The Couple Next Door

Excerpt

The Couple Next Door
Rick R. Reed © 2020
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

How many disappointing dates will I endure before I just give up?

I mean, here I am, a perfectly attractive, fit, self-sufficient thirty-year-old, and I’m still waiting to meet the man of my dreams. Mr. Right. Hell, tonight I’d even settle for that character who seems to come along on dates for most of us, the all-too-common Mr. Right Now. But even he isn’t on the seat beside me. In fact, I strongly doubt he’s anywhere in the vicinity of the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle where I live.

Believe me, I’ve looked.

Mr. First Date pulls his Ford Fusion up to the curb in front of my apartment building on Aloha Avenue. We sit in awkward silence for several long moments, listening as the engine ticks down as it cools. I can feel him looking at me. As he’s done most of the evening, he waits for me to speak. I turn my head and, in the dark, give him a weak smile. The date, dinner at a little sushi place on Broadway, had not gone well, full of uncomfortable silences, awkward pauses, and desperate looks around for avenues of escape—on both our parts.

Do I need to say we just didn’t click?

I didn’t think so.

So what he says now surprises me.

“Do you want me to come up?”

Really? We’ve just spent an hour and a half of agony together, trying to find a snippet of common ground that doesn’t exist, and he’s wondering if I want him to come up, which we all know is code for “Shall we make the beast with two backs?”

Seriously? The most irksome thing is, I’m considering it. I mean, he’s cute in spite of our lack of social connection. He’s a games developer for a software company here in town and looks it, with a sort of hipster/geek vibe going on. He has red hair, which I love. He has a beard, which I love. He wears retro glasses, which make him look paradoxically goofy and sexy—which I love.

Would it be so terrible to sleep with him? I mean, it’s been at least two weeks since I’ve enjoyed the charms of anyone other than Mr. Thumb and his four sons, so at least in terms of a release, maybe I should just say “Sure” and open the car door. If things go like some of my dates in the past, he’d follow me upstairs to my apartment and be back in his car in, like, fifteen minutes.

No, I tell myself. And then I tell him, shaking my head, looking sad, and saying the words countless heartbreakers have used over the years to stop ardent passion in its errant tracks.

“I’m sorry, Neil. But I have to get up early.” Lamely, I pat his hand. “Maybe another time.”

I don’t need to be psychic to know that we both know another time ain’t gonna happen.

Neil seems relieved as he restarts his car. He shrugs. “It’s okay. Club Z’s just a couple minutes away, right? Down Broadway and a right on Pike—easy.”

He grins at me, and I wonder if he expects me to laugh. Club Z is one of Seattle’s filthiest bathhouses, and yes, it’s only a few minutes away. He doesn’t seem to need directions.

It’s my turn to be relieved that I didn’t actually succumb to the temptation of inviting this jerk upstairs. Wordlessly, I get out of the car and slam the door behind me.

Neil roars off into the damp and still night.

I pause and sigh, staring up at the building in which I’ve lived for the past five years. It’s an okay place, an old redbrick three story with none of the modern amenities—no stainless steel, granite countertops, or gas fireplaces. My apartment is homey. It even has the original tile, sink, and claw-foot tub in its single bathroom. The living room is large, with three big windows that look out on Aloha and let in lots of light—on the days when we have sun in Seattle (that means usually summer days). The floors are scuffed original hardwood. The kitchen actually has a pantry and built-in china hutch. I’ve painted the place a cheery, soft yellow.

Upstairs, the TV, with its DVRed episodes of at-odds Sons of Anarchy and Downton Abbey, awaits. Upstairs, there’s the gelato I love from Whole Foods in the freezer—hazelnut dark chocolate.

Such is my life. Comfortable and a little lonely.

Sometimes I wonder, like Peggy Lee, if that’s all there is.

I head toward the glass-paned front door. I grope in my jeans for my keys. The mail had not yet arrived before I left for my date, and I wonder if there will be any surprises in the vestibule mailbox. You know, like an actual letter from someone, standing out from the usual assortment of bills and solicitations by the cursive spelling out of my name—Jeremy Booth.

My problem is I always have hope, even when there’s little reason.

I open the front door, and that’s when everything changes. My life turns upside down. I go from bored discontent to panic in a split second.

The first thing I hear is someone shouting “No!” in an anguished voice. I look up from the lobby to see two figures on the staircase above, on the second-floor landing. One is a guy who looks menacing and so butch he could pose for a Tom of Finland poster. An aura of danger radiates from him. Aside from his imposing and muscular frame, he’s even wearing the right clothes—tight, rolled jeans and a black leather biker jacket with a chain snaking out from beneath one of the epaulets. His high- and tight-buzzed hair gives him a military—and mean—air. He has his hands on the shoulders of a guy who looks a bit younger and much slighter, making me want to call up the stairs, “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” The smaller guy, blond and clad only in a pair of pajama bottoms, struggles with his attacker, looking terrified. Their movements, clumsy and rough, would be comical if they weren’t so scary. The smaller guy is panting and batting ineffectually at the bigger one.

“Please! No! Don’t!” the smaller guy manages to get out, his voice close to hysteria.

I have never seen either of these men before. In fact, the whole scene has the quality of the surreal, a dream. The danger and conflict pulsing down the stairs makes my own heart rate and respiration accelerate, causing feelings of panic to rise within me.

And then the worst happens. The big butch guy shoves the smaller one hard, and all at once he’s tumbling heavily down the stairs toward me.

The fall is graceless, and it looks like it hurts. It’s over so fast that I’m left gasping.

I look up to see the leather-jacket guy sneer down at his mate, lying crumpled and crying at my feet, and then turn sharply on his heel to go back into a second-floor apartment that had been vacant yesterday. He slams the door. The sound of the deadbolt sliding into place is like the report of a shotgun. Both slam and lock resound like thunderclaps, echoing in the tile lobby, punctuation to the drama and trauma of this short scene.

I switch into Good Samaritan mode and drop to my knees at the sniveling, crumpled mess of a man lying practically at my feet.

“Are you okay?” I ask and reach out to lightly touch his shoulder.

He jerks away and, wincing, pulls himself up into an awkward sitting position. He stares at me with clear blue eyes for a moment, almost as though he’s trying to place me. He finally looks away.

“My ankle is throbbing. It hurts like hell. Maybe I twisted it.”

I don’t know what to say, other than to ask, “Would you like to try and stand? Test it out?”

He nods.

I lean over to grip him under the arms—it’s damp there, and I can smell the ripe aroma of body odor, probably inspired by fear or panic—and pull. He comes up with me and then stumbles, wincing and crying out.

“Damn. I might have sprained it when I fell.” His eyes are so appealing, in both senses of the word, as he stares at me, as though seeking direction for what to do next. He leans on me, taking his weight off the injured ankle.

I keep my arm around him, and together we limp over to a bench set beneath the bank of common mailboxes. We sit.

“What do you want to do?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I think Cole may have locked me out for the night.”

I look up the stairs at the closed door and imagine the frame vibrating from its recent slam. I notice then that my new acquaintance is shivering. It’s a typical Seattle winter night—chilly and damp—and the vestibule has poor heat. Good thing, I think, that I’ve worn a hoodie over my T-shirt. I unzip it and take it off and then hold it out to him. “You could wear this.”

“Are you sure?” Without waiting for an answer, he takes it from me and puts it on. He zips it up to his throat and pulls the hood up over his thick blond hair.

“I’m sure.” I grin. “I’m Jeremy. Jeremy Booth. I live here in the building.” I stare down at the lobby’s worn linoleum floor, not sure what else to say or do.

“Shane McCallister. I just moved in today.” He casts a nervous glance up the stairs. “Well, John and I just moved in this afternoon. From Chicago.” He tries to give me a smile, but it comes out sad.

I nod. “I thought you said his name was Cole.”

Shane laughs and his cheeks redden. “Did I? I meant John. Sorry.”

We stare at one another for a second—a second in which I feel as though I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.

They must have done their moving while I was out working this afternoon. I rub my chin and then say, because my mama taught me right, “Well, Shane, I can’t just leave you here like this. Do you want to come up to my place?” I think for a moment, get a better idea. “Or maybe I could take you over to First Hill, where all the hospitals are, get you to an emergency room so you can have that ankle looked at. It could be something worse than a sprain. You should do that, you know. I have a car. It’s parked in the back.”

Suddenly, chauffeuring this downtrodden stranger to one of the hospitals in the next neighborhood over seems more appealing to me, more exciting, than the date I just came home from.

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

I wave his protest away. “Yes, you could. You’re new in town, right? Do you have someone else you could call?” I pull my iPhone out of my jeans pocket and hold it out to him.

He looks at it strangely and just shakes his head. “We haven’t really made any friends here yet.”

“Well then, it’s settled. Let me run you over to Virginia Mason or Swedish.” I peer into those icy blue, yet magnetic, eyes. “Okay?”

“We don’t have health insurance,” Shane blurts out.

“Let’s not worry about that right now.” I stand and comb my fingers through my dark hair. “If your ankle’s broken or even sprained, you need to get it taken care of. That’s not something that heals on its own.”

He simply stares at me.

I sigh. “Look, I’m gonna run up to my place, get you some shoes—I have some shearling-lined moccasins that will probably fit—and they won’t hurt…much. I’ll grab you a shirt too. Are you gonna be all right here?” I glance nervously back up the stairs, but there’s no John, or anyone else, glowering down at us. The apartment building is still this Thursday night, caught in no-man’s-land between people getting home from work and departing for an evening of revelry farther south on Broadway at the gay bars.

“I’ll be okay,” Shane says softly.

He seems to shrink into himself, and my heart goes out to him. Poor guy! I have never understood why anyone would allow himself or herself to stay in an abusive relationship. At least that’s what I assume this pair have going on. I can ponder—or maybe even ask the guys themselves, although I already think I’ll be avoiding John—more about their situation later. Right now, duty calls.

I start up the stairs, and Shane calls out, “Jeremy?”

I turn, halfway up the stairs, realizing suddenly that these two are my new next-door neighbors. “Yeah?”

“Thanks. Not everyone would do this.”

“Sure they would,” I say, not at all sure that I speak the truth. I pause for a minute, still uncertain about what I’m getting myself into. That John character looked pretty menacing. What if he comes after us? Comes after me? What if he thinks my Good Samaritan act is an attempt to go after his lame boyfriend? I shake my head and continue trudging up the stairs. Sometimes life offers us very limited alternatives. I can’t just leave the guy on his own, friendless and hurt. And even taking him into my place is out of the question—he could be seriously injured. There are a million questions on my lips, and for right now I think the best course of action is to leave them unasked. “I’ll be right back.”

And then I hightail it up the stairs. In quick succession I unlock my door and dash into my apartment to hurriedly gather up the things I promised, fearing that at any moment John might return. He looked like the type who might do even more harm to Shane, and I don’t want any part of that. He appears to be a man who talks with his fists as much as his mouth, and my sympathy for poor Shane has manifested itself quickly and completely.

In record time, I return with a plain black T-shirt and the aforementioned moccasins. I help Shane stand and get everything on. “My car’s out back in the lot. It ain’t much, but it’ll get us there.” I slide my arm around Shane and guide him down the central corridor that leads to the back door and the parking lot.

Somehow I have the feeling my life is about to change.

*

We get back a little after eleven. The ER was busy and the wait was long. No insurance? Get thee to the back of the line! Fortunately for Shane, his ankle was just mildly sprained, and he’s added only an Ace bandage to his ensemble. They offered him crutches, but he told me he already had a pair at home, which chilled me.

During the ride to Swedish Medical Center and even in the ER waiting room, Shane was quiet, distant, and reserved, staring off into space. When I would try to engage him in conversation, even about the mundane, stuff like asking if he wanted a soda from the vending machine, he would answer only in monosyllables and then look away, as if it was painful to talk.

And what do I know? Maybe it was. After all, I had just witnessed the guy being flung down a flight of stairs by a man I assume is his lover, partner, boyfriend, husband? It’s understandable that he would have been shaken up and wanting to withdraw. Who wouldn’t?

But now, as we enter the lobby once more in the dead of the night, Shane becomes more talkative, perhaps because he has no other choice. He looks up the stairs and then back at me. In a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “I don’t know if I’m welcome up there tonight.”

I want to shake him. I want to ask what’s the matter with him. Not welcome? It’s his home, and this asshole just beat him and flung him down a flight of stairs without an ounce of concern. I want to ask why he’s even with this guy, why he would allow himself to be treated so horribly. Instead I stick my neck out, knowing I might be putting myself smack dab in the middle of a domestic relations problem that does not have to be my own and say, “Listen. You can stay at my place tonight. You don’t want to go back there anyway, do you?”

“Oh, Jeremy, that’s really nice of you. But I can’t impose on you any more than I’ve already done. Maybe you could just call me a cab and send me to the nearest hotel or motel.”

He looks into my eyes searchingly, and what he says next also chills me.

“I’ve done it before.”

Again, there’s a lot I want to say to this young man, about standing up for himself, about not allowing himself to be abused more than once. Having grown up in a house where my father abused my mother physically, I know the soul-sapping destruction this kind of abuse can wreak firsthand. I also know, sadly, how the abused can often feel trapped, even going so far as to make excuses for their abuser. How many times had my mother urged me to be more understanding about my father when he hit her, or shoved her into the car, or said something so cruel it was as cutting and painful as a physical blow?

But again, I only met Shane a few hours ago. We’ve exchanged little more than a few banal words. I don’t really even know him. Maybe the opportunity will come up sometime to talk more to him. Or maybe this night will be an anomaly and we’ll become simply ships that pass in the night—or at least the common bank of mailboxes in the lobby. “Don’t be silly. There’s no reason for you to stay in a motel.” I grin at him and try to lighten the situation. “Your virtue will be perfectly safe with me. I won’t expect you to share my bed.”

Shane laughs at that, and the laughter and the smile make me feel a little better. I like the way his smile lights up his face, erasing all the darkness that was there just moments before.

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”

“And I will be fine on the couch,” Shane offers.

“You’ll do no such thing. You’re the injured party. You take my bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Sleeping arrangements settled, we start tentatively up the stairs, Shane clinging to me as he makes his way, trying his best to avoid putting any weight on the sprained ankle. We go quiet as we head upstairs, and I think it’s because we’re both afraid John will open the door. I strongly suspect Shane would not like that. And I know I wouldn’t.

“Which apartment is yours?” Shane asks, and I notice he’s whispering, which lends credence to my suspicion that the last thing he wants is to see John again tonight.

“I’m right next door to you guys.”

Shane’s hand on my arm tightens. “That’s nice. I already have a friend in the building.”

I smile and nod. “You sure do, Shane. But I wish we didn’t have to meet under circumstances like these, memorable as they are.”

“You and me both,” Shane says. He continues, voicing words that fill me with dread. “But you probably got the wrong idea about John. He’s not so bad, really. He just has a temper, and sometimes I get in his way.”

As I grope in my jeans pocket for the keys to my front door, I look at Shane and fail to keep the expression of slack-jawed amazement off my face. I slowly shake my head. I can’t help myself from voicing the truth. “Don’t. There’s no excuse for pushing someone down a flight of stairs. There’s no excuse, really, for laying your hands on another person to do them harm.”

I don’t wait for a response. I unlock the front door and help Shane inside. “Why don’t you just sit here on the couch?” I lead him over to the beat-up couch I picked up at Goodwill and that I like to kid myself is “midcentury modern” when it’s really just tacky and an embarrassment.

After he’s settled on the couch with his ankle up on the coffee table, I ask, “Do you want anything? You’re probably worn out and just want to get to sleep, huh?” Although Shane might be tired, the events that transpired tonight have left me feeling strangely restless and energized. “I could make us some tea.”

“That would be nice. I’d like that.”

I start toward the kitchen and call over my shoulder, “I have some English breakfast, which has, of course, caffeine and some Sleepytime, which, of course, does not. Which would you like?”

“Give me the English breakfast, please.”

I head into the kitchen and hear Shane mutter, “I probably won’t sleep much tonight anyway.”

I just want to wrap my arms around him and tell him things will be okay, which even I know, this early in the game, is most likely a lie. “Coming right up!”

I busy myself in the kitchen, filling the teakettle, setting it on the stove to boil, pulling down mugs from the cupboard (Fiestaware, made across the river from where I grew up so many years ago), and grabbing a couple of tea bags from the canister on my Formica-topped counter. I lean against that same counter as I wait for the steam to rise from the spout of the kettle, hoping to arrest the kettle before it begins to scream. I also want these few minutes alone to think about the evening, to think about my new neighbors.

Curiously, or maybe not, my date earlier this evening barely registers as a significant event. Hell, my workday cleaning apartments and condos here in the neighborhood seems more memorable. But what really sticks out, of course, is the recent events I’ve borne witness to. I’ve been so busy all night taking care of Shane and worrying about him that I haven’t really had time to catch my breath, to stop and consider what’s happened, how this night has been a game-changer.

The big question I have to ask myself is if I’m sure I know what I’m doing. My sister, Deanie, back in Ohio, would tell me I was being a fool, although she would first praise me for my compassion. Deanie’s a professor at the local community college back in Fawcettville, teaching an introductory-level psychology course. She also does counseling at the student clinic. She makes about the same money I do cleaning, but she’s really my mother’s pride and joy because she’s got her PhD, and more important, she never left our little hometown to pursue bigger dreams like me. Look where my pursuit got me! I look around my run-down kitchen, watching a cockroach skitter into the sink drain.

But I see Deanie in my mind’s eye, her dark hair and luminous brown eyes. She’s not only smart but also beautiful. I imagine I’ve just relayed tonight’s events to her.

“Jeremy, are you crazy? You should keep out of this! You don’t know what that John character might do, not only to this Shane person, but to you.” She makes a tsk sound and fashions her lips into a frown. “He’s already proved he’s a violent man. How do you think he’s going to like you taking in his ‘friend’ for the night?”

In my imagination, this is the point where Deanie gives me a hug and strokes my hair for a moment, then pushes me away to issue her stern yet sensible advice.

“You don’t owe these people anything. It’s nice that you want to help, and Shane sounds like he can really use that help, but sweetie, it’s not your place. You’re sticking your neck out for someone you don’t even know. Be his friend. That’s okay. But also keep your distance. You leave yourself so open to pain.” Deanie bites her lower lip and stares at me with those intense eyes that say more than words ever can. She whispers, “You were always the one to stick up for Mom, and where did it get you?”

To answer her question, I glance down at my left wrist, at the way the bone protrudes ever so slightly because it never healed right after Daddy—

The teakettle shrieks. “Shit,” I say and snatch it off the burner. I pour the boiling water into mugs, feeling as though I’ve just awakened from a bad dream. I wait for five minutes, letting the tea steep, and force myself to think of nothing, not home, not the dreams I have yet to make come true, and not even Shane in the next room, whom I have a sneaking suspicion I’m about to become very involved with, despite common sense and imagined Deanie warnings.

I finally remove the tea bags and toss them into the trash can under the sink. I call out to the living room. “You want milk? Sugar?”

There’s no answer. “Shane?”

I put down one of the mugs in my hand and creep to the archway that leads into the living room. Shane’s on the couch, injured foot up, head back and mouth open. He’s snoring.

“Bless his heart,” I whisper. I creep into the living room and stare down at him. There’s something of the child about him now, of the innocent, with his golden curls and unlined and carefree face. I think how all the adrenaline his system has probably pumped out recently has left him depleted, and his body simply took over, knocking him out. There’s a sweetness to his face. He’s kind of angelic, and it actually brings a tear to my eye.

I’m glad I brought him home. The consequences be damned. I move quietly across the room to Shane, trying not to make any floorboards creak. Good luck with that! But any noise I make doesn’t seem to bother him; his snores continue unabated. I stop midway through the room and turn back. I duck into my bedroom and go to the closet, where I pull down a soft, old quilt. From the bed, I grab one of the pillows.

I return to the room and set the quilt and pillow down on the couch and turn back to Shane. I move toward him and stand quietly, simply taking in his handsome features, admiring. Is this what motivates me to care for him? Silly question. Yeah, he’s attractive, but I know he’s brought out my nurturing instinct, something that’s lain fallow since the old days back at home, when I would comfort my mom after she and Dad fought, sometimes brushing her hair for her or reading her a few pages from one of the books I was always reading, just to take her mind off things.

Yeah, I was that kid.

I reach out and gently push some of the blond hair off Shane’s forehead. He murmurs but doesn’t awaken, and I let my hand rest there, feeling the heat transfer. I wonder if he’s dreaming, and if he is, I hope it’s of good things.

I break the connection so I can kneel at Shane’s feet. I pull the slippers from them and set them gently aside. I take both of his feet in my hands and pull them up so I can shift him into a reclining position on the couch.

He says something that sounds like “Don’t” and “John,” but they are only mumbles, and it’s impossible to be sure. The important thing is that he doesn’t awaken as I get him situated and put a pillow beneath his head and a quilt spread out over him. I tuck the quilt close to his chin and allow myself one more gentle touch, to his cheek.

I am just about to turn off the light in the living room when the phone rings.

I hurry to quiet it, glancing over my shoulder at Shane, who luckily does nothing more than turn onto his side, his face to the back of the couch.

“Yes?” I whisper, annoyed, hoping my one word doesn’t come out as more of a hiss.

“You got Shane over there.” It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. And the gravelly voice making it sends a chill down my spine.

I glance over at Shane, who has somehow managed to stay asleep. I feel a fierce determination not to wake him. He’s been through enough tonight. I walk quietly into my bedroom with the phone and close the door.

As I sit on my bed, the deep voice comes through the line again.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

I whisper, but there’s an intensity in my voice that conveys anger as well as if I were shouting. “What do I have to say for myself? I could ask you the same, although I wouldn’t expect an answer that would make any kind of sense.”

“You need to send him home.”

I want to ask who this is, even though I know. I want to ask how he got my number, even though I know I’m listed and one of the few people on the planet who still has a landline phone.

“I’ll leave that up to Shane. For now, he’s sleeping.”

“You want me to come over there?”

Again, not a question but a threat. It makes me recall my father saying “Don’t make me come in there” when Deanie and I would cower in our shared bedroom with the door closed, our hands clasped tightly together, eyes wild.

I feel a twist in my gut, a sudden nausea that makes me want to puke. I swallow down the bile splashing at the back of my throat and force myself to take a few deep breaths. I raise my voice above a whisper and hope it doesn’t wake Shane. I keep it level, though, trying my best to keep emotion out of it. “You come over here, you even knock on my door, and I will call the police. When they get here, no matter what Shane says, I will tell them what I was an eyewitness to, an act of brutal physical assault that was not an accident.”

He’s quiet, although I can hear him breathing on the other end. The breaths are coming just a hair faster, so I know maybe I’ve riled him. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. I can feel the sweat gathering in my pits, and I fear bursting out into giddy laughter that has nothing to do with humor. The guy who avoids conflict at all costs? That’s me. And standing up like this for someone I barely know surprises even me. It also makes me feel like I’m about to pass out.

I try to swallow. My mouth is dry. “Did you hear me?”

“I heard.”

Before I can think of what to say next, I hear the click of the phone being hung up.

I stand for a long time, the phone in my hand, feeling chilled in spite of the radiators clanking on, the hiss of steam from them. After a few minutes, I tiptoe back out to where the cradle for the phone is and set it back in place.

I turn off the lights in the living room and head toward my bedroom, trying to ignore the fact that I’m trembling.

Just as I get to the door, Shane’s voice stops me in my tracks.

“Thank you,” he says.

I turn and look toward the dark, huddled mass on my couch.

I don’t say anything. I go into the bedroom and close the door behind me. Quickly I strip out of my clothes and, clad only in a pair of boxers, slide under the covers. After a moment I pull the blanket over my head.