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  Copyright ©2014 by Dawn Sister

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  Cover design: MoonWillow

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental. This book contains strong language and same sex relationships. If you are offended by these themes, please do not offer negative feedback based on your discomfort. Any reviews found to violate this condition may be requested to be removed by the author at any time.

  Dawn Sister

  https://www.goodreads.com/DawnSister

  Acknowledgements

  To Suki, who is always one step ahead of me, and sets the trend.

  Chapter One: Stalking is Addictive (and Creepy)

  I'm Jake and I'm a creep.

  I have to admit it, because that is half way to recovery right? Like Alcoholics Anonymous: Hi I'm Jake and I'm an alcoholic?

  Well okay, not quite what I'm trying to say. I'm not an alcoholic, but I am kind of a new neighbour-aholic.

  Urgh! I think I might be turning into a dirty old man.

  I have a new neighbour. He moved in three weeks ago, and I haven't spoken to him yet, but I've seen him. I've watched him. God he's beautiful, can you describe a man as beautiful? This one is. There are just no other words that fit.

  He's also a kid, compared to me, that is. He must be at the most, twenty, twenty one maybe? I'm forty five and having a mid life crisis.

  Since he moved in I've had three weeks of torture and torment because it's almost painful to watch him he's so damn perfect. From his light blond, sun bleached hair to his perfectly tanned toes. He doesn't wear shoes most of the time. His eyes are the colour of the sky. Better than that, because when I have caught a glimpse of them the sky pales in comparison. The sun shines less when he isn't in my direct line of sight, and I am pretty certain he takes all the oxygen from the air because when I see him I can't breathe.

  I am a creep of the highest order though, because I am old enough to be his father and I can't even pluck up the courage to go over there and speak to him. I'd rather watch from my deck, hiding behind my overgrown ivy and ducking every time I get a hint he might look my way.

  It's not that I'm shy, or unsociable or anything it's just that I'm afraid I'll make a fool of myself if I walk up to him and suddenly lose the ability to speak. He takes my breath away and that hasn't happened in a long time, a very long time.

  I need to know more about him. The more I find out the less awkward it will be when I finally pluck up the courage to go over there and speak to him.

  "Did you speak to your new neighbour yet?" My sister asks me as she arrives with three bags full of groceries and a new microwave oven,

  "Sarah, why do you have a microwave oven with you?" I ask as she struggles up my front steps and dumps it in the porch,

  "Jake, why don't you save the questions for later and give me a hand with this stuff?" she snaps irritably.

  She started it by asking me about my new neighbour!

  I lean over the railing and glance around the back trying to see if my target has moved from his spot on the beach, on a towel, wearing only shorts and shades, oh my! I bite my lip. I have a choice now: continue stalking him or help my sister.

  My sister wins this time. I need a distraction anyway because he's rolled over onto his stomach and is reading a book with his feet up in the air, crossed at the ankles.

  He's so goddam cute!

  "Jacob!" Sarah calls and I snap out of my reverie, pick up the still boxed microwave oven and carry it inside.

  Why has she brought a microwave? I have one already. It's a new one, or at least it was last year, when I blew the last one up because I was distracted as I set the timer to heat up some soup and set it too high. Come to think of it, that one was only about a year old because I blew the one up before that in much the same way the year before.

  I am seeing a pattern emerging here.

  "You can keep this one in your garage ready as a spare for when you blow up the one you're using." Sarah tells me casually, as if you buy microwaves for your brother all the time, because they blow them up all the time,

  "You automatically assume I'm going to blow the existing one up, Sarah." I say archly, "You have such faith in my abilities."

  She stretches up to kiss my cheek, no mean feat, since I am six foot four and she is tiny and I mean, pixie sized,

  "Your ability as a writer, sweetie, yes, I have every faith in you because you are brilliant, but in your ability to not burn your house down or blow up an appliance whilst meeting a deadline? Absolutely not." She regards me critically, "You are in deadline crisis now aren't you?" she asks.

  Taking in my appearance she nods. She has her answer just by looking at what I'm wearing: sweats that have not been off my body for three days; at least two week's growth of beard; no shoes and only one sock; a shirt with several days' worth of food stains and a nondescript crusty bit on the bottom edge which I try to cover up but only succeed in drawing her attention to it,

  "Urgh!" she screws up her nose, "You are such a slob. Go take a shower, Jake, oh my god. When did you last eat? I'll make you a sandwich." She turns me and pushes me towards my bedroom without waiting for me to answer. I could tell her that I'd eaten five minutes before she arrived she would make me food anyway.

  I take her advice. I need a shower anyway, because neighbourhood watch can get you hot under the collar. Who knew?

  Three weeks, though, and I know nothing about him. I don't even know his name. In the past, when a new neighbour moved in, mail usually got delivered here by mistake so I would use that as an excuse to go round and introduce myself, but no such luck this time. The postman has either learned how to read or the guy doesn't get any mail.

  Now that's a sad thought. No mail? I'd die if I didn’t get mail. Sometimes it's my only contact with the outside world when I'm writing. Mine are mostly emails, but I get snail mail too. I prefer snail mail actually, because computers don't like me. I can handle word processing and saving and backing up files but once I get beyond the confines of my own hard drive and venture into cyber space things can go horribly wrong. Emails are about as much as I can cope with and then things can go pear shaped very quickly.

  So no mail huh? Or mail, but not much. Come to think of it I haven't even seen the postman drop anything off at the guy's mail box. Not that I'm watching every minute of the day even if it seems that I am.

  I run my hand through my greasy hair as I turn on the shower. I have to stop calling him "The Guy". He has a name, I'm sure. Most people do. I just need to learn it and not seem too creepy while I'm trying to find out.

  Yeah, because watching "The Guy's" every move from behind my curtains, behind my shrubbery on my balcony or behind the railings of my porch isn't creepy at all. Stepping boldly up to his door, knocking and introducing myself would be so much easier and less likely to get me arrested…except…I've tried that.

  Contrary to the picture I paint of myself I am not a terrible neighbour. The first day the guy arrived I tried to introduce myself. I hadn't seen him at this point. I just noticed there was movement in the usually empty beach house. I walked up to his front porch and knocked on the door but there was no answer. I know he was in.

  When I got back home I saw him, large as life, in his kitchen, which I can see from my kitchen window. The light was on and he was unpacking boxes or something. I guess he ignored the knock because he just wasn't up to receiving visitors, at least not weirdl
y behaved, much older guys from next door.

  I stood for a while, in my dark kitchen so he couldn't see I was watching him. There was a fluid grace to his movements that fascinated me. He had such a serious look on his lovely face, and his eyes were so sad, so lonely. There were tears, I could almost feel them. Watching this sad, desperate figure move about his kitchen I wanted to cry for him. No one has ever affected me that way before.

  I stand under the stream of hot water in my shower and sigh. Cleaning away the mess of my last few days of frantic writing feels almost cathartic. My stomach growls and I don't actually remember when I ate last, or even what it was. Maybe if I examined my shirt I could probably figure it out.

  My hair needs more than one dose of shampoo, it is so greasy. God I must have looked like shit and smelled worse. Probably just as well new neighbours are being elusive and mysterious because who would have even wanted to stand down wind of me let alone have a conversation with me in this state?

  I hate not meeting my deadline but I always manage to procrastinate until I have no choice but pull all nighters or ask for an extension. I have never asked for an extension yet but I have never had the arrival of a new neighbour coincide with a deadline before.

  The house shares a drive with mine and is owned by a family out of state. I think I may have met the owner once in the distant past but they have an agency take care of the tenants for them. The place usually stands empty out of season and gets rented short term in the summer months.

  It is unusual for it to be occupied before May, but it is early April and I have a new neighbour and the excitement is increased by the fact that last year the house didn't get rented at all.

  So far I know that this neighbour does not get any mail; doesn't answer his door; doesn't sit out on his deck; or on the beach: today is the first time I've seen him out there unless he is going for a run; and as far as I can deduce, he doesn't have any friends.

  Oh and he surfs. Did I mention he surfs? He. Surfs. He's really good too; so graceful. Could this guy get any hotter?

  Okay, I admit, I'm attracted to his looks before I even know what his personality is like. Is that shallow? I don't even know if he's gay. I don't even know if he's into older guys. Even if I do get to know him, he probably isn't staying longer than one season. They never do in that particular beach house. The most I can possibly hope for is a fleeting friendship. Summer neighbours come and go. It's the price I pay for living in a beach house all year round rather than finding somewhere where the population is a little more stable.

  A fleeting friendship would be better than nothing at all though. The potential is there, though. Whether it's wise or foolish to even think about pursuing it is up for debate.

  I study my newly washed self in the mirror, turning my head from side to side. For forty five I don't look too bad. I have laughter lines, I refuse to call them crow's feet, but I don't have any grey hair, well not where it is obvious anyway. My hair is actually light brown when it's clean. I have really dark brown eyes that are kind of striking, not as striking as certain blue eyes though.

  I'm wondering whether I should shave or cultivate the beard that is slowly taking shape. Does having a beard make me look older? Maybe I could shave off the beard and just have a moustache. I hold my hand over my chin and try to imagine what a moustache will look like. I shake my head and dismiss the idea immediately. I don't want this guy next door to think I'm a creep, and having a Tom Selleck moustache that makes me look like a seventies porn star is going to give the completely wrong impression.

  I decide to keep the entire beard and just give it a little shape. People tend to trust men with beards, they look more approachable. I hope it will make me appear more approachable to a certain new neighbour.

  Oh god, I need to stop thinking about him like that. Friendship is all that can happen here, right? He's too young for me. I'm far too old for him.

  He's intriguing though and I am naturally curious. I guess that comes with the territory. Curiosity certainly helps when you are a writer. I like to people watch at the best of times, so watching a neighbour and trying to figure out his story is no different right?

  So, okay, it is a little different, since watching him seems to have taken over my life for the last three weeks. I am developing an unhealthy obsession with his schedule. I even started writing it all down in a note book, telling myself I was doing research for a new character when in reality I'm just a dirty old man leering after a kid.

  I think I'm going crazy.

  Chapter Two: A Sister's Advice (And Extreme Mothering)

  I enter my kitchen to find that Sarah has not only made me sandwiches but has prepared a salad; taken out one of her delicious frozen meals from my freezer for my dinner; cleared the kitchen benches and cleaned the sink (it was a bit of a state). I have a sneaky suspicion she may have alphabetised my food cupboard as well.

  I eye the plate of sandwiches and salad she has somehow had time to prepare at the same time as everything else. I was only in the shower twenty minutes,

  "Are these sandwiches for me?" I call to her since she is somewhere in my house tidying as she goes. She calls back an affirmative, "Sarah, you made enough for three here." I tell her,

  "So wrap some up and save them for tomorrow." She calls, "At least you'll eat properly two days in a row."

  My sister has this uncontrollable urge to mother me. Mom and Dad retired to Florida two years ago so she feels responsible for me I guess now that Mom isn't close enough to come and make sure I eat. And shower.

  She renters the kitchen and greets me with another kiss and a hum of approval at my much cleaner smelling self,

  "Oh that's much better." She exclaims, then gets back to cleaning and tidying and alphabetizing, as I tuck into the sandwiches. "Have you called Mom and Dad lately?" she asks, and I groan as I lean back against a bench. I can't remember when I last spoke to our parents. She groans too, "Jake, you know how much I get it in the neck if you don't call them."

  "Why do you get the blame?" I ask her, my mouth full of sandwich, "It's not as if you have any control over what I do."

  "Yeah but the last thing Mom said before they moved was "look after Jake". So when you don't let them know you haven't died in your sleep or wrapped your car around a lamppost Mom calls me. I'm the oldest, therefore, in their head your behaviour somehow has something to do with me." Sarah moves through from the kitchen into the living room with another trash bag, adding to it as she goes.

  I watch her but don't interfere. It's not as if she does this very often. She's not here every day, just once or twice a month and I really don't mind that she storms through my house like a human vacuum. She's a compulsively tidy person, which is more than I can say for myself.

  She returns with a much fuller trash bag as I am examining the casserole dish she has taken out of the freezer for me,

  "I had to take that out to make room for the one I brought you." She tells me, "There are six dinners in the freezer for you, use them please because I am running out of casserole dishes."

  I chuckle,

  "I will, but contrary to popular belief I can manage to feed myself," I tell her,

  "You eat take out, Jake." She sniffs, holding up the trash bag full, I think, of empty noodle cartons and pizza boxes, "That is not feeding yourself properly and would it hurt you once in a while to actually throw the empties in the trash? Would it?"

  "Okay, I admit I'm a slob, sis, but I would have done it eventually." She eyes me dubiously, "When I couldn't see the carpet maybe." She rolls her eyes and wanders back into the living room with a duster and some furniture spray.

  I eat my fill of sandwiches and wrap the rest to put in the refrigerator for later. My sister fusses over me and my family worry about me, but I am forty five, and I have lived alone for thirteen years now. I can look after myself.

  I do feel guilty about not calling Mom and Dad but they know I have a deadline coming up. They agonised over moving to Florida though. They always
planned to retire there. They bought a house there a few years ago, but they delayed and I know one of the reasons for that was me. Thirteen years ago I lost my partner to cancer, which is why everyone fusses over me so much, but, although it still hurts like hell and I miss Josh like crazy I am kind of moving on.