Page 1 of Protector Next Door
1
Sammy
I just hadthe month fromhell.
I sent my boyfriend - nowex-boyfriend - some provocative photos. I wasn’t nude. He pushed for nudes and I said no. As a compromise, I sent him a few “tasteful” selfies in my undergarments and with what I thought was a sexy pout. It wasn’t sexy. And according to the comments I received on social media, the gaming community didn’t think it was sexy either. The comments were just straight-up gross. If I knew well enough to not send anactualnude photo, I should have known to not send something partially nude,either.
I knew it just didn’t feel right. I should have listened to my own intuition. Intuition, or paranoia. Whatever you call it, it’s there for areason.
“Hey,” I say into my earpiece, “did you know comedian Richard Lewis claims to have invented that line, the ‘so-and-so’ from hell, like date from hell, mother-in-law from hell, etcetera and soon?”
“The guy with the red hair?” my friend back in New York, Ramona, replies. “The guy who was accused of masturbating in front of randomwomen?”
“No, no,” I reply. “That’s a differentguy.”
I hit pause and take a sip of my beer. The early-evening sun is streaming into my Silicon Valley house through the big, sliding glass doors. The backyard is walled off from the ones surrounding it by dusty brown clay fences and there’s a row of tall palm trees along the perimeter for an extra measure of privacy (or maybe they’re there because they look awesome and provide a little shade). But even with these barriers to the outside world, the sun is bathing my cozy living room in beams of sun and lengths of shadows. Long shadows, the kind that tell you it’s almost time for night to come. The kind that always give megoosebumps.
It’s going to betheperfect night. Me, my classic game console, my best friend on the phone, a couple of cold beers and a carton of icecream.
I am in desperate need of a night likethis.
“I’m talking about the comedian with the long hair,” I say, unpausing my game. “He’s like, sexy, but in an odd sort of way? He has this kind of mullet thing and he’s kind of old now but is it wrong that I think he was super freaking sexy back in theday?”
“Right, I know who you’re talking about now. He has these really soulful eyes and he’s super smart. There’s nothing sexier, I get it,” Ramona replies. “So did he invent it ornot?”
“Claims to,” I reply. “Different sources say differentthings.”
I’m about to put a frog suit on Mario to tackle a water level when my phone vibrates on the coffee table. It’s my security app telling me there’s someone at the front door. I grab it and pull my headset off as my heart jumps into mythroat.
There’s a vague shadowy figure on the screen. Hoodie, hands in pockets, dark pants, shifty gaze, erratic gait. As I watch him dash toward the sidewalk, I tell myself I’m beingparanoid.
Yes, paranoid. I am the living embodiment of the phrasejust because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.I was paranoid about an intimate photo leaking, and then it leaked, so there yougo.
If I’m going to be a little paranoid, so be it. It’s helped me avoid dangerous situations before and I’m banking on it preventing dangerous situations in the future. If I’d actually sent a nude selfie like my shitty ex had asked, I might be unemployable and I’d definitely have died ofhumiliation.
Upon closer inspection of my front-door-cam, I see that my mystery guest has left a gift behind for me. A manilla envelope. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I feel my blood runcold.
“Ramona,” I say, putting my phone to my ear, “I have to go. I’m dealing with a prankster at best and a harasser atworst.”
“Oh gosh,” she says. I can feel the color draining from her face and her shoulders falling. “Be careful. Do you want me to stay on the phone withyou?”
“No, I appreciate it but it’s okay. I’m going to call Xander and ask him what todo.”
“Okay,” she sighs. “Please call me as soon as you figure out what the hell’s going on, and do not hesitate to call thepolice.”
“Okay. Here I go. Wish meluck.”
“Good luck, lady. Talksoon.”
I end the call and clutch the phone to my chest. If this were a horror movie, I’d be grabbing a big-ass knife from the wooden butcher’s block on my counter, or even better, I’d have a set of golf clubs right near my front door and I’d be pulling one out to swing wildly in my generalvicinity.
Instead, I inch toward the door, ready to call Xander. He isn’t in town, but he should know what todo.
Xander is my dad’s best friend, and even though he moved out here to California for work years ago, he was always an absolute staple at our house when I was growing up. He was handsome, nice, and absolutely brilliant. He was in the military with my father and they were both in the intelligence field. I always pictured him going home after a long day at work to a house that was basically the real-life version of the Jetsons’ house, complete with an adorable dog who’s collar looked like a duo of flying saucers and a robot maid. It made no sense because he and my dad had the exact same job, and our family of course lived in a regular house. But for some reason I always elevated Xander to something higher. Maybe it was out of the respect and admiration I always had for him, which apparently translates into thinking the object of my adoration lives in a super unique, fancy, high-techhome.
When I decided to move out here because it’s the epicenter of the tech world, I started emailing with him. He’s actually the one who told me the house next door to his was for sale. And I did something crazy - I let him check out the property for me, and with his assurance that it was nice and didn’t seem overtly haunted and didn’t make any weird noises, I put a down payment on the home mostly sight-unseen. I only saw pictures and a video walk-through but he thought it was a fabulous opportunity that wouldn’t last, so I decided to take theleap.
Xander even hired an inspector himself and covered the cost of it. I told him he was being way too generous, but he insisted he pay for it and said I should consider it a housewarminggift.
