My drinking started during senior year. I had this idea that if I applied to enough colleges, I would get a full ride to at least one of them. I figured my best shot would be to get accepted to a writing program. That meant I needed to write a fuck ton of essays, poems, and reports. So I started early. Months early, in fact, so I could polish every page and edit every line. The problem was, I wrote everything on a piece of shit laptop I bought at the second-hand store.

By November, I’d stockpiled twelve essays, a handful of poems, and three reports, and was working on a personal essay—ironically, about being raised by a drunk—when the computer crashed. Dead. Gone.

I picked it up, thinking I would hurl it at the wall. But Dad was sleeping in the den. Fuck knew, I didn’t want to wake him. I ran around the block once, barely able to keep a scream inside my throat. Then I walked to the corner store, where I’d been buying my old man scotch for most of my life, and got a handle for myself.

The next day, I rented a computer from the library and started my work over. But once every few weeks, when I had a shit day, I’d pour a few fingers into a plastic cup and drink it standing in the backyard, looking at the stars.

As it happened, no school offered me tuition, room, and board. I got offers for tuition from a bunch of places, so I chose the three I liked the best and deferred the offers for a year. By the time a group of kids from my class headed out to Vegas for a senior trip, I’d already learned to count cards and rented a hovel apartment.

The ceiling in Fendall House always takes me back there, to that studio apartment; it had the same exact one. And how apropos that it’s Marley’s footsteps drawing my eyes to it.

I’m lying on the bed, fucking around on my phone after an evening run, when I her the rumble of her footsteps over my head. Getting home from work, I think.

It’s been coming up on a week since our encounter at the cemetery. Since I lost my fucking mind and encouraged her to chase me. I was going to jump right off the cliffside, but after I pulled my shirt off, I got worried Mar might somehow fall, so I hung around.

Half a second in her presence—in the presence of that lush body, those heaving breasts and piqued nipples—and I was hard as fucking rock.

What did she mean when she said she was trying to be nice to me? Does Marley fucking know? I talked to Victor, and he said he hadn’t squealed. Same with my agent. Roy assured me no one knows.

I’m not proud I made the crack about Mar running. I’m less proud that since then, I jerk off to the memory of her nipples jutting up against the shirt, to the memory of her ass in those damp leggings. I think about her wide brown eyes and smooth pink lips, and soon, my eyes are shut as I imagine pushing my hard cock between another pair of Marley’s lips.

I hear my ex-wife move around upstairs, and I imagine that she’s getting undressed. Pulling off the blouse she wore under her white coat—Jesus, Marley in a white coat with nothing but a thong on underneath…

I think about the flawless, round globes of her asscheeks. The way her breath would catch when I would ease a finger past her tight bud. Then I’d spread her legs and push my tongue into her cunt. All the groaning she would do when she was tied to our bed… The neighbors pounded on the wall a few times.

I groan now as I reach my hand into my running shorts. And then I freeze—because I hear an echo.

Holy fuck, that’s Marley making O sounds. Fucking shit—she must be in the room right over mine. I swallow as the floor creaks, and I think I hear her panting.

I tell myself I’m hearing things—no way I’d hear her panting through these floors—but Marley groans again, and my cock hardens to the point of pain.

I hear a breathy little “ahh,” and rub my palm over my head.

“Oh God…” Something grates against the floor. I hear her laugh, and cold dread washes through me. She says something, but her words are murmured.

I jump up and, with my cock jutting toward my navel, I stalk down the hall, toward the front of the house. I feel slightly ill as I yank open the curtains in the parlor, my mind already painting a truck there at the curbside.

I exhale when I find nothing. No one.

Could she be alone? Alone and—oh fuck yes. Pleasure pulses through my cock and balls, making me feel dazed and heady. I hurry back into my room, and sure enough, I hear her rhythmic little cries and moans.

“You can’t come without your little noises, can you, Marley?”

I stretch out and shut my eyes, hooking my briefs below my throbbing balls, which are now taut and drawn up.

Marley groans, and I feel pleasure burst through my whole groin. I tighten my grip on my shaft and pump a little faster, picturing her pleasure face as she pants.

I drag my tongue over her clit, and Marley’s fingers tighten in my hair…

“God!” The word is easily audible through the old hardwood.

I can tell when she’s about to come because her legs press against my ears, she starts to lift her hips, and Marley’s moans are loud and desperate.

I tilt my hand so it’s coming up against the rim of my head, tweaking just enough to hurt. Because Marley’s a virgin. God, she’s fucking tight and hot…

“Are you okay?”

“Oh yes!”

Up and down, and up and down. In and out, and in and out. I lean down closer over her, to try to make her feel secure and sheltered for a moment before…

“God!” She grunts, and I can feel myself throb still harder. Fuck… I ease the pressure on myself, then clamp down tighter, pumping so fast it’s making my balls bounce.

“Oh God, yes!”

I hear her panting as my seamen jets between my fingers, pooling on my lower belly.

Fucking shit.

I’m so spent, I can’t move as I listen for her little gasps and groans. I hear nothing as I clean up, pull my clothes off. No way we finished at the same moment. Too much coincidence. I listen for a few more seconds before hopping into the shower. I’m still half hard. Goddamn, that was hot.

After I’m out, I give myself a squeeze, then tuck my long cock up behind my pants waist. I listen hungrily for Marley. Even just her foosteps would be hot at this point.

Maybe she’s asleep.

I pull a hat and glasses on, and sneak outside for a cigarette behind the house, along the treeline where I’m hidden from the road. That’s when I notice the huge, green truck in Marley’s spot.

* * *

I’m drowsing in the guest bed, curled up on my side, under a pile of blankets, when the music starts. At first it’s just the sound of someone knocking, breaking into a great dream where I’m giving my healthy, full-term baby a bath, and she’s doing this baby giggle thing. Then I’m pulled out of the bathroom. I’m in a car—my brother’s borrowed truck—and searching for a station that’s not rap or R&B. Finally, the bass boom starts to shake the bed, and I open my eyes to stabby feelings, which get stabbier when I confirm: the music’s coming from below me.

Gabe.

Because of course he’s blaring loud music. Of course, of course. I treated four babies today and found my car dead in the parking lot when work was finally over. Zach had to come help me, let me borrow his truck. I squished something small and fuzzy under one of his giant, mudding tires as I drove home, which led to a long, stupid breakdown. Finally, I climbed into the canopy bed in the guest room off my den, let down the sheets of rich, burnt orange to make a tent around the bed, and soothed myself with Mr. Blue.

As I drifted off to sleep, I felt okay for the first time today. And so of course I wake up to this shit.

My grandma calls these Devil Days, and I believe she’s right.

I don’t bother to soften my footsteps as my soles smack the rug. I’m not bothering with clothes again, either. I pull on my robe and fuzzy socks, and spend the next half-hour stomping around intermittently, hoping to remind Gabe that there’s someone upstairs.

I take a break and a few soothing, yoga breaths after a while, and send up prayers. C’mon…I could really use a break.

No Bueno.

Minutes tick by. Soon it’s been an hour. I’m not going to go down there. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. Not unless it goes on past my bedtime. I do laundry, followed by a yoga video. I wash the dishes, hang a few things on the wall.

When it’s almost nine, and the music is still vibrating my floor, I slump into the armchair by the living room’s front window and Google his name. Maybe Mom is right. Maybe he had some kind of breakdown. The Gabe I knew when we were young could be evasive and cool, but he was never like this.

Years ago, I read an interview with him—it was in a magazine at my dentist’s office, so I caved—and I saw where he said he’d been sober since about the time our marriage ended.

Maybe he fell off the wagon.

That seems likely maybe.

Google turns up nothing much—no Perez Hilton write-up, and no trashy Page Six bit. I see him via Google image search wearing a tux beside a waifish blonde described as Madeline Decristo, novelist. A search of her name lets me know she’s a New York Times bestseller living in New York City. Her bio with her pub house mentions she’s raising a daughter, and her web site says she’s partnered with another author. I cross-check Amazon.com, where I remember seeing author bios in the past, and find that bio matches the one that mentions the daughter, but not the author partner. She could be an ex, I guess. Or—hell—she may be no one to him. Why do I care?

I wait until ten o’clock to pull my hair up, stuff my feet into slippers, stomp down the outside stairs, and stalk through the dewy, cool grass. I march up the porch stairs like I own the place, making a mental note to talk to Miss Shorter if Gabe doesn’t shape up. He may be famous, but that woman was my childhood Sunday school teacher, and she left me chicken salad on my porch two days ago. She loves me more.

I knock a few times, fast and hard, and hold my breath as I brace myself for the sight of him.

Finally the door swings open, and my lungs halt mid-breath.

Gabe in a snug gray shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. Gabe with rumpled hair and a blank face. He just stands there, blinking at me like he’s unaware his level of the house is spewing club-worthy rap at brain-busting volume.

I falter only for a second. Then I put my hand on my hip. “What the hell with that stuff?”

He looks clueless. Innocent.

“The music! You do know it’s nighttime? Bedtime?”

“Is it?”

That’s when I see it: a little flare of his nostrils. Oh—he knows he’s doing this! He’s doing it on purpose.

I grit my teeth. “It is. And I can’t sleep because your music is rocking my bed.”

Gabe tilts his head back, giving a low chuckle. “Funny you should say that…” He lifts a brow, and—

Oh. My. God.

I suck a deep breath in, fortifying myself. I am thirty-two, I’m almost thirty-three.

“I can do what I want in my own space,” I manage.

“Sure,” he says smoothly. “And I can do what I want in mine.”

“Not if it’s this loud. I could call the cops! I’m sure there’s a…some kind of ordinance or something. Do they know you’re here?”

His eyes narrow. “Who?”

“Does anyone know you live here?”

“What does that mean?”

“Have you been staying hidden? I haven’t seen a newspaper article reporting you’ve moved back. Have you been wearing shades and funny hats?”

“There hasn’t been an article,” he says, sounding defensive.

“If you want to keep it that way, I’d turn down that music.”

Gabe smirks. “Would you, now?”

My face burns under his gaze. “I would.”

“You got a friend up there who’s not getting his beauty sleep?”

“Um…what?”

“Maybe a cop?”

My jaw drops slowly as I realize: “You think I’m…I have someone over?”

Gabe folds his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe. He raises his brows and tilts his head leftward. “You drive a big, green truck?”

“I do, today. It’s my brother’s.”

His face stills for a long second.

“Yeah.”

I lift my own brows before sauntering away.

Gabe waits a full half-hour before turning off his music.