Page 61 of Bad Boy Neighbor

I desperately wanted to climb on him last night and feel his masculine touch all over my tense body. Yet, that guilt, the one which halts my every move and consumes my conscience, can only give him so much.

It isn’t what he wants. I’m certain he wants to fuck me into oblivion.

But perhaps what I gave him was more than I have ever given anyone else. The intimacy we shared, the private moment behind closed doors, it was an act many people, including myself, had somewhat felt ashamed of baring to another person.

It didn’t take me long, my body reacting to the movements he made in his bed. I pictured his beautiful hand wrapped around his cock, each stroke, and finally an orgasmic explosion.

In the light of day, the weight of my actions is standing right in front of me dressed in a pair of denim shorts, a baseball cap, and a white tee. How can he look so irresistible yet so casual at the same time?

Oliver hasn’t said a word or treated me any differently. It’s as if last night never happened, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

Before we step into the car, I ask him to stop.

“About last night?—”

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“We don’t?”

“Nope. Secret is safe with me.” He winked.

It’s as if he has climbed into my mind, read my thoughts, taken notes, and done everything right, given the unusual and complicated circumstances. Maybe he can read minds? I examine his face—it doesn’t alter or appear any different.

You’re ridiculous. Read minds? He’s not Edward Cullen, for Christ’s sake.

I thank him with a smile, hopping into the car while buckling my seat belt to start the next leg of our journey.

Oliver spent the morning checking the car to make sure everything was up to standard, confident we wouldn’t encounter any problems on our final leg of the journey. The town mechanic suggested keeping a close eye on it.

We drive for a few hours, admiring the scenic view of the mountains, talking about movies and a little bit about sports, which mind you, I have no interest in whatsoever. I often bring up David Beckham—the only thing I know about soccer, thanks to his incredibly good looks. Oliver rolls his eyes, quick to point out that my obsession was borderline creepy and that he’s old enough to be my dad, to which I argued.

It became a pattern of ours—talk, laugh about what we are conversing in, and argue because we don’t agree on something, followed by dead silence.

Right now, you could drop a pin on the floor and hear it crash-landing.

All over what drink is better—Pepsi or Coca-Cola.

Stupid. Everyone knows it’s Coca-Cola.

Our silence continues until we hit the state of Utah. The southern part of Utah is a land of unsurpassed, surprising beauty. It’s characterized by contrasting landscapes of snow-capped mountains, orange sandstone cut by erosion into bridges, arches, and strange sculpted red rock. I relax into the seat, staring out the passenger window and taking it all in.

“Welcome to Utah,” he mouths.

“You want to stop? You know, check out some sites?”

“Are you avoiding going home?” Oliver turns his head to wait for my response, then quickly back to the road.

I’m a prisoner out on parole, an ankle bracelet strapped to my leg, and going near the prison is causing the bad nightmares to return. The anxiety begins to cripple me. I don’t know why or how this has chosen to consume me at this very moment.

“Gabs? Are you okay? You look… pale.”

I shake my head, the air restricting in my throat, making it impossible to breathe. Oliver pulls over, and I hear the gravel crunching beneath the tires. As soon as the car stops, he leans over, placing his hand on my shoulder and massaging it with ease. I close my eyes, wishing this life, my life, could be different.

“I’m confused,” I whisper, my voice croaking. “I don’t know any different, Oliver. I was raised in a world of power and money. Women don’t make their own fortune. They bank on their husbands and become trophy wives.” I stare directly ahead of us, nothing but open road, desert, and endless possibilities.

“You… you are different to them,” I stutter, rubbing my hands against my thighs.

“Them?”

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