by River Savage
“You need to check in with her. I can’t keep dealing with her calls.” He acts like it’s a hardship for him. Far from it. If I had the balls to call him out on it, I would. But it’s an unspoken thing between us. He’s in love with my sister. My sister is in love with him. I always wonder when they will act on it… if they will act on it. I’m probably an asshole for not putting him out of his misery, but I’ve never been one to put my nose where it doesn’t belong. If Sterling and Dakota end up together, then I’ll support them, but until they find themselves there, I’m staying out of it.
“I’ll call her tomorrow.” I appease him, knowing I should check in with both my mom and sister. After Dad died, we grew closer, opting to keep each other near, but as the years have gone on, they’ve moved on too, sometimes making me wonder if I’m the only one stuck.
“You fucking better, Hetch.”
“I told you I would,” I murmur, not in the mood for his threats. He grumbles a reply, but I don't take it in; instead, I block it out. I block it all out. The day, the interview, the last fucking three years, every thing that brings me down is pushed aside as I let the beer-induced sleep take me to the place I’ve been searching for.
Oblivion.
“It cuts like a knife, son, knowing it’s you, but it is what it is.”
“Dad, no!”
I wake with a startle what feels like hours later. It takes a few breaths to get my bearings before I realize I’m home, on my bed, fully clothed and not back in the past trying to save my father’s life.
The night’s activities filter through my mind as I try to sort them in order: the interview I fucked up; Sterling coming to The Elephant and paying my tab before driving my drunk ass home, dragging me up to my apartment and telling me to get my head out of my ass.
“Fuck.” I roll and groan. My head is throbbing like I survived a brass knuckle punch, and the slight buzz filtering through my ears confirms I definitely had too much to drink.
Fucking idiot.
After breathing through a wave of nausea, I manage to find my feet and pull myself up to sitting position. The clock beside my bed tells me it’s only just midnight. I guess it’s what happens when you get drunk before five.
Finding the strength to stand, I make my way to the bathroom. I don’t bother looking in the mirror. The asshole staring back only reminds me of an older version of my thirty-two-year-old self. Instead, I head for the toilet. After the longest piss known to man, I undress down to my boxers, pop two double-strength Tylenol, brush my teeth, making sure I scrape along my tongue to remove the funky taste of beer and God knows what, then take my sorry, drunk ass back to bed.
My head is still throbbing, but the buzzing has cleared so I flick my lamp off and roll over to my side. It doesn’t take long to slip back into a light pre-sleep, and I’m almost out when the buzzing starts up again.
What the hell?
I roll over, flicking the lamp on to search out the source of the buzz. I might be drunk or in the early stages of a hangover, but it doesn’t take too long to realize it’s not coming from my room but through the wall.
Fuck me, it’s the new neighbor.
The walls of this damn place are so thin. They need to put this shit on the lease before another sorry bastard signs their privacy away.
Flicking the lamp off again, I settle back into bed, the buzzing sound growing louder as the seconds tick by.
Is that a toothbrush or a fucking vibrator?
A soft gasp confirms my suspicion, followed by the loud cry of her release.
Holy shit, the little minx is getting off.
Not at all embarrassed by my actions I roll closer to the wall and place my ear up against it. I don't know if she's alone, or if the guy’s she's with is a quiet fuck, but all I can hear is the sound of a vibrator and her. My bet is she’s alone.
Becoming more alert than I care to be after midnight, I press my ear harder against the wall. Her soft whimpers grow louder, and my dick hardens with pleasure when she shouts out.
Fuck, I should have foregone the beer and went with pussy tonight.
Regretting the decision now, I do what any respectable single male would do in this situation. I slide my hand down my boxer briefs and wrap my fingers around my cock. Stroking slowly and deliberately at first, I then build up to deep, rough and needy strokes as soon as I realize she’s going for a second release.
“Fucking greedy little thing.” I groan when her whimpers start becoming desperate. The buzz of the vibrator dying off interrupts me from my own pleasure.
Unsure what to do, I stay quiet, wanting more than anything to talk to her, maybe even try to see if I can get her to come over, but I can't imagine she'll respond all that well if I let her know I've been listening in. But fuck me, the thrill of what I’m doing turns me on more than I’ve ever been turned on before.
After another few beats of silence, the vibrator starts back up again. My fist moves back in rhythm, this time faster and rougher to catch up. She’s louder this time, more vocal and it only takes a minute or two for her to find her release, the deep moans of her orgasm not quite enough to pull me over with her.
“Fuck, woman, wait for me this time,” I say on a groan, unable to hold back my frustration. I don’t know if I do it on purpose, or maybe I’m too lost in the moment to control what I’m saying, but whatever the reason, the words still come from my lips, halting any chance of me getting my happy ending.
Fuck me.
Again.
Two
Liberty
“What the hell am I doing?” I think I speak the words aloud, but I can’t be sure. A thick fog encases my head in a pre-orgasm high. I’m not sure of anything anymore as I barrel toward some kind of alternate universe where I do crazy shit and don’t give any fucks.
Until the rational part of my brain finds its way through the fog, and clarity finds its way back into my normal universe.
They say moments of clarity hit you hard. Like suddenly a deep understanding smacks you in the face. Your vision becomes unclouded, and a truth that’s been out of your reach rushes at you. It’s in that second your perception of reality becomes so clear you can’t begin to describe it.
Some call it beautiful, some say it can be saddening, some even compare it to the moment your drug of choice washes over you, offering a moment of escape.
I wish I could I say my moment of clarity is an epiphany or some kind of life-defining moment that showed me where my messed-up life is going.
No, my moment hits me as the first wave of the orgasm I’ve been chasing the last few minutes washes over me.
“Fuck, woman, wait for me this time.” His voice pulls me from my haze first, reminding me how messed up I am.
Heat covers my body, not from the life-altering orgasm, but from embarrassment.
Without thinking rationally, I throw my vibrator to the floor and freeze, afraid to move, as a low moan pauses on my lips. The thump of my beating heart, almost syncing in perfect rhythm to the throb drumming between my legs.
Jesus, please tell me he didn’t hear me.
“Don’t go shy on me now, babe.” He half chuckles, half growls, and even though there is a wall between us, the words wash over me; Goose bumps prickle my skin as if his warm breath whispered over me.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Slowly, as if by some freak of nature, apartment nine can see me through the wall, I roll off the bed and find myself on all fours.
Really, Liberty?
Fully committed to my actions, I slowly army crawl my way to the nearest exit.
A strong tap on the wall halts my escape followed by, “You still there?” Another wave of humiliation crashes over me when I take stock of my predicament.
If I don’t get out of here fast, I’ll be drowning in so much embarrassment, nothing will resuscitate me.
Unable to form a coherent thought, and not willing to engage with the pervert, I continue to low crawl my wa
y out of my bedroom and into my bathroom. Closing the door, I stand, and quickly walk to the shower. After turning the faucet on, I strip the rest of my clothes off, then step under the spray of the water.
Jesus, that was close.
I have no idea what I was thinking. In fact, I know I wasn’t. Which scares me even more.
I, Liberty Jenson, would never take risks like this. If asked what prompted this change in me, I’d answer with two things.
Apartment nine.
And a self-appointed sex sabbatical.
It all started when I moved into my new apartment. At first, I was excited, ready for a fresh start. After a messy break-up, which included dealing with a douche ex who didn’t know how to keep his dick in his pants, I needed a new place. Somewhere closer to town this time, secure, and most importantly, affordable. However, finding a place close to the city, which was secure enough to make me feel safe and would still leave me enough money left over from my program director’s wage, proved to be a feat. After searching for five weeks, I was about to give up, accept defeat and move in with my mom and dad again. I mean it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to a single thirty-year-old woman.
Right?
Luckily for me, I didn’t have to resort to such desperate measures when this place came up two weeks ago. After a quick walk through, I fell in love with the two bedrooms, one bath, and open kitchen living area. I filled out the paperwork, paid my deposit, a month’s rent in advance, and moved in five days later.
Everything seemed perfect.
That was until I realized how paper-thin the walls were between apartments.
It started out subtle, a sneeze in the early evening on my first night here as I settled into bed. A soft murmur of a man’s voice the third night.
But then came the sex.
The hot, wild, filthy sex.
The fourth night in my new apartment, I was woken to the low moans of what I assumed to be a needy woman.
My face heats up remembering the screams, the grunts. The deep baritone of apartment nine’s voice as he told the ‘bitch’ to keep it quiet.
Unsure what to do, I laid silent, listening to my new neighbor fuck some lucky woman into submission.
I’m not going to lie; I wasn’t turned on by it. I was set alight.
I never thought I would be that kind of person, the kind who got off from listening in on someone get off, but something in the way he spoke to her, something in the way he spoke to all the other women since, stirred a new want in me. Soon I found myself seeking out my room for a chance to hear him.
It was wrong.
So wrong.
But it didn’t stop me from wanting it.
The screams.
The deep grunts of pleasure.
I wanted it all.
I wanted it to be me.
“I’m officially going to hell.” I groan under the water, trying to wash the stupidity off me. Stupid would be the nice way of calling me a fucking idiot. And an idiot is what I am. Especially after tonight.
I had finished my last case study for the evening and was settling in bed for a couple of chapters of a new book when I realized the familiar deep rumble of my next-door neighbor was absent tonight. For the first time in eight nights, I had the privacy I wasn’t sure I wanted.
I want to blame the hot scene I was reading at that moment, but in the interest of being honest, I wasn’t strong enough. A week of listening to a real life sex show had threatened my sabbatical. I was barely through my first orgasm when I thought I heard the familiar deep rumble floating through the wall. I paused, shutting down my vibrator listening out for any signs of life only to be met with silence. I wasn’t sure if what I had heard was my imagination or real. Maybe if I wasn’t so highly strung, I would have stopped then. I mean one orgasm is enough, right? But after a few beats of silence, a thrill ran through me when the thought that maybe he was home, and perhaps like me, he too may have been listening out for me, his hand wrapped around what I imagined was a huge cock, getting off like I was. The image took hold of me, and then I couldn’t stop myself from allowing my fingers to flick my vibrator back on and permitting myself to get off knowing full well he may be listening.
It turns out I was right.
How hot and exceptionally disturbing.
I groan in frustration, knocking my forehead to the cool tile of the shower wall.
Deciding there’s only so much dwelling one can do in a shower, I gingerly turn the faucet off and step out. Too chicken to go back to my room, I dress in my bathrobe and quietly walk out of my bathroom.
I eye the hall to my bedroom with shame. Only an hour ago, the thought of walking to my bed seemed like a simple task, something I wouldn’t think twice about. Now the thought makes me want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Deciding I can’t deal with what happened tonight and sleep in my room, I head toward my living room. My three-seater sofa isn’t the most comfortable piece of furniture, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I fetch a quilted blanket—one my grandmother made me—out of the hallway cupboard and settle on two of my throw pillows. For a second, I think I hear footsteps at my front door, and I freeze midmovement. When nothing comes of it, I flop down on my sofa.
Jesus, what is wrong with me? Hiding in my own apartment.
This is not normal behavior for me. I mean, it’s not like I can’t get a man. It’s just I don’t want one. Not after recently getting out of a messed-up relationship. Sure, no strings attached sex would be nice, as would an orgasm or two that didn't come from a vibrator. I mean, clearly I’m wound up ready to combust if the sound of a man’s muffled voice makes me want to finger myself. But it’s not what I need. I need time to decompress, time to find myself.
Hence this damn Sabbatical.
It wasn’t some fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants decision. Five weeks of living in the same room I grew up in can do a lot to a person. Tristan and I had been seeing each other for three years. I honestly thought he was it for me. I was thinking marriage and maybe kids while he was off fucking some twenty-year-old pussy. Not once in my carefully thought-out plans did I expect to be single at thirty again. It’s depressing and somewhat sobering. I mean I could have gone down the party-and-fuck-everything-with-a-penis road, but honestly, where would it lead me? More alone and feeling sorry for myself when the self-loathing finally kicked in.
Instead, I made a promise. No men and no sex for six months.
The first five weeks were a breeze.
The last two weeks have been hell.
If only apartment nine would get the memo and quit fucking like a porn star on a reunion show.
“Ugghh.” I scream into my pillow. Every detail of the night plays over in my head, and before I know it, I’ve worked myself up into a mess.
Needing someone to talk me down from my impending freak-out, I reach for the phone and dial my best friend, Payton.
“Hello?” She answers on the third ring.
“I knew you would still be up,” I greet, not caring it’s after midnight.
“Yeah, Arabella is teething.”
Arabella is Payton’s four-year-old daughter. She’s also my niece and goddaughter.
“Again?” I don’t know much about teeth, but it seems like the poor kid is too old for new teeth.
“Ahh, yeah. These ones are her second molars. It’s hell.”
“Ugghh, I bet.” I shudder, not sure how she does the mothering gig most days. That shit is scary.
Payton and I have been friends since high school. Even though we weren’t the best of friends in the beginning—since she was captain of the cheer squad and I was captain of the debate team—we soon got to know each other when she started dating my older brother, Jett.
Jett and Payton, the cliché, high-school sweethearts.
Payton and I grew closer when we left for college, even living in the same dorm. No one, especially me, would have guessed Payton and Jett would have survived high school and college, but they p
roved us all wrong five years ago when they married. They beat the odds, had the perfect relationship, fell pregnant right after their honeymoon, and nine months later welcomed Miss Arabella.
They had it all.
Until last year when my dipshit brother went and ruined it by cheating on her.
“What are you doing up?” she asks, oblivious to my personal dilemma.
“One word: neighbor.”
“What? Again? Are you kidding me? What’s that, every night this week?” She’s trying not to laugh, but failing miserably. I’ve been filling her in on my neighbor’s activities, even calling her on Sunday to let her listen in on the fuck-a-thon. “I think it’s time you need to address this, Lib. What about a note?”
“Yeah, I don’t think a note is going to fix this.”
Could it?
“You never know. You could write something like, “Hey, neighbor, I’ve heard you like to fuck a lot, maybe you can ball gag the next bitch you bring home, so I’m not being woken at one every morning.”
“Umm, no. That’s not happening.” I laugh, knowing Payton isn’t joking. She would have had a note pinned up on apartment nine’s door, signed and dated after the first night here if this were happening to her.
“Why the hell not? Maybe he doesn’t know the walls are stupidly thin.”
“Nope, I’m pretty sure he knows.”
“How do you know?”
“Because something happened,” I offer, still unsure how I even begin to fill her in what happened tonight.
“What? Did you finally meet him? He’s hot, isn’t he? I knew it. No man fucks the way you described and isn’t attractive. Tell me how hot is he?” Her voice rises with each question.
“I don’t know. I still haven’t met him.” She’s quiet for a beat, something which doesn’t often happen to Payton before she catches up.
“Okay. Then what the hell happened?”
“Well—” I begin.
“No wait, don’t tell me, you picked up a one-night stand, didn’t you? Please tell me you gave him a show in return?” She cuts me off, her mind clearly making up her own scenarios.
