His Package
Penelope Bloom
Contents
1. Lilith
2. Liam
3. Lilith
4. Liam
5. Lilith
6. Liam
7. Lilith
8. Liam
9. Lilith
10. Liam
11. Lilith
12. Liam
13. Lilith
14. Liam
15. Lilith
16. Liam
17. Lilith
18. Liam
19. Lilith
20. Celia
Epilogue
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1
Lilith
People always thought I wasn't a "people person," whatever that even means. Well, guess what, assholes? I was totally a people person. There were a lot of things I liked about people. I enjoyed watching slightly unfortunate things happen to people who deserved it. I liked making people uncomfortable. Just because frolicking through a grassy field with my best friend and a picnic basket in my hand wasn't my idea of paradise, it didn't make me a psychopath. The fact that I'd probably choose to save a cat's life before a person's life… Well, that admittedly might push me a little farther toward the psychopath end of the spectrum, but nobody's perfect.
Everybody had to find their joys in life. Guilty pleasures. My joys just happened to involve the misfortune of others. Maybe there was a less disturbing way to phrase that... I don't like most people, and I enjoy seeing them suffer? No, still right.
Basically, I assumed pretty much everybody had some bad karma coming their way, and if I was lucky enough to see it happening, it was a bonus. The guy who just spilled coffee on his tie while commuting to work probably walked right past his innocent little golden retriever who just wanted a belly rub a few hours ago. Karma. The woman who had a scrap of toilet paper trailing from her heel after lunch break probably gave some poor customer service worker a hard time about her coupon not working the night before. Worse, the reason the coupon didn't work was probably that, like ninety percent of people, she didn't bother reading the details on the back. Boom. Karma strikes again.
But there’s something I enjoy even more than casual acts of the universe’s great balancing act. I don’t excite easily, and I don’t make a habit of smiling—but I especially enjoy waiting for karma to strike down someone when they’ve pissed me off.
And that’s how it all started.
I lived across the hall from Mr. Perfect. I didn’t know his name, even though he’d lived across from me for a few weeks now, and I didn’t plan to know it. It was probably something douchey like “Cade,”“Tade,” or “Spade.” Guys like him always had names like that, like they just rolled out of a yacht wearing boat shoes with a sweater wrapped around their hips.
Mr. Perfect didn’t dress like that, but you could totally see him pulling it off. Something about the hair or the way he had one of those obnoxious faces that probably would even look good bald. It could’ve been how you could look at him and practically see the long, unbroken line of absolutely gorgeous people who had to sleep together over the centuries to produce a man with such perfect genetics. Or maybe it was just the stupid way he kept himself in such incredibly good shape—I mean, come on, who needs their body to look like it’s classily trying to fight its way out of everything you wear, perfectly shaped muscle by perfectly shaped muscle?
I’d decided, in a very out-of-character moment, to give him a chance the first day he moved in. It’s important to note that my decision had almost nothing to do with how good he looked or any bizarre fantasies I might have had about him and my heaving bosoms. It was nothing like that. I just thought I’d be neighborly. Instead of my usual glare, I just kind of looked his way and waited for him to introduce himself. I even gave him one of those subtle head nods I see guys give each other. I’d seen both the chin tilt up and the chin tilt down variation, so I picked one.
I didn’t expect much in return. Maybe a chin tilt or a chin dip. Maybe a smile. Maybe he’d drag me into his room and have his way with me because he’d never seen such an untamed beauty like myself.
But he completely ignored me. Not even eye contact. Nothing. So, in the immortal words of the kids back in middle school, “it was on.”
He wanted to be perfect? He wanted to practically wear a sign around his neck that says “my life is better than yours?” Fine. He could knock himself out. But if I go out of my way to not glare at you, then you better bet your ass you at least owe me a head nod.
That was mistake number one.
His next mistake was continuing to look like he had some secret stash of Liquid Luck from the Harry Potter universe stashed in his apartment, like every day of his life was a never-ending series of perfectly fortunate coincidences. You could just see it in his eyes.
But the details aren’t what matter. What mattered was that he irritated me. So I’d been aggressively waiting for the universe to realize it owed him about thirty years of bad luck all in one moment ever since. I didn’t want anything seriously bad to happen to the guy, but it would’ve made my day if I could just see him fall flat on his face once. I’d even settle for a funny bone injury. Maybe his toilet could back up and flood his apartment with crap. Anything, really.
I’d felt like a shadow cast by the glorious ray of light that was his life since the day he’d moved in, and I’d had about enough.
It was a Tuesday, which meant I’d probably run into him before I made it to my apartment. I may have had a vague idea of the general time he got back to the apartment complex after work, but it’s not like I was a stalker. The man just ran his life like clockwork, and he either got here half an hour early and waited outside until exactly five to come in, or his luck extended to never having a train run late or experiencing traffic. Considering we lived in New York City, I had trouble believing either.
I left my apartment at two till five, not because I wanted to run into him, but because it was when I happened to be leaving my apartment. It took about two minutes to get from the stairs to the mailbox, so he just so happened to be walking in right as I was leaving the stairwell.
He didn’t dress flashy. Cheap sunglasses, faded blue t-shirt, and jeans. Of course, he made it all look like a million dollars, which made me want to trip him. If karma wasn’t going to get the job done, I’d be happy to do some contract work.
The mailboxes for residents were set into the wall and designed for giants. I was a respectable five foot six, but I had to stand on my tiptoes to turn the key on my box and reach inside. Mr. Perfect’s box was right next to mine. He had no trouble reaching his while I tried to maintain some dignity on my tiptoes and with my face squished against the wall. I fished out a surprisingly big package from my box.
We both came away from our mailboxes with packages in our hands—mine an unassuming beige box, and his a highly feminine, pink box with a silky white ribbon to keep it closed.
“Nice Package,” I said. I was a little surprised to hear my own voice. I thought my brain and my body had agreed on a strict passive-aggressive tactic, but I also wasn’t about to apologize for throwing a little snark his way.
He turned to regard me with a raised eyebrow. God. The guy was good looking. It was almost sickening, like he wasn’t satisfied with “movie-star” level good looks. No, he had to keep climbing the charts until he was perfect. You couldn’t even call him so perfect he was boring, because part of his perfection was how he was precisely unique in just the righ
t spots—like his eyebrows that were maybe too dark or too thick, but somehow completely at home on his face. Then there was his nose. I’d never spent any amount of time studying a man’s nose before, but it was a nice nose. Dignified. Noble, even. It was a nose that made me wonder if I’d somehow been suddenly converted into a “nose person.” Was that even a thing?
“Yours is bigger,” he said, nodding toward the package in my hands.
There was a playful note in his voice that had me fighting to suppress a grin. I didn't normally have to struggle not to smile. The whole not smiling thing came pretty naturally. I also didn't get nervous around guys, so the weird, uneasy feeling in my stomach must have just been what intensely disliking somebody did to your body.
“Yeah, well, the dildo I ordered was extra large.” I gave the box a little tilt and glared at him.
He laughed. It was a deep, rich, sound. “Should I send the paramedics across the hall if you don’t come out of your apartment by tomorrow?”
“No,” I said. “Send a plumber.”
He laughed again, and I caught myself almost smiling as I looked up at him and those neatly arranged, white teeth of his. “Don’t let me hold you up. Big plans. I get it.”
“Yeah, extra large plans,” I muttered before I turned and hurried up the stairs. What an asshole. He could pretend to be charming and nice all he wanted, but he’d never so much as introduced himself to me. Only turns on the charm when I talk about huge dildos? Probably a pervert…
I had actually ordered a dildo, but it was a normal-sized one, and he didn’t need to know any of that. I also didn’t subscribe to the idea that owning a respectable sex toy arsenal had any implications about your sex life or lack thereof. You could either have the tools to get the job done on hand, or you’d need to call in somebody to do it for you. Me? I preferred to be prepared.
Once I was back in my apartment, I spent an extra few minutes brutalizing the package because I was too lazy and stubborn to walk five steps to the kitchen for scissors.
I was expecting to find my seven point-two-inch long and two-inch wide date for the evening. Instead, a lame, manilla envelope was sitting there.
I picked it up and turned it over. A couple of plastic cards fell out, but the packet of papers inside got stuck. If this was a new spam mail tactic, it was working, because my curiosity was peaked.
Roosevelt, my cat, was interested too. He was a munchkin breed, which was basically the corgi of the cat world—really short legs on a normal sized body. You could make the argument that it was a little messed up to breed a cat to have stubby, short little legs. If they ever got out in the wild, they’d probably lose a street fight with another cat because they wouldn’t have the same reach, or whatever. But you could also make the argument that it was completely awesome.
I picked up one of the cards that had fallen out and narrowed my eyes at the picture. It was my neighbor’s driver’s license. Bob Smith? I guess I was wrong on the whole Cade or Spade naming game, but Bob was almost worse. Maybe there’s someone out there named Bob who is super awesome—let’s be honest, probably not—but leave it to my neighbor to take a name like Bob and make me question all my previously held stereotypes about the name. Asshole.
I tossed the card back down into the box and thought long and hard. Opening someone's mail by mistake was pretty forgivable, I thought. So up until this point, I didn’t feel too guilty. If I dug into the papers in the envelope, on the other hand, I might have to start feeling bad. I grunted in annoyance and closed the flaps of the box back up. Whatever secrets Bob Smith was holding, I didn’t care enough to subject myself the small dose of guilt I’d feel from digging through his mail on purpose.
Someone knocked hard on my door. I scratched Rosevelt under his chin, then went to the door.
I carefully arranged my face before I pulled it open. I was aiming for “you have interrupted something extremely important,” but as soon as I saw my neighbor standing in the doorway, my expression went blank.
He was holding a purple dildo that had some really nice, prominent veins worked into the mold. Normally, I would've taken a moment to appreciate and bask in the craftsmanship. Solid mold-work. Nice finish on the silicone, and a great suction-capable base. Everything a girl could dream of. Deep down, I was probably embarrassed, but I learned a long time ago that it was better to own your embarrassment than hiding from it.
"Oh good. You found my date," I said, snagging the dildo from his hand. I emphasized my point by slamming the suction cup on the back of the balls against the door frame where it stuck and then began to wobble menacingly between our eyes.
He watched me with mild amusement. “Your date found his way into my mailbox. I was wondering if you got my package, too?”
“I think I’d know it if I got your package.”
He didn’t seem to think my pun-work was amusing. His arms were crossed in a way that managed to make his biceps and chest look lickable, though I thought I’d rather bite them. Guys like him had enough pleasure in their lives, after all.
“You’re sure?” he asked. There was a tense edge to his voice.
For some reason, his tone made me want to lie about my discovery. Maybe the universe had finally found a way to throw Mr. Perfect a much-deserved curveball. Unless having his parents dub him "Bob Smith" was its one and only attempt at balance. Maybe it saw inside my dark, twisted little heart and knew I was the perfect accomplice.
I crossed my arms right back at him and gave an Academy Award-worthy shrug. “Yeah. Pretty sure. I just got some cat food. Maybe she didn’t have enough space to put both packages in my box, so they shoved my dildo in your hole.”
His nostrils flared a little. They were nice nostrils if that was possible, and seeing a little bit of anger on his face only seemed to make him look more untouchably god-like. He had dark hair, a light dusting of stubble, and light gray eyes. His skin was a little pale, but I kind of liked that. It meant he at least didn't prance around outside, flexing his muscles, or worse—donning a banana hammock, greasing up, and sliding into one of those radiation chambers they call tanning beds.
After a long, tense pause, he sighed. “If it turns up, you know where to find me.”
“Sure.” I flicked the dildo, watched it wobble, and then yanked it free of the door frame with a two-handed grip. It made a vulgar schlup noise as I wrenched it free. “Thanks for bringing my date back, by the way.”
He sighed again and shut the door. My door. What kind of person shuts somebody else’s door to end a conversation?
I looked down at the dildo with an angry frown, like it might have the answers for me. I lobbed it even more angrily toward the couch, which unfortunately put Roosevelt in its direct path. He let a frightened little warcry loose as he dove out of the way.
I picked up the thick envelope inside the box one more time, hesitated, and then slid the papers back inside without looking. Sorry, universe. I don’t want to get dragged into this one.
2
Liam
I double checked the email on my phone. The package had been delivered this afternoon. Either the girl across the hall was lying, or it’d gone in someone else’s box. There was no way for me to check unless I wanted to waste the evening sitting in the lobby while I watched every last person check their mail. Even that was pointless because I didn’t know what size or type of box I was looking for, or if it had been collected earlier in the day.
None of that mattered.
I knew in my gut that the neighbor girl had it. I couldn’t figure out what her deal was. Ever since I’d moved in, she had done nothing but try to glare straight through me. It was like she knew--like somehow she saw right through me and the flimsy lies I'd wrapped myself in these past few weeks. It wasn't inconceivable, after all. My step-sister's pettiness had very few limits, and I wouldn't put it past her to bribe random people across the city to keep an eye out for someone matching my description. The neighbor girl could be texting Celia about the package right no
w, for all I knew.
I sunk down on the edge of my bed and raked my hands through my hair. I was still waiting for somebody to tell me the last few months had been a bad joke. My step-sister had always been batshit crazy, but her recent antics put everything in our past to shame.
I didn’t want to think about it. Any of it.
If I kept laying low, it’d blow over. Fighting back or making a big fuss would only prolong the frustration. If I didn’t give her any new ammunition, she’d get bored like she always did, and I could go back to my normal life. No more of these ridiculous distractions or games I’d been forced to play. I’d be free to focus on my company again, though even that idea felt hollow. The company had been my only concern for years now, and having to remove myself from it, even temporarily, was making me start to question why I was sidelining my entire life for my work.
I’d made all the money I could possibly need. I’d achieved the goals I set out to achieve. I was damn good at what I did, and there was no imperative for me to keep striving to be better, yet I felt compelled back to the office, to the grind and the competition. No relationship had ever been able to compete with that compulsion, but every day I spent laying low made me question my dedication even more. Maybe it was time to loosen up.
Somebody knocked at my door.
I hurried to the door and found the girl from across the hall standing there, glaring up at me from those eye-liner clad eyes of hers. “Here’s your stupid package. Turns out your name was on it. Whoops.”
His Package Page 1
