Page 2 of The Landlord
"Doug, leave it."
He looks at me, the picture of canine innocence, then deliberately turns back to the package. Something about it has captured his interest. Probably smells like that orange tabby cat Alyssa stops to pet in the lobby. Mrs. Simone's demon spawn that thinks the entire building belongs to it.
The way Alyssa crouches down to scratch behind its ears—her whole face lighting up, talking to it in a soft voice she probably thinks no one can hear—makes it hard to dislike the cat entirely. But Doug hates it. And by extension, he's decided Alyssa is questionable at best. He doesn't trust anyone who likes cats. Actually, no. He doesn't trust anyone who's not me, period.
I shake my head and return to the TV, reconnecting the last wire. The soldering iron hisses against metal. The apartment falls oddly quiet.
Too quiet. I'm immediately on high alert. A quiet Doug is a Doug up to no good.
I look up again. Doug is gone.
So is the package.
"Doug!"
I set down the iron and turn around. Doug has dragged the package into the center of the living room and managed to tear a hole in one side. He sits proudly beside his handiwork, surrounded by torn cardboard and plastic packaging, tail wagging against the floor, looking extremely pleased with himself.
"Damn it, Doug. What am I supposed to tell her now?"
I approach the package, intending to salvage what I can of the cardboard, and start going through excuses. Jesus, maybe I can just tell her the truth, save myself from stumbling over my words. That's when I notice what's poking through the hole.
Flesh-colored silicone shaped like an eggplant. Long, rubbery.
Is that…? No way.
My brain short-circuits for half a second. I crouch down to get a better look, hoping I'm wrong, even as my heart races and my pulse pounds in my temples. I'm not. Doug has managed to expose exactly what I think it is.
A dildo.
Not just any dildo. This is anatomically correct, complete with veins and—Jesus Christ—it's not small. I know because it's close to my size. Humbly speaking, of course.
I sit back on my heels, staring at the thing while my mind tries to reconcile this item with the woman who lives next door. Alyssa, who blushes when I hold the door for her. Alyssa, who ducks her head when our eyes meet in the hallway. Alyssa, who wears oversized cardigans that swallow her tall frame and makes herself small despite being nearly six feet tall.
Shy, quiet, introverted Alyssa.
That Alyssa ordered this impressively sized piece of equipment. For her to use. For her to put in her…
Fuck.
Heat spreads through my body in a way that has nothing to do with the nearby soldering iron. An image flashes unbidden in my mind: Alyssa, those blue eyes half-closed, those full lips parted, using this very toy. Her back arching, maybe one hand fisting the sheets, her toes curling.
My jeans suddenly feel too tight. I shift, adjusting myself as blood rushes south with embarrassing speed. This reaction is completely inappropriate. She's my tenant, for Christ's sake. And here I am, getting hard over her private purchase that Doug has so inconsiderately exposed.
But the mental image persists. Her long fingers wrapped around the silicone. Those little sounds she might make?—
"Enough," I tell myself out loud, my voice rough even to my own ears. Rough and gravelly with want.
Doug tilts his head, looking between me and the package with smug satisfaction. Like he's exposed some great secret. Something he can use against Alyssa.
I jab a finger at him. "You're a menace, Doug."
He wags his tail harder and gives me the equivalent of a smirk.
I need to fix this. I could repackage it, pretend I never saw its contents. Take it over with an apology for Doug's behavior. But the damage is done—the box is torn beyond repair, and the evidence of my dog's crime is literally sticking out.
Besides, the thought of her wondering if I saw, if I know, seems worse somehow than just owning up to it. Let her be embarrassed once and move on, rather than worry every time she sees me in the hallway.
We are both grown adults here. She's twenty-eight, I'm thirty-eight. There's nothing wrong with her wanting some action. It's totally normal.
