from her taut body by John's large, black hands.
I shook my head.
She trotted into the bathroom – still having completely ignored me – and kicked the door shut with her foot.
I did not get to see the rest.
I pulled a shirt over my head, and found myself briefly considering what to wear for John as well, before I went downstairs to decant and drink some of the wine.
Anna skipped into the kitchen. Her hair was damp, which she had done on purpose. Everything about her was on purpose, from the shade of her dark blue jeans, and the fact that she was wearing jeans at all (she always wore skirts) to her bare feet, to her white shirt.
To her white shirt, a thick material that clung to her skin, and showed off her tight stomach, her long torso, her lack of any trace of body fat, and...her breasts. Her full breasts with the dark areolas and the dark nipples, which were unencumbered by a bra. This was not by omission, but rather because Anna thought every single thing through.
The effect was very satisfying, I had to admit. Because the material was thick, it was not outrageous. But the outline of her nipples could be discerned, if you were looking right at her breasts, and once you saw it, you had a hard time not looking there to see it again. It was, in fact, the only thing either of us could think about. I caught John trying to look, trying not to look, trying to look at something else. It was deeply satisfying to be united in the same struggle, and Anna was also very pleased with herself. I could tell. She had a smugness behind her smile.
John graciously pretended not to notice the food was from a deli, nor did he ask for recipes or ingredients or praise her cooking. But after several glasses of wine, I became the drunkest person at the table, and was immediately suspicious. Suspicious of his complicity in her lie.
I watched them. They became embroiled in a conversation about some legal decision that had been made in a case that affected marketing, and after a few minutes I had no handle on the conversation whatsoever. John became very animated as soon as he realized that Anna was a formidable conversational partner, capable of navigating legal terms and complicated legal questions without batting an eye.
I poured myself more wine.
I couldn't tell if I was miserable or delighted, watching John and Anna, who seemed to be constantly moving closer and closer to each other, looking deeply into each other's eyes.
Don't be fucking idiot, Brian. No one is looking into anyone's eyes.
They did though, seem to be doing just that.
I liked the idea of Anna thinking of John as a sex toy. I liked the idea of Anna thinking about him paying his rent by making her come; I like the idea of her sucking his cock, taking it up the ass, screaming in pleasure as he filled her completely. Working it off when she couldn't get the toilet fixed in a timely fashion (I filed this idea, which had only just occurred to me, away for later use).
I did not, I realized miserably, pouring my sixth...or maybe seventh?...glass of wine, like Anna talking to John excitedly about legal matters I could not understand. I did not like the way they were leaning their heads together, making private jokes in legalese. I didn't like the way she was smiling for him.
I was getting grumpier and grumpier, when John seemed to pick up on my foul mood. “We're being really rude,” he said. “It's like that when I go to my sister's place – she's a musician, right, and they start making all these jokes like, I can't believe Edwin started off that concerto in D-flat...and I'm like, ha ha ha ha ha.” He imitated nervous laughter, and made a face not entirely different from my own expression.
Fuck, I really wanted to dislike the guy. But it was hard.
“What is it you're in, again, Brian?” he said, making a gesture toward the wine I had placed, rather piggishly, on my side of the table. I nodded that he could have some.
Anna's face had fallen a little: she had been enjoying her rigorous – and private
– discussion with John.
“I do computer science stuff, mostly coding for websites.”
“You freelance, right?”
I always hated admitting this, because everyone listened to my answer and then sort of looked at Anna like: you poor dear.
“Yeah,” I said, and I was sucking in my breath to say more about it, defending it automatically as I always did.
But John shook his head, pouring wine. “Man, that's cool. I wish I knew how to do something like that. One of these days, everyone is going to figure out lawyers are full of shit, and I'm gonna be out of job. But coding...everyone needs that. And,” he added, raising his eyebrows with his eyes on the wine. “It would be nice to make my own hours.”
He smiled.
I had to hand it to him, he was a really nice guy. A nice, upstanding, successful, charming guy.
And hot. An athletic, muscular man.
In truth he looked more like the kind of guy a woman like Anna should be with. There was the ethnicity thing, which was weighing heavier on my mind than I wanted to admit to myself that it did: they looked like two people who belonged together. And maybe I was imagining things, but Anna's personality seemed to have changed around him.
Stronger.
Less demure.
More...black.
But there was also some kind of rapport between the two of them. The Anna I used to know, who got really involved in discussions, whose eyes lit up at the first whiff of intellectual debate, whose face flushed as she took on her own, passionate side of an argument, was coming back to life in front of my eyes. This was more like the Anna I dated, the Anna I fell in love with.
It was just like old times.
Except:
The flushed cheeks and the eyes filled with excitement, the waving hands and the clenched fists swiping at the air for emphasis – none of that was for me. It was all for John.
The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel Page 3
