The New Neighbor (3 page)

Karen seemed to need no variety. She was always willing, but never enthused.
 

They usually stuck to one position and had sex on a regular, although not too frequent, basis. She always wrinkled her brow at the mention of sex toys and the one time he'd bought her some lingerie – he'd spent the afternoon shopping for just the right pieces – she'd declined to wear them. "It's too cold to wear that skimpy stuff," she said. "I don't have the kind of body you need to wear those things," she said, and each time he brought up the subject after that, she had a
new
reason for not wearing them.
 

But she was a good woman, intelligent and fair, warm and giving, and George decided he could live with that.

They had been married ten years. George was not unhappy. He was not ecstatic, either. But he tried hard not to think about Laura very much. Instead, he told himself that, for four years, he'd had something that most people never experience in a lifetime. He was content. And he loved Karen; in ten years, that love had become worn and soft, like an old recliner that had patches and lumps but was still the most comfortable seat in the house.
 

George put his beer on the counter and went to Karen's side, put a hand on the back of her neck and squeezed gently as he bent down and nuzzled her hair, kissed the top of her head.
 

She looked up at him and smiled weakly.
 

"You look tired," he said.
 

"Bad day. We lost a little girl this morning."
 

In the past, George would have asked why she hadn't told him sooner, why she hadn't talked about it if it bothered her, but that had become tiresome. He'd learned to live with the fact that Karen was not very open about things that bothered her – even things that made her happy – and that if something was on her mind, she would tell him in her own time, if at all.
 

"AIDS," she went on. "We knew it was coming, but ... she was a sweet kid. It hit everybody hard."
 

"Sorry," he said, leaning down to kiss her on the mouth.

She gave him another smile, warmer than the last, then handed him the stack of envelopes. "You want to put these by the door? They have to go out in the morning."
 

As George started out of the kitchen with the envelopes, the doorbell rang. Figuring it was probably Al or Lynda Crane, their neighbors, he put the envelopes down on the small table in the entry way, opened the door.

He froze halfway into his smile, giving his face an odd look of surprise. Then he blinked, cleared his throat, and returned the smile to his face intact. "Yes?"
 

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said, her breath appearing in a small cloud of mist before her face, "but I'm moving into the house across the street and I have no heat. Yours was the closest house with a chimney and I was wondering if I could borrow some firewood. Just for tonight. I'll replace it first thing tomorrow."
 

George blinked again, several rapid blinks in succession, because an unexpected and unbidden – even unwanted – image of Laura materialized in his mind suddenly.

S
he is above him, straddling his legs as he lies in bed on his back, both of them naked and she smiles as she holds up a white plastic Hitachi Magic Wand vibrator and says, "Surprise! I bought this today," turns it on, and places the head against the bottom side of his cock and his head rolls back as he moans with pleasure
.

George coughed again, turning his head away from the woman at the door, mostly to hide the red warmth he felt flooding into his cheeks. He felt embarrassed by the wildly inappropriate thought, but he also felt guilty, as if he'd betrayed someone – Laura or Karen, he wasn't sure – because the voice of the beautiful woman at the door made him feel exactly the same way that vibrator had when Laura pressed it against his cock.

"Sure, we've got plenty of firewood," he said with a forced smile. "How much do you need?"
 

"Oh, just enough for tonight, that's all."
 

She wore tight jeans and a heavy red and black plaid shirt and she stood with shoulders slightly hunched and her arms folded just beneath her breasts, as if to ward off the cold.
 

"Come on in," George said. He stepped back to let her pass, then closed the door behind her. "You know, if you like, we've got an electric heater you could use."
 

"Thanks a lot, but I don't have any electricity yet. I came earlier than I'd expected and didn't have the power turned on."
 

"Ah, I see. Well." George slipped his fingers into the back pockets of his tan slacks, feeling an awkwardness he hadn't experienced since high school. "Urn, my name's George Pritchard."
 

She smiled and held out a hand. "Lorelle Dupree."
 

George took her hand and she squeezed firmly; in spite of the cold outside, her hand felt warm – probably, he decided, from being tucked beneath her arm.
 

Her hair, which fell over her shoulders in thick waves, was a deep red, the color of redwood, and her almond-shaped eyes were a brown so dark they were almost black. In spite of the healthy fullness of her hair, her face seemed drawn, pale, as if she were ill. Perhaps it was because she wore no makeup, but the skin beneath her eyes seemed to sag in dark half-moons and her cheekbones hung over darkened hollows. But despite the appearance of illness, she was beautiful, with lips that looked smooth as rose petals and a long elegant neck that sloped gracefully into her sweatshirt.

George realized he had been holding her hand looking at her for too long – several slow seconds too long – and he pulled his hand back rather abruptly.
 

"Well," he said, "the firewood's out in the garage. I can get a basketful for you." He was about to suggest that he carry it over for her, but thought better of it. She seemed friendly enough, but he did not enjoy the discomfort she stirred in him, the awkwardness –

–
The wanting
, he thought suddenly, surprising himself,
I don't like the wanting
–

– and, instead, he said, "I'll have my son carry it over for you."
 

He heard Karen's footsteps behind him and turned to see her smiling at the woman.

"Hi," she said, then turned to George with a subtle questioning look in her eyes.
 

"This is our new neighbor," he said, "Lorelle Dupree. She doesn't have any electricity and needs some firewood for the night."
 

Karen shook Lorelle's hand and said, "You must've bought the Huitt place across the street."
 

"Not exactly. I'm renting. I wasn't planning to move in until next week, but my plans changed, so now I'm over there in the cold and dark."
 

Karen turned to George. "Well, why don't you get Robby to take some wood over for her." Then to Lorelle: "And we have some kerosene lanterns, if you need them."
 

"Oh, that would be great."
 

There was a moment then in which Lorelle and Karen smiled silently at one another—it lasted long enough for George to look from one to the other twice—as if they had met before and were trying to remember where and when.

George turned to go to Robby's bedroom and said, "I'll go get Rob—" but stopped when he saw Robby peering sheepishly around the corner of the hallway entrance. "Oh, here he is," George said. "Robby, this is Lorelle Dupree. She moved into the Huitt place."
 

Robby did not move; he remained hidden, with only a fraction of his face leaning past the corner.
 

George cocked a brow. "Robby?"
 

Stepping out of the hall, the tall, lanky boy bowed his head and looked at their guest as if peering over bifocals, and folded his hands before him.
 

George frowned. Robby looked as if he were being punished.
 

"Nice to meet you, Robby," Lorelle said, offering her hand again.
 

It took a moment, but Robby finally returned the gesture and nodded silently.
 

There was a tension in the room that made George want to squirm, to
leave
. He glanced at Karen, then Robby, feeling guilty for his surprisingly strong attraction to Lorelle and wondering if they sensed it, if it was showing on his face. He slapped Robby on the back and said, "C'mon, Rob, let's go out in the garage and get some wood for Miss Dupree. She needs heat."
 

As he and Robby headed for the kitchen and the entrance to the garage, and as Karen said to Lorelle, "I'll get the lanterns," George thought about his words and silently told himself with a smirk,
What am I saying? She's got
plenty
of heat.
 

George was relieved to enter the cold garage with Robby and sighed as he closed the door behind them.

* * * *

"Are you in high school, Robby?" Lorelle asked.

"Yeah."
 

"What year?"
 

"Senior."
 

"Ah. So how's it going? Are you doing okay?"
 

"Yeah."
 

Robby hugged the basket of wood to his chest as they crossed the street; kerosene sloshed in the two lanterns Miss Dupree carried, one in each hand. He felt like a walking raisin, shriveled with humiliation. He'd wanted to scream at his dad for sending him on this errand with the woman who had watched him through his bedroom window as he came into his hand, and he wanted nothing more than to do as he'd been asked as quickly as possible and go back home.
 

No ... no, that wasn't entirely true. As his arm brushed the woman beside him, he realized there was something else he wanted even more. But
that
was about as likely as lying naked on a bear rug in front of a fire with Miss Weiss. Besides, Miss Dupree did not look well, so even if, by some wild act of God, she would want to do something with him, she probably wouldn't feel like it.

His undershorts were moist from his session only minutes ago. His cock felt limp, but not sated. It was still extremely sensitive from the attention it had received and threatened to grow hard again, in need of more. Although at least a foot of space separated them, Robby could
feel
Miss Dupree, as if he were standing within the heat of a blazing fire in the fireplace, and as the house across the street grew closer, Robby became more uncomfortable.
 

When they reached the house, she went in first and closed the door behind him, then led him into the blackness toward a glow that came from the living room. Although Robby had been in the house before and was well acquainted with its layout, he felt he had entered unfamiliar surroundings.
 

"Did you know the people who lived here before?" she asked.
 

"Uh-huh."
 

"Then you've probably been in here before."
 

"Uh-huh."
 

"Just set that down here," she said, putting down the lanterns and waving toward the hearth. "God, it's cold in here."
 

He put the basket on the hearth beside the fat flashlight she'd left shining there and stepped back, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets. His leg bumped something warm and soft and he turned to find two stern golden eyes looking up at him. Thin black lips quivered back over long fangs for just an instant and Robby staggered back, blurting, "
God
!"
 

Miss Dupree hunkered down and began stacking wood atop a bunch of crumpled newspapers she'd already put in the fireplace. "Oh, that's Gomorrah. Say hello, Gomorrah."

The dog stepped forward and nudged Robby's hand with a cold nose.
 

"Where's Sodom?" she asked her pet. "Go find Sodom."
 

Gomorrah gave an abrupt, low bark and another dog emerged from the darkness, walking slowly, its slanted predatory eyes looking directly up at Robby. The dogs were enormous and almost identical – only the stark black and gray markings on their thick white fur differed.
 

"Wolves?" Robby asked nervously.
 

"Malamutes. Gorgeous, aren't they?"
 

"Fed them lately?"
 

"Oh, they look pretty vicious, but they're really pussycats." She stood and brushed her hands together, adding, "Unless I tell them not to be."
 

The glow of the flashlight made her already pale skin look ivory white. She stood, took the flashlight, and disappeared into the dark for a moment, casting a dancing glow on the walls and ceiling. She returned with a cigarette lighter and lit the newspaper, then touched the lighter's flame to the lantern wicks. Sitting on the hearth, she faced Robby and smiled. The top three buttons of her shirt were unfastened and the growing firelight crept down her chest, causing a V-shaped shadow between her breasts, which jostled with each movement of her arms, shifting the shadow back and forth liquidly.
 

"So, what kind of town have I moved into?" she asked.
 

"Where are you from, Miss Dupree?"
 

"The Bay Area. And please call me Lorelle."
 

"This is kind of a ... a hick town, I guess you'd call it."
 

"Redding?"
 

"Yeah, sort of. Lots of country music radio stations. Not much night life, unless you like hanging around in the Taco Bell parking lot after midnight on the weekends." Robby stood by the hearth, fidgeting as he spoke.

She patted the hearth and said, "Sit. You're my first houseguest; I can at least make you comfortable." Robby sat on the hearth and Sodom and Gomorrah curled up on the floor in front of them. "Would you like something to drink? I've got some Pepsi in an ice chest. Not exactly a cold weather beverage, but – “