A Day in The Neighborhood Ch. 01

Disclaimer: All characters are purely fictional and over the age of 18.

Brett Anderson stood in the second-story window, sweat-cooled skin pressed against the sill, his cock still half-hard and ruddy from the girl on his bed. The sun had slumped past the neighbor's roofline, washing the street with an array of colors and giving everything, especially her, a kind of dirty, golden glow.

He barely glanced at the girl, though she was splayed naked on the sheets, arms and thighs painted with the fingerprints of his last hour's work, her ribs hitching with post-orgasmic tremors. His attention was on the house next door, the driveway, the sedan rolling slow into its spot.

A shadow passed over the lawn,and attached to it, she was there. Mrs. Sarah Thorne. He could barely think her name without getting a electric shock to his cock.

She drifted out of the house, bare legs tanned and toned, her ass poured into tiny running shorts, hair in a careless ponytail. Even from here, thirty feet and two stories away, Brett knew exactly what her chest would look like: high, perky, probably a 36C. He'd measured the bounce of her tits a hundred times when she ran in the mornings, watched her from the bleachers during community charity 5ks, even once from behind her in line at the post office.

The color of her nipples was easy to imagine, pale pink with a rusty brown edge, the color of a sunrise or the inside of a peach, depending on the day. He loved the cluster of light freckles high on her left breast, and the way they faded across her chest. She just had that kind of body, the kind where the closer you got the more you wanted to stare. The kind where you could barely believe she wasn't on the cover of something. The kind that made you want to lick every flaw, to memorize them as proof this was real and not some sick daydream.

He moved his thumb slowly up and down his cock, not to jerk it--he was too tired from before--but just because it felt good, because it was his and she was his and the world was fucking unfair.

The girl on the bed--what was her name? Courtney? Maybe Kelsey, whimpered, rolled to her side. "Brett, do you have any water? My mouth is, like, so dry," she called, in that pained, performative way girls did when they wanted to remind you they existed.

He didn't answer, didn't even look. He watched Mrs. Thorne float across the driveway, her bare feet silent on the concrete, then pop up on her toes to plant a kiss on her husband. Fred, the executive. Tall and boring, suit even on Friday night, hairline a little more desperate every year. Brett could tell he was tired--suit jacket over the arm, tie already loosened, a kid's drawing of a man who gave up but couldn't admit it. Sarah clung to him for half a second longer than necessary, then stepped back, head cocked, her lips moving. Even from here, Brett could tell the smile was fake. He watched her fingers, how they laced and unlaced nervously behind her back, how she bit her lip as Fred said something and then broke eye contact almost immediately. She was always like that, always half-here, half-somewhere else.

"You going to bring me water or what?" the girl groaned, louder now.

"Jesus, get it yourself," Brett said, without taking his eyes from the window. He heard her fumble off the bed, clutch the sheet around her. She was slow--probably from the bruise he'd left on her hip, the way he'd bent her over the edge of the desk and just hammered until she was sobbing and half-limp. It was a habit with him lately, like maybe if he fucked these girls hard enough, rough enough, it would get Sarah Thorne out of his head. But it never did. If anything, it made it worse.

He kept watching. Sarah and Fred disappeared into the garage. Brett tried to picture it. Her pressed against the hood, hands flat, skirt hitched up around her waist. He wondered if she wore panties, or if she was the kind of woman who got off on the risk, on the thought that maybe someone would see. He imagined himself as Fred, unbuttoning her blouse, cupping her tits from behind--except, no, not Fred. He couldn't get hard for that. It had to be him, Brett, the bad boy neighbor, the muscle-bound secret, making her shiver with every breath. He imagined her moaning, imagined her fighting it at first. She's too proper, married, so sure she could resist, and then caving, opening her legs, pulling him deeper, her breath going ragged, her nails digging into his back. He saw her on all fours, his handprint red on her ass, and for a second he was about to lose it again, right there against the window.

The girl reappeared, still naked, hair plastered to her face with sweat. She stared at herself in the mirror, blinking at the darkening bruises on her throat, at the bites along her shoulder. She touched her lips, then spit into the sink.

"You're such a fucking psycho, you know that?" she said, not really mad, more impressed.

Brett ignored her. He was picturing Sarah again, this time in the shower, water running down her chest, her nipples pebbling, her back arching as she bent over to shave her legs. Did she shave everything? He bet she did. He bet it was like silk, with just the faintest ridge of goosebumps. He wanted to bury his face in it, taste the sweat after her morning run, see if she really tasted like lavender and salt like he'd always imagined.

The girl watched him in the mirror, her expression a mix of disgust and desire. "You looking at your neighbor again?" she said, voice thin but playful.

Brett grinned. "Maybe. You jealous?"

"Fuck off. You're sick." She wiped her mouth, then padded to the center of his bedroom, scooping up her bra and skirt with slow, deliberate movements. She didn't put them on, just held them like a trophy. "What is it with her, anyway?"

Brett shrugged. "She's perfect."

The girl laughed, ugly and sharp. "Yeah, perfect. Good luck with that." She pulled on her panties, wincing as the elastic came over the bruise on her hip, then twisted her hair into a knot. "Are you gonna call me again?"

"Maybe," Brett said. He still hadn't moved from the window.

She rolled her eyes, defeated. She gathered her things and left, slamming the door behind her. He heard her stomp down the stairs, the click of the latch as she let herself out.

Brett barely noticed. The car was back in view now, the trunk open, Fred and Sarah unloading his carry-on and backpack. The modern day sign of a well traveled businessman. Fred bent over, struggling with something heavy, and Sarah watched him with an expression that made Brett's chest ache. Not pity, not love, just emptiness. She caught Brett's gaze, maybe by accident, maybe not. For a second, their eyes locked across the driveway, and Brett felt his cock throb against the windowsill.

He smiled, slow and wide, until she looked away.

*****

A couple hours later, Sarah Thorne set the table with some light music playing in the background. The house was clean, too clean given that she didn't have much else to do. She'd had some wine earlier and plenty of time to think with Fred away for work. Her week of planning all perfectly prepared.

She'd picked her dress with calculation. Butter-yellow, clingy in the places she wanted to be noticed, but light enough to embody the perfect housewife she was. Beneath it, a new set of lingerie: black mesh, delicate, the bra cupping her breasts high and round, the thong nothing more than a string and a few triangles of shadow. It was more risk than she usually took, but it had been a month since Fred last touched her in any way that mattered, and the idea of another sexless night made her want to scream.

She checked the oven, even though she knew everything was fine. Lasagna, Fred's favorite, though lately he ate like he was fulfilling a duty, all appetite routed to with the goal of getting back to his phone or the glowing laptop screen. She caught a glimpse of herself in the microwave door: the hair pulled back tight to keep sweat off her neck, the small lines at the corners of her mouth that she pretended didn't exist. Her mother always said thirty was when the beauty left and the desperation set in. Sarah was thirty-three, and the two were now locked in a slow, poisonous dance.

Fred came in from down the hall still in his suit since he got home. He was in his office, or his lair as Sarah like to call it and the dragon only came out when he was hungry. His footsteps were her starting bell. She took a breath, checked her lipstick, then arranged her face into the version of herself she thought he liked best: composed, warm, just the right amount of expectant.

"Hey, babe," Fred called as he entered, the word a placeholder for any real feeling. He leaned on the granite countertop, then immediately flicked open his phone, scrolling with the addictive boredom of a chronic gambler.

"Hi," Sarah said. She wanted to say "Welcome home," or "I missed you," but both sounded either too old-fashioned or too desperate. "Dinner's almost ready."

"Smells great." He didn't look up. His thumbs worked the screen with the precision of a surgeon.

Sarah stood beside him, letting the silence build. She wondered if he'd notice her perfume--she'd dabbed it behind her ears, between her breasts, even along her inner thighs, just in case. Fred didn't glance up until the microwave beeped, and then only to ask for a glass of water.

She poured it, setting it beside him. He drank without thanks, eyes never leaving the phone.

Sarah tried again. "I saw that the Andersons had landscapers out today. They pulled the hedges in the back."

Fred nodded, then: "That was Robert's crew, right? Did you meet him?"

"I did. He seems nice." She didn't know or care who Fred meant, but she'd learned it was better to agree, to be agreeable. "How was the flight?"

"Delayed. Usual bullshit." He pocketed the phone, only to have it buzz again a second later. He checked the screen, mouth tightening, then tossed it on the counter. "Sorry. Client from Singapore. Keeps forgetting the time difference."

Sarah made a sound, something between sympathy and accusation. "Must be exhausting. All that travel."

Fred shrugged, already half-removed from the room, then shucked off his jacket and draped it over the kitchen chair. She noticed the sweat stains under the arms, the way the white shirt clung to his skin. He looked older than she remembered, the graying at his temples less "distinguished" than "worn down."

He sniffed, then poured himself a whiskey--neat, two fingers, just like every night. Sarah watched the ice cube bob, its sharp click against the glass another tick to say her time with him was almost up.

"Can I help with anything?" he asked, as if reading from a script.

"Just sit. I'll bring it out."

She plated the food with the care, layering cheese and sauce so that each bite would melt perfectly on his tongue. She set the table, poured some wine, then called him over.

They ate in silence for three minutes minus the clinks of their forks and knives.

"How was your day?" Fred finally asked, looking at a point just above her shoulder.

Sarah's mind blanked, then scrambled to assemble something worth saying. "Busy. Garden club is planning the summer fundraiser. I volunteered to chair the auction."

Fred nodded, eyes on the lasagna, then: "Isn't that a lot for you right now?"

Sarah bristled. "I like being involved. It keeps me...active."

Fred's phone buzzed again. He ignored it for two seconds, then excused himself to the den, glass in hand. "I'll be back in a bit. Singapore."

Sarah listened to him leave, the quiet of the house swelling behind him like a tumor.

She picked at her lasagna, appetite gone, then carried her plate to the sink. The window above it looked straight into the Andersons' kitchen. She saw Brett was home. She sometimes saw him mowing the lawn, going for a run, or playing basketball in his driveway. As she thought more he was always in the same state. Shirtless and sweat striping his back in dark, hungry lines. She felt bad for him in a way, a senior in high school, barely 18, and already saddled with so much growing up without his father around. His mother, Joan, was a legend in the neighborhood, her gaze like a knife and her opinions even sharper. Sarah couldn't imagine what it was like to grow up under that kind of scrutiny, but Joan was also her friend and closest confidant in the neighborhood.

She poured herself another small glass of wine--just enough to take the edge off--and sat at the table, listening to Fred's muffled voice through the wall. It was more intimate than actual conversation; she imagined what it would be like if he just yelled at her, got it out in the open, instead of swallowing everything until it became a permanent lump in his throat.

She wondered if it Fred felt what she felt. She wondered if he still wanted the family they once loved to dream openly about with each other. At least one boy and one girl to bring up in this beautiful house they moved into when they got married. She'd be on the PTA and he'd coach little league. Why did that dream seem so distant now? Why does it feel like they missed their chance? She was quickly reminded of the answer.

It was barely 7 when Fred re-emerged, eyes bloodshot, tie loose, jaw slack. "I'm wiped," he said. "You mind if I turn in early?"

Sarah swallowed her response, the one that wanted to scream, to beg. "Of course not," she said. "I'll clean up."

He nodded, then went upstairs, feet heavy on the steps. Sarah heard the door close, then the click of his laptop, then the blue light flicker under the crack.

She cleared the table, then retreated to the master bath. She undressed slowly, letting the dress slip to the tile, then stood in the mirror in her lingerie. She tried to see herself as Fred might have seen her: the lift of her breasts, the shallow bowl of her stomach, the way the black mesh highlighted the dimple above her ass. She turned, studied her profile, ran her hands over her hips. The lingerie was expensive and new, the kind of thing she would have saved for an anniversary. But anniversaries didn't matter anymore. Nothing did, except this desperate need to be wanted, to be seen.

She lingered for a moment, then padded into the bedroom. Fred was propped up against the headboard, laptop balanced on his thighs, the glow painting his face ghostly white. He looked up, and for half a second there was something in his eyes--surprise, maybe even hunger. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"You look...really good," he said. "Damn."

Sarah smiled, letting the compliment soak in. "Thank you," she whispered, advancing on him.

Fred closed the laptop, then patted the bed beside him. "Hey, let's save it for tomorrow, okay? I'm just...dead tonight."

She sat beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. She felt his heat, the nearness of him, but there was a wall now, thicker than brick, and she didn't have the tools to breach it.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Of course."

He kissed her on the cheek, then rolled over, asleep in minutes.

Sarah lay there, rigid, staring at the ceiling. Her body buzzed with anger, humiliation, desire. She tried to calm herself, but the thoughts wouldn't settle. She wanted to scream, to break something, to run until her legs gave out. She knew it was the only way to achieve peace of mind after this evenings anticlimactic finish.

She got up, stripped out of the lingerie, then put on her favorite running clothes. Tight purple yoga pants, sports bra that barely pulled down to the bottom of her breasts but provided great support, and a black tank top. On a whim, she left the mesh thong under the yoga pants.

Fred was already snoring as she crept downstairs, every step a small rebellion. She left the house without locking the door, without looking back, and let the darkness swallow her whole.

*****

Sarah ran until her lungs burned and her vision tunneled, every step pounding the anger further down into the meat of her thighs. Her breath was steamy in the night, and she relished how the ache of her calves made the ache in her chest feel smaller. She didn't keep track of laps or time--she just circled the block again and again, letting the rhythm of her body hypnotize her.

Sweat plastered her tank top to her torso, the fabric gone nearly sheer over her sports bra. Her yoga pants clung, outlining every flex and ripple of her hamstrings, the mesh thong underneath an intermittent tickle she could almost pretend was a lover's tongue. She told herself it didn't matter who saw her like this, that the neighborhood was asleep, that she was invisible beyond the few lights that lined the street.

By the fourth lap her anger had faded to a dull, residual heat. Her mind wandered to nowhere. She thought of Fred's hand on her lower back from their first date, then randomly the taste of coffee from her favorite cafe in town, the time Brett Anderson fell off his bike and she patched his knee with a Snoopy bandaid. He'd been, what, ten? Eleven? He'd cried--loud and unashamed--then grabbed her hand and held it all the way as she walked him home.

She almost laughed now, thinking about how the neighborhood gossips had spun that into a story about her being too touchy, too maternal like she was compensating for her empty house. In truth, Brett was just a sweet, lonely kid. He'd been over at their house constantly: shoveling the walk in winter, mowing the lawn in summer, always hanging around. Joan--his mother--was a hard woman, and Sarah suspected he came over less for the chores than for the cookies and the safety. She didn't blame him. Everyone craved refuge somewhere.

She slowed as she approached her front walk, heart racing, shirt clinging to her sides. She bent over to catch her breath, palms braced on her knees. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and cut grass, and for a moment she just let herself float in it, the exhaustion almost better than the orgasm she had originally planned.

She straightened, about to head in, when a voice startled her from the darkness.

"Hey, Mrs. Thorne?"

She whirled, pulse spiking. Brett Anderson stepped from the shadow of his mother's garage, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his sweats. He'd grown at least a foot since last summer, and filled out besides--broad shoulders, thick wrists, the suggestion of a six pack under the white t-shirt. In the half-light his face was still boyish, but the way he looked at her was anything but.

"Oh, Brett," she breathed, hand to her chest. "You scared me. What are you doing out here?"

He shrugged, his eyes flicking over her body in a way she pretended not to notice. "Car trouble. Won't start. My mom's out and I tried to call, but..." He let the sentence trail off, a practiced helplessness in his voice.

Sarah wiped sweat from her brow, suddenly aware of the state she was in. "I don't know anything about cars," she laughed.

He smiled, sheepish and charming. "I just need someone to hold the flashlight. You'd be saving my ass."

She hesitated. The house behind her was dark, Fred probably asleep and dreaming of spreadsheets. She didn't want to go in yet, didn't want to face another hour alone in the cool, perfect silence.

"Okay," she said. "Lead the way."

The inside of the garage was a different world--cool, metallic, the air thick with the smell of motor oil and rubber. Brett gestured her to the old Volvo, then handed her a flashlight.

"Just shine it here?" he said, popping the hood and pointing to the mess of cables and hoses underneath.

She nodded, holding the light steady as he leaned in, his forearms flexing as he fiddled with the battery. They worked in silence for a minute, Sarah shifting her weight from foot to foot, the adrenaline of the run mixing oddly with the intimacy of the moment.