Read Online The Voyeur Next Door by Airicka Phoenix - Free Book Online
Authors: Airicka Phoenix
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I would do, except maybe stand on his terrace and leave greasy forehead smudges on his window. But in my head … oh, in my head, I would ravage that boy silly and leave him in a sticky, sated mess on his living room floor, because in my head, I was a badass sex goddess.
I laughed at my own clever new nickname and headed back inside. Beneath my bare feet, something went skidding across concrete to bump into the patio frame and stop. I peered down in surprise to find a neatly folded note just peering up at me like it was no big deal. Curious, I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, marveling at the teenage folding abilities that went into its creation. The talent it took to fold each little corner in perfectly was a thing of art. The last time I had seen one so skillfully done, I had been in high school. The note hadn’t been for me, but I assisted in its passing during an especially boring science period. I like to think I made a difference that day. But all in all, I almost didn’t want to open this one. Something this unique needed to be framed, especially since this was the only note anyone had ever sent me. Unless the sender was hoping I would pass it along to another occupant in the building.
But no. It was addressed to me, or rather, it was addressed to: I saw you in a very bold and un-miss-able scribble.
A crazy surge of excitement, panic, and confusion almost made me pitch the thing over the railing and start packing. It was the rational part of my brain that stepped up and took control.
I opened the note carefully, the way I suspected the bomb unit handled explosive devices, and cautiously flattened the creases, prolonging what was sure to be the pit that finally swallowed me whole. All I could think in that moment was that if it was Large, Hairy Man in window three, row three, I would set myself on fire.
No joke.
I started reading.
I don’t want to know your name. I don’t want to know what you look like. But I know you were watching me. I know you liked it. I hope enough to let me watch again.
I stopped reading a moment to give my heart a chance to ooze out from between my ears and return back to my chest.
The good news was that it wasn’t Large, Hairy Man in window three, row three. The bad news was that he, Sexy, New Neighbor had known I was there, had seen me getting freaky with myself … and wanted a repeat performance.
While a very loud cheerleading squad took residence in my nether regions and started doing cartwheels, the mature, adult parts of me, like my brain, pointed out a very real problem: he wanted a repeat performance, meaning, he wanted to watch me. I wasn’t sure how he wanted to accomplish that without seeing my face—paper bag maybe?—but there wasn’t a paper bag big enough to hide the rest of me and that was a concern.
By all logical sense, of which I had a plenty, I wasn’t overweight. I was barely over. I sat at a solid one thirty-five, which to some, seemed like a stupid reason to hate one’s own body shape. But when you grew up with a mom who fed you weight loss granola bars and constantly poked at your baby fat to make a point, body issues were a very real part of your day by the time you hit that pesky, self-conscious age of fifteen. By sixteen, I had wanted to kill myself. Some days, literally. Unlike my sister who went on to open her own gym and spent her days telling cake lovers everywhere they should worship at the temple that was their own bodies and be more socially acceptable, I liked my body wrapped nice and tight beneath layers. Layers gave me an excuse to hide the pudge I could see drooping off me every time I looked in the mirror.
It was strange that I would get the inferiority complex about my image, while Lana, who was older by six years, had to live six whole years more with that woman than I did. Growing up, she had gotten the worst of our mother’s abuse. Everything from her face, to her voice, to the way she walked and chewed her food was
I laughed at my own clever new nickname and headed back inside. Beneath my bare feet, something went skidding across concrete to bump into the patio frame and stop. I peered down in surprise to find a neatly folded note just peering up at me like it was no big deal. Curious, I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, marveling at the teenage folding abilities that went into its creation. The talent it took to fold each little corner in perfectly was a thing of art. The last time I had seen one so skillfully done, I had been in high school. The note hadn’t been for me, but I assisted in its passing during an especially boring science period. I like to think I made a difference that day. But all in all, I almost didn’t want to open this one. Something this unique needed to be framed, especially since this was the only note anyone had ever sent me. Unless the sender was hoping I would pass it along to another occupant in the building.
But no. It was addressed to me, or rather, it was addressed to: I saw you in a very bold and un-miss-able scribble.
A crazy surge of excitement, panic, and confusion almost made me pitch the thing over the railing and start packing. It was the rational part of my brain that stepped up and took control.
I opened the note carefully, the way I suspected the bomb unit handled explosive devices, and cautiously flattened the creases, prolonging what was sure to be the pit that finally swallowed me whole. All I could think in that moment was that if it was Large, Hairy Man in window three, row three, I would set myself on fire.
No joke.
I started reading.
I don’t want to know your name. I don’t want to know what you look like. But I know you were watching me. I know you liked it. I hope enough to let me watch again.
I stopped reading a moment to give my heart a chance to ooze out from between my ears and return back to my chest.
The good news was that it wasn’t Large, Hairy Man in window three, row three. The bad news was that he, Sexy, New Neighbor had known I was there, had seen me getting freaky with myself … and wanted a repeat performance.
While a very loud cheerleading squad took residence in my nether regions and started doing cartwheels, the mature, adult parts of me, like my brain, pointed out a very real problem: he wanted a repeat performance, meaning, he wanted to watch me. I wasn’t sure how he wanted to accomplish that without seeing my face—paper bag maybe?—but there wasn’t a paper bag big enough to hide the rest of me and that was a concern.
By all logical sense, of which I had a plenty, I wasn’t overweight. I was barely over. I sat at a solid one thirty-five, which to some, seemed like a stupid reason to hate one’s own body shape. But when you grew up with a mom who fed you weight loss granola bars and constantly poked at your baby fat to make a point, body issues were a very real part of your day by the time you hit that pesky, self-conscious age of fifteen. By sixteen, I had wanted to kill myself. Some days, literally. Unlike my sister who went on to open her own gym and spent her days telling cake lovers everywhere they should worship at the temple that was their own bodies and be more socially acceptable, I liked my body wrapped nice and tight beneath layers. Layers gave me an excuse to hide the pudge I could see drooping off me every time I looked in the mirror.
It was strange that I would get the inferiority complex about my image, while Lana, who was older by six years, had to live six whole years more with that woman than I did. Growing up, she had gotten the worst of our mother’s abuse. Everything from her face, to her voice, to the way she walked and chewed her food was
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