“Not right now, Dirty Bird!”
“Dirty Bird!”
I flipped the television on and started watching an episode of my favorite home improvement show while I waited for the pizza delivery guy to show up. The doorbell for the back door rang a little earlier than I expected, but I didn’t give it much thought. I grabbed my wallet and headed downstairs. I opened the door without looking to see who it was and regretted it immediately. Seriously, what kind of heinous act needed to be committed against me before I’d learn my lesson? Apparently attempted murder and stalking weren’t enough to do the trick.
“Oh, it’s you,” I said flatly. No one would volunteer me for the neighborhood welcoming committee. What I really wanted to say was, “What the fuck do you want?”
“Hello to you, too.” Emory “Fabio” Jackson wore a humorous smile plastered on his face. As if the dude commanded the wind, it kicked up as it had earlier in the day to send his hair floating artfully around his head. “I wanted to introduce myself formally,” he said, pushing the bottle of wine that sported a big red bow toward me.
I looked at the bottle suspiciously then back at him. “I don’t drink,” I lied.
“Oh.” His cheeks pinkened with embarrassment in the fading April sunlight. I almost felt bad for lying to him. The truth was, I irrationally didn’t want anything from him inside my house. “Your boyfriend perhaps?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh?” Was that hopefulness I heard in his voice?
How did he even know about Gabe anyway? He’d only lived next to me for a day. I had closed the damn bedroom curtains, so I was sure he hadn’t seen us getting naked. I reasoned that he would’ve had several chances to see Gabe coming and going from our home and calmed myself. “That’s much too tame of a word for what Gabe is to me,” I told him. “He’s more of a beer man, anyway. Thank you for thinking of us, though. Mrs. Hastings across the way loves that kind of wine. She’s the beige house with burgundy shutters.” I pointed to her house just in case my message wasn’t clear.
“Uh, okay,” he said slowly. I expected him to turn and walk back down the steps, but apparently, Emory was a glutton for punishment. “My name is Emory Jackson,” he said, extending his hand toward me.
I wasn’t proud of the way I scrutinized his hand. I wanted to tell him I was a germaphobe, but one lie was bad enough. I hesitantly shook his hand and was pleased when nothing weird happened. “Josh Roman,” I replied. “My boyfriend,” for lack of a better word, “is Gabriel Wyatt. He’s a detective with the Blissville PD with a big gun. Real big.” I was blabbering at that point because I just wanted the guy to go away and didn’t know how to make it happen without coming right out and saying it.
“Sunshine, are you touting my attributes to the pizza delivery guy again?” Gabe asked as he came down the stairs. I opened the door wider so Gabe could see who was on our back porch. “Oh, hey, you’re the new guy who moved in next door,” Gabe said with a friendly smile. “Gabriel Wyatt,” he said, extending his hand.
“Emory Jackson,” I said for our new neighbor. Both men looked at me oddly when they heard the hint of irritation in my voice. I really needed to learn how to be subtle.
“Look, Sunshine, he brought your favorite wine,” Gabe said, unknowingly betraying me.
Emory narrowed his eyes in confusion over why I lied to him about not drinking. I had no explanations for why I didn’t like him; I just didn’t. “Sunshine, huh?”
“Yep,” Gabe said, proud of the name he’d given me.
“I just bet he’s a ball of fire,” Emory commented. His eyes widened when he realized how his statement sounded. “I-I didn’t mean sexually.”
“Why the hell not?” I demanded. “You don’t think I can burn shit down?” Who was this guy who pushed himself in my space not once, but twice, and insulted me? “I burn hotter than you could possibly handle.”
“Take it easy there, Stud Muffin,” Gabe said good-naturedly. “He wasn’t insulting your sexual prowess. I think our new neighbor just meant you’re a feisty guy.”
I pinned Emory with a death glare and said, “I am feisty. All the time and everywhere.”
“I think I made the wrong impression here,” Emory said. He pushed the bottle of wine toward Gabe, who graciously accepted his offering. “I’m hoping not to make an ass of myself the next time we run into each other.” Next time he’d be in my chair, so if he got out of line, I’d change him from Fabio to Justin Bieber so fast his head would spin.
“You’re fine,” Gabe assured him. “We’re all good.”
Emory looked at me for several awkward moments. “No, but we will be in time,” he said before he turned and walked down the steps of the back porch. “Nice shirt, by the way.”
I looked down and saw I had put on one of the graphic tees that Gabe bought me. That one had a large blow dryer on the front and read: Want a blow job?
“What the fuck did he mean by that?” I asked when he was at the end of our driveway. I clearly wasn’t referring to his comment about my shirt.
“Why don’t you tell me,” Gabe said, watching the strange man across the alleyway that bisected our properties. The pizza delivery guy pulled in just as I opened my mouth to answer him. “Save that for when we’re back upstairs. I have a feeling it’s a long story.”
“It’s not a long story,” I told Gabe once we were upstairs on the couch with a plate of pizza on our laps. I told Gabe about me lusting after the racing stripes on his car and trying to guess who was moving in based on the furniture that the movers carried inside the house. “The man looked up at my window like he knew to look for me. It was like he was looking inside my brain.”
“Just how long were you watching the guy?” Gabe asked, pinning me with a narrowed gaze. “People know when they’re being watched. You know this from the time Billy slashed your tires. You once told me that you could feel him watching you.”
“I could feel his malevolence,” I told Gabe. “That’s not what this was. I was just checking out the new neighbor and had no ill will toward him.”
