“Go away, Charlie.”
The way my next-door neighbor says my name is like a swearword and it stings. It never matters if I’m trying to help the ungrateful brat, or if I desperately need help myself (such as last Monday my car wouldn’t start, and Sydney couldn’t even be bothered to borrow her dad’s jumper cables, so I was thirty minutes late to work); she always treats me like shit, even though I’ve done nothing to deserve it. I glare up at her from the bottom of her porch steps and mutter, “I just thought you’d like to know your dog is running off down the street.”
“What? No, he’s not!” She rushes past me to check the back gate, which I know she’ll find ajar, seeing as it was the second thing I noticed after witnessing her Golden Retriever book it down the road. “Shit!” She runs down the gravel drive barefoot, and then begins screaming his name into the wind. “Baxter! Baxter?”
“That’s not going to do any good!” I call after her, knowing that I shouldn’t care and that I shouldn’t help—it’s not like she’d ever do the same for me—but I’m a nice guy, what can I say?
I don’t want her stupid dog to get run over or anything. And for some reason I still want her to like me.
“We can take my car and find him together, if you want….” I offer softly as I come up behind her.
She’s crying now, her blue eyes wide with panic as she scans the empty street. Her mouth twists in distaste and I can tell she wants to tell me she doesn’t want to go with me, but I also know that she loves her dog (I often watch her and Baxter playing in their backyard from my bedroom window—and I even have a grainy video on my phone of her grooming and cuddling him).
Even with her tears making dark rivulets of mascara run down her pale face, she’s stunningly beautiful, and my breath catches in my throat as she nods slowly at me and whispers, “Okay.”
“Great! Give me one moment and I’ll pull around.”
I rush over to my driveway and dig my car keys out of my front pocket. It’s just an old Geo Metro, but unlike Sydney, at least I can afford to drive a car. Not many in our rundown neighborhood can say the same. Really, she’s lucky to have a friend like me—even if she’s not so keen on the us being friends part.
It only takes me a minute to pull the car up to her and I watch as she hesitates to open the door. “Hop in!” I call to her impatiently; the windows are rolled up but I know she can hear me. “Before Baxter gets too far away!”
Like an unwilling horse, my threat spurs her forward. The door makes a hideous noise as she wrenches it open, and then she leaps into the car, her sobs growing louder as she buckles herself in. I never knew she was such a crier. It’s kind of off-putting, really.
“It’ll be okay,” I say softly to her.
I think briefly about reaching out and patting her bare knee. The skin looks smooth and tanned and tantalizing, just peeking out from the hem of her long, modest skirt—but I know she’d probably take offense to my soothing gesture, so I don’t, instead putting my car into gear and going in the direction I saw her dog running in about fifteen minutes before.
“I didn’t mean to leave the stupid gate unlocked. He must’ve pushed into it or something—I swear I closed it.”
She sounds like she’s talking mostly to herself in a sort of frenzy, but I hum at her in acknowledgement, because I’d want someone to do the same for me. I can be a very good listener, and it’d be nice if she learned that sooner rather than later.
“It’s really Stanley’s fault. If he hadn’t gotten into a fight at school today mama wouldn’t have made me mind him while she went grocery shopping. Why do I always have to make sure he stays home when he’s grounded? He’s only a year younger than I am and—well, you’ve seen him! It’s not like I could stop him if he wanted to leave.”
I try to keep the scowl off of my face at the mention of Stanley—Sydney’s cunt of a younger brother who calls me, “That weird, stalker looking guy”. Although he’s only seventeen and I’m twenty-two, the kid outweighs me by at least thirty pounds and towers over me by a good few inches. He’s a monstrous hulk of worthlessness and I wish he’d get locked away in prison where he belongs.
I would never admit to any of that though, so I just say, “Man, that’s not right.”
“I know!” Sydney exclaims, and a rush of warmth spreads through me.
This must be the first time she’s ever agreed with me and damn it feels nice. I accelerate a little faster because I think I see a golden blob up in a patch of trees ahead, and I want to carry her goodwill into gratitude by finding her dog soon, if it’s possible.
“I think I see him, just up there….”
She bounces in her seat, practically shouting, “Yes! Yes, I think so!”, and a waft of something fruity and sweet hits me like a truck. Is that her shampoo or just how she smells?
Her scent and excitement makes the warmth turn into a brilliant heat. I gaze at her bright smile and something in my chest tugs so hard that I have to stop myself from wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into a hug. She’s not looking at me though. She’s looking out the window. She’s looking at her dog chewing a stick as he rolls in a grassy patch by the side of the road. I stop the car and blow out a long breath.
“What a naughty boy,” she croons as she opens the car door and unbuckles her seatbelt.
Blood rushes to my groin at those words, and I close my eyes for a moment, wishing that she’d said them to me—wishing her face flushed with the same excitement she’s showing at having found her dog for me. I try not to stare at her nicely rounded ass as she leans over and pets Baxter. She carefully takes his collar in one of her slim hands—God, don’t think about her touching you like that, my mind whirs—and I cover my erection with one arm as she turns to get back into the car.
“Tight fit,” I say with forced casualness as she puts the passenger seat forward and guides her dog into the back.
“I’ll just squeeze back here with him.”
“Sure.” I hope my voice doesn’t sound disappointed as she leaves the seat forward and smooshes herself into the back with the dog.
I can still sneak glances at her from the rearview mirror—especially now that she’s distracted, and that’s enough to put a smile on my face as I slowly drive them back home. Her white blouse is a little dirty, I notice, and it’s probably from hugging the dog. It’s conservative, like her skirt, with a high neckline and short sleeves that cover her shoulders, but her large breasts are hard to hide, even though I’m sure she wears a very supportive and modest bra.
Thinking about her bra isn’t helping my erection go down, but I can’t help it. I wonder if it’s white or cream or nude colored. I can’t imagine her wearing any other underwear color than those—although she’d definitely look good in red, with her long blonde hair and sapphire blue eyes . . . Well, honestly she’d look good in anything, but I’ve often imagined her in red, lacy things, with her lips painted crimson instead of barely brushed with clear gloss, and her eyelids rimmed in smoky black, instead of just sporting the barest hint of mascara.
She’d make a hot slut, yet I’m also really glad she’s not like that, because I’m sure if she wasn’t such a good-girl I wouldn’t waste my time trying to get to know her.
“Thanks for helping me find Baxter,” she says softly as I pull up to her house. She chews on the bottom of her lip, pausing for a long moment like she’s deliberating whether she should just get out of my car or if she should continue. Finally she whispers, “I’ve never been very nice to you and you had no reason to help me. So, thank you . . . really.”
“If you want to return the favor,” I find myself saying, before I can second guess myself, “you could come with me to my sister’s wedding next weekend. I need a plus one.”
The look on her face almost breaks my heart. She’s not looking at me, thank God, but her mouth twists all up and her eyes take on a dull, deadened look. I’m sure she wishes she would have just gotten out of the car now—and I’m almost tempted to take back my request. Almost.
“I guess so,” she says very quietly.
“Awesome.” I try to keep the sarcasm out of my tone, but it’s hard when she looks like she’s just swallowed a fly. I don’t know why she has to be so standoffish and cold all the time, but I’m also determined to wear her down and make her warm up to me. “I’ll pick you up at noon on Saturday. Don’t wear white.”
She doesn’t even crack a smile at my joke, merely nodding before she clambers out of my car with her dog. I only let myself watch her for a moment, my eyes stuck on how her pretty bare feet tread very lightly across the gravel, as though her petite frame doesn’t weigh enough for it to hurt very much. I bet even with my ropey arms I could carry her for hours—and toss her all around in the bedroom, amongst other things.
When I get back to my room, I don’t stop myself from remembering her excited smile or recalling all the nice things she said to me. It all rushes through me as I quickly fist my cock and spill all over one of the pictures I took of her last Spring; she’s wearing a white dress and has a silvery tiara on her head—the side of her face is smeared with a bit of frosting, due to one of her friends catching up to her with a piece of birthday cake. Freshly eighteen, smiling, and bright eyed. A picture of perfection. She looks especially good now, happy with my cum all over her face.
My head clears as I crumple up the soiled picture and toss it in the wastebasket by my computer desk. I have a hundred copies of that one—all grainy and all printed from the cheap printer that sits on a stack of old newspapers (they might look ratty, but they make an adequate table). Sydney will probably cancel on me at the last minute before the wedding. I’ll be the dateless loser like always, but this time I won’t be stupid enough to tell any of my family that I might have a girlfriend. I’m sure they are beyond believing me at this point, and I’m sure they think I’ll die alone and un-kissed—not to mention, a complete virgin.
I’m not even that ugly. Awkward perhaps, with facial scars from bad acne, but I have a decent enough face, I think, and although my teeth are kind of crooked, I’ve been trying to smile more. People just always assume I’m creepy or mean. If only Sydney could see past my insecurities, she would be able to see how much I worship the ground she walks on and how good I would treat her. If only she’d just give me the chance!
There’s always that weird powder I bought at that festival that I could try. The guy that sold it to me had said something like, “Got girl problems? Blow this in one’s face and she’ll do whatever you want. One dose works for like two hours. Only twenty bucks a pop, kid. What say you?”
I’d said ‘sure’ like a moron and bought a hundred dollars worth. I’m fairly certain it’s some sort of drug—maybe ecstasy or something (I’m not very familiar with drugs; the most I’ve ever done is smoke a cigarette while drinking a few cheap beers)—or maybe it’s just a bag of chalk and I’ll really piss some poor girl off one day.
Maybe that girl will be Sydney. If she cancels on me, then it’ll definitely be Sydney.