by KD Robichaux
“Oh, he’s got jokes.” Mena chuckles. “She must really have you all giddy inside if you just joked, Mr. Dark and Broody,” he teases.
“Get the address and I will see you Tuesday.” I don't entertain him.
“All right. Bye, man.”
I end the call just as she steps out in a towel, and it has my dick instantly hard. Her chest is still damp from the shower she took. I can see the droplets glistening on her tan skin. “You are so fucking breathtaking, angel. You don’t even know it.” I touch the window, eager and aching to touch her.
I could go to her now, confident in my ability to claim her and make her want me. But there is something I crave about having her like this.
I’m not a crazy man.
Just a man possessed by his woman.
I’m not stalking her, per se. Just keeping her safe and watching over her before I claim what’s mine. Learning everything I can about her from a distance so I’ll know what she wants and needs before I approach and mark her as mine.
“Drop the towel,” I murmur, and I see the reflection of my eyes crinkling in the corners when she does. I swear it takes all my restraint to not barge over there and take her with fervor. “Fuck, beautiful.”
I stroke my cock, angry and fast, unable to stop.
I need her.
I have to get this going, because I can’t stay away anymore.
She lies on her bed then, grabbing her glasses from the bedside table and placing them on her delicate nose. Holy shit. She’s naked, her hair clinging to her neck and luscious tits, those glasses framing her gorgeous eyes, and embarrassingly I come just a minute after getting hard. It comes out ferociously, hot spurts of cum hitting the window.
“Ivy! Fuck, Ivy!” I growl, dropping my head against the frame of the window, and my breath is heavy as I come down from my orgasm.
Just then, my phone buzzes. Mena didn’t even take the full hour. The address of the person I need to find is in his message.
“Times up, angel. You're mine.”
The next day, I climb out of my car and head for the stairs of the shitty apartments slapped dead center in one of the roughest parts of town. Locking my Mercedes, I take two steps at a time up to the second floor.
After I bang on the door of my destination, I hear a man holler, “Damn! Just a minute.” I all but roll my eyes. Little does this man know I’m about to make him an offer he can’t refuse. “Why y’all be bangin’ on my door?” He stops when he sees me.
I stand at 6’6”, my biceps triple the size of his. He is maybe 5’8”, and my presence intimidates him; I can tell by the gulp he takes. “I am an impatient man and I’m here to settle some business.”
“Listen, I don’t owe Jared that much. If he comin’ to collect, then tell’m I’ll pay’m back when I make my next drop.”
I scoff arrogantly. Of course. He would be a drug dealer and owe a debt, living in a place like this. It makes this all that much more convenient. “How much is it you think you owe?” I go along with his line of thinking, letting him believe I’m here to collect.
“Two grand. I can make that within the month.” He sniffs, wiping his hands on his dirty T-shirt.
I turn my head to the left, pausing to think about just how comical all this is. It couldn't be more perfect if I wrote the script. “I’m not with Jared, but I will pay you the two grand to settle your debt, all for one small exchange. If you will.”
He gives me a quizzical look with his bloodshot, beady eyes. “Who the hell are you?” he questions.
“The man who is going to keep you from getting your kneecaps broken or worse. You want the deal or not? I’m running out of patience.” I inhale deeply, my nostrils flaring. I don’t have time for this shit. I’m a man on a mission, and I want to accomplish it immediately.
“Fine. What do you want?”
I lean in just a bit. “I just need you to change your phone number.”
As if I just asked him to solve world hunger, he looks dumbfounded. “My phone number?”
“Yes. I will pay your two grand and some change for the inconvenience, all in exchange for your number.”
There is a pregnant pause, and I can tell he’s trying to think of all the possible reasons why I would ask such a small and absurdly random request. But like any junkie in debt, he can’t say no to the cash flow. “Fine. I want all cash.”
“No problem,” I say with finesse.
I always get my way, and my next conquest is my Ivy.
One step closer.
Two hours later, I’m pulling up to my penthouse downtown, in need of a stiff drink and determined to get right down to business. Stepping into my sterile residence with a high-rise view, I set my keys into the glass bowl next to the door and kick off my boots. Walking to my fully stocked liquor cabinet, I grab a tumbler and fill it with aged scotch. As I round the counter and head to the white leather sofa in my living room, I get comfortable, settling in. I pick up my new phone with only one contact saved to it.
* * *
Me: Hello, Number Neighbor.
I throw back the small amount of scotch in my glass and wait, watching for a long while until the message finally says Read and those dancing dots appear across the bottom of the screen.
Her reply finally comes, and a cocky grin splays across my face.
Ivy: You have got to be kidding me
And so it begins, angel.
Chapter 3
Ivy
* * *
Me: You have got to be kidding me
This fad must really be getting around. I mean, anyone with a social media could have come across the Number Neighbor articles and screenshots. But what are the odds that one of the two people owning the phone numbers on either side of mine would see any of it and actually message me? Astronomical, I’m sure.
Just go with it, Ivy. You put it out in the universe, and the universe answered.
(281) 555-3809: You must not have heard of this game. A number neighbor is the person with one digit behind or ahead of your phone number. Sorry to bother you. *smile emoji
And now my poor neighbor—who already seems like a really nice person—probably thinks I’m a dick because of my response. Ugh!
Me: No! It’s okay! I have. I was just super surprised you actually messaged me. I swore I wouldn’t be the first to text, in case my neighbors weren’t on the up and up LOL!
The dots indicating the person is typing dance along the screen, my excitement growing now that the initial shock has worn off. I stretch out beneath my sheets, naked as the day I was born. A year ago, you wouldn’t have caught me dead in bed without a full set of pajamas on. It’s all part of my self-help routine, learning to be more comfortable in my own skin. I’ve worked myself up to even being able to change with my curtains open. But I think that’s probably only because I know the house next door is empty. An old lady lived there for a while after her husband died, but it was way too much house for her to live in on her own, so she moved away. He had already passed when I moved into mine. I see a car in the driveway every once in a while, but I figure it’s either a realtor or the person assigned to keep it up coming to check on it. There was a For Sale sign in the yard for only a hot second, but no one ever moved into it.
(281) 555-3809: Smart. My name is Hunter. I’m definitely on the up and up. But if I weren’t, would I really tell you? *wink emoji
I smile and sniff out a laugh as I reply.
Me: My line of thinking was that anyone too bad wouldn’t take the time to play some silly Twitter game. Nice to meet you, Hunter. My name is Ivy. First—how old are you? Are you old enough to be texting this late? I’m 22.
(281) 555-3809: Haha, yes. I’m definitely of age and not jailbait. I’m 34. What do you do, Ivy?
Me: I’m a medical office receptionist. Have to start at the bottom of the totem pole. I’m hoping to move up to become the office manager one day, maybe even the doctor’s executive assistant.
Immediately, Dr. Sage’s devast
atingly handsome face fills my mind, and I feel almost guilty for talking to another man. Which is absolutely ridiculous. Dr. Sage barely acknowledges my existence each day when he walks in the door. It’s partly the reason I’d love to move up in positions, just so I could have more interaction with him. If I were the office manager or his assistant, he’d have no choice but to speak to me more than just his curt “Good morning, Ms. Rosewood” every weekday morning.
(281) 555-3809: A young woman with aspirations. I like it. I own my own business. I didn’t really like working for other people, wanted things done my way without being questioned.
My brow furrows at this, wondering what kind of business he owns. But I want to keep things light and fun, so I don’t dive too deep.
Me: A control freak, are we? LOL! That’s ok. I’m the opposite. I like to help make people’s life easier. When all those movies showed people running around getting coffee and picking up their boss’s dry cleaning, wanting to make it seem like they were miserable, it had the reverse effect for me. I was like… THAT. That’s what I want to do. I like to be needed, I guess.
(281) 555-3809: I definitely am a control freak. I like order and routine. I guess I’m pretty boring.
Me: Aw, don’t feel too bad about it. I bet it wasn’t part of your routine to text a random number to see who would answer, am I right? *big smile emoji
(281) 555-3809: Haha, very true. I suppose I’m trying to better myself. Break out of my shell, you could call it.
I sit up in bed at that, the sheet falling to my lap and leaving my naked chest bare. I fight the urge to cover myself, chanting a mantra in my head. No one can see you but you. You are beautiful. There is no one here who can hurt you. Your skin grows thicker with each moment you spend getting to know your own body and starting to love it. No one can love you until you love yourself.
When the urge to run into my closet and put on flannel pajamas to cover every inch of my skin passes, I crisscross my legs beneath my covers, hunching over my phone to type with both thumbs.
Me: I just so happen to be going through a bit of self-betterment as well.
(281) 555-3809: Oh yeah? Not to get all nosey, but what are you working on? Could be pretty therapeutic to talk to a stranger, someone you’ll probably never meet in real life. Ya know, just to vent. I guess that’s sorta what I was unconsciously hoping for when I messaged my number neighbor. Talk to someone who doesn’t know me already. I admittedly have a hard time meeting and getting to know other people. Which is what I’m working on myself.
I tilt my head to the side. What could be the harm? It’s not like this person could find me using just my name and phone number.
You already told him you work at a doctor’s office.
Yeah, but if he suddenly showed up at my work, Dr. Sage would protect me and scare him off. Right?
In your dreams.
Fuck it. For all I know, this could be fate, like Jenika and I were talking about. This could be my knight in shining armor, my soul mate. This could be kismet.
Me: You’re right. Why not? I’m working on some self-esteem issues I have. I’ve never been comfortable in my own skin, always worried I’m not good enough, pretty enough, that kind of thing. I guess that’s why I’ve always wanted to be an executive assistant. I know I’m really good at helping people. My organizational skills and such are phenomenal. I can easily prove myself worthy when it comes to that. I’m great on the inside. Now I just need to learn to be happy with my outside.
And then I wait, holding my breath. It seems to take forever for him to reply. Did I scare him off with my childish insecurities? Did I sound shallow and whiny?
I breathe a sigh of relief when the dots finally reappear, realizing how much I’ve wanted to talk to someone without the worry of being judged.
(281) 555-3809: I mean, I can already tell you’re a beautiful person on the inside. That’s easy to see just in the way you crave to help people.
I smile at that, and then surprise myself by feeling giddy when I see he’s typing something else.
(281) 555-3809: And well… you could always send me a picture. Then I could tell you if you have anything to worry about on the outside. *wink emoji
I snort. He’s crazy. I look down at myself, seeing all my exposed skin.
Me: There’s no way in hell I’m taking you a picture right now.
(281) 555-3809: *wide-eyed emoji Oh? May I ask why not? I’m not a perv… not a fuckboy asking for nudes. Honestly just curious what you look like, since you’re trying to work on your self-esteem about the way you look.
I giggle at how he has no idea I actually am nude.
Me: Well, I’m 5’6”, 145 lbs. I have dark hair to the middle of my back that I’ve been curling lately, since an article I read said I’ll feel more confident in my appearance if I put effort into it. I have my mom’s green eyes. My dad named me Ivy, hoping that if he named me after something green I’d be more likely to inherit her color over his chocolate brown. Um… I’m still pretty tan from going to Galveston a few times this summer, but it’s starting to fade. Oh, I feel like I have abnormally large teeth. I don’t know if it’s because they’re so white or what, but people always make remarks about how big my smile is. Good enough?
(281) 555-3809: Not even close. Now you have me even more curious. I really want to see that smile. It sounds infectious. I could use a smile.
I slouch back against my pillows, reading his words over and over. What could it hurt to send the guy a picture of just my face? It wouldn’t be any different than him coming across my profile on a dating site. I have all sorts of photos up on my social media accounts, many of which are public. A simple Facebook search of the name Ivy in Houston and he could easily be looking at my profile in minutes.
Clicking the photos icon in our text window, I scroll through my pictures until I find a selfie I took the other day to send to Jenika to show her the new mascara I tried out at Sephora. Before I can talk myself out of it, I send it to Hunter.
I bite my lip as I wait for his response.
(281) 555-3809: In the words of my lovely number neighbor—You have got to be kidding me.
I don’t know how to take that. So all I send is…
Me: *side eye emoji
(281) 555-3809: That’s you? Like… really you? You’re not catfishing me right now?
Me: LOL! No. I mean, yes, that’s really me. No, I’m not catfishing you.
(281) 555-3809: YOU have self-esteem issues? What in the world for? You are absolutely beautiful. I expected… I don’t know. Certainly not… you.
My entire body grows warm at his words.
It makes me want to know him. Makes me want to continue talking to him. So much so, I save him to my contacts.
Me: Thank you *blushing emoji
HunterNumberNeighbor: You’re more than welcome.
Me: So what about you? What do you look like?
It takes a couple minutes, which feels like forever, before he starts to reply. When the picture downloads, I all but drop my phone on my face taking it all in.
The photo shows the most gorgeous male physique from the neck down. Each shoulder is the size of my head, one leading down to an arm rippling with muscles while the other is stretched out to take the selfie. His chest could be the mold for Batman’s body armor, with a dusting of dark hair. His stomach is ridged with a two… four… six… eight-pack, I count, with those delicious Jesus muscles I want to trace with my tongue, where they disappear into his gray sweatpants. And covering every inch of perfect flesh is an intricate maze of black-and-gray ink from his collarbones down.
Me: Holy shit.
And then I start to giggle uncontrollably.
Me: Where you goin’ dressed like a slut?
I shake my head at his reply.
HunterNumberNeighbor: I’m sorry?
Me: LOL! It’s a meme I saw once and almost died laughing. It said “When your boyfriend walks out in gray sweatpants and a white tee. Me: Where you goin�
� dressed like a slut?”
A moment passes before the dots dance.
HunterNumberNeighbor: I’m sorry. I’m lame. I still don’t get it *face palm emoji
Me: It’s a well-known fact that it’s hot as hell when a guy wears gray sweatpants and a white tee. It affects women the same way booty shorts and a crop top with side-boob affect men, AKA dressing like a slut.
HunterNumberNeighbor: Ah *laughing emoji But I wasn’t wearing a white tee.
Me: No. No you absolutely were not. That was really you?
HunterNumberNeighbor: Cross my heart.
Me: Wow. Do you work out? Hehe JK. Duh.
Me: Oh, and I totally wasn’t slut-shaming. #girlpower
I go to point out I still don’t technically know what he looks like, since his selfie cut off at his face, but then he distracts me with his response.
HunterNumberNeighbor: What do you mean? Are you?
Me: Am I what?
HunterNumberNeighbor: Are you a slut, Ivy?
My face grows warm at this turn in conversation.
“Ugh, what did you do, stupid girl? You were having a perfectly nice, innocent conversation, and then you had to go and steer it in a sexual direction. You brought it upon yourself,” I scold myself, drawing my legs up so my knees are pointed toward the ceiling.
I decide to be honest, since I feel no need to lie to impress this guy. It’s not like anything will come from this conversation. It’s just all in good fun.
Me: Unfortunately, no, I’m not. I’m the opposite actually. I just don’t condone slut-shaming, because I believe women should be able to sleep with whoever the hell they want without being looked down on for it.
HunterNumberNeighbor: Agreed. And what do you mean by “opposite” exactly? You don’t seem like a prude, which would by definition be the opposite of a slut.
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me.
Me: No, I’m not a prude either. I’ve just… never had sex before. A slut’s number would be high. I’m the opposite of one, because my number is very, very low. Zero, to be exact.
