Chapter One
Quinn
The Neighborly Thing To Do
It’s too damn hot in here.
My eyes feel like boiled onions as I try to read the words on my computer screen. I can’t remember a September so blistering in my twenty-two years on this planet; not even here in Arizona where it’s hot most of the time to begin with. Although when my dad and I go camping in the desert sometimes, it can be blessedly cool at night—even cold on occasion.
But it isn’t night. And we aren’t camping. I lie on the bed of my upstairs bedroom in the same-old four-bedroom rancher we’ve lived in forever, with my laptop propped in front of me, open to the notes for Wednesday’s quiz. Just one more year to finish my Master’s in Psychology at ASU, and I’ll be free to move on, find a good job or maybe even set up my own business. Hopefully somewhere more temperate than scorched Scottsdale. Though I love our house here, it seems awfully empty with Mom gone.
With a pang of sadness, I realize it’s almost two years since the accident that claimed her life, and in a way, it claimed mine and my dad’s too. Frederick VanderKemp, noted and respected family doctor, for all his skill and knowledge could not have saved his wife from the oncoming semi that crushed her small vehicle on a lonely Arizona highway that night. He’d never been the same since, and his practice had suffered. Our lives went on hold as the two of us stayed locked in the dubious comfort of our shared grief.
For that reason, I couldn’t leave my dad to deal with it all alone. I’d buried myself in my studies, shelving my own sadness while helping him to cope. When I graduate, I want to become a grief counselor and help others to overcome such devastating events and put my experience, as traumatic as it is, to productive use. It would help me heal in the process, too; put the tragic past behind me for good. I miss my mom, but nothing will bring her back. Dad and I both have to move forward somehow.
I roll over onto my back and rub my tired eyes. I can’t take another second of that bright screen, or read yet another case study on counseling methods for substance-induced behavioral disorders. Dealing with psychos and drug addicts was not going to be my area of specialization. But, as part of the mandatory curriculum, I have no choice but to learn it if I want those letters behind my name someday. And I definitely want them.
In truth, the rubric isn’t all that different than the methods for treating depression or PTSD. Empathize with the patient, make them feel safe, help rationalize their thought processes to avert potential destructive behavior. It sounds so simple in theory. But I can’t say for sure if I’d remember what to do or say if I came face-to-face with some trigger-happy meth head, and I hope I never have to find out.
I expect my friend Rochelle to be calling soon, like she always does on Sunday nights, trying to persuade me to come out for drinks at one of the campus bars.
“You’ve gotta get out more,” she always says. “Meet some guys, for Christ’s sake. You’re like a damn nun—wearing your schoolwork and your virginity like habit robes. You need that cherry popped, girl. You’ll feel better, I guarantee it.”
She makes it sound like punching a ticket for admittance to some exclusive club; some status symbol I should be striving to attain. I sigh and tug my cotton tee shirt away from the sweaty valley between my breasts where the material has stuck. Sex is everywhere on campus. Horny guys and gals seem to float through classes and social events for no other reason than to get off or get laid, and they don’t care with whom. That’s not me. Maybe I’m delusional, or just old-fashioned, but I want my first time to be with someone I really care about, and who cares about me in return. Was that so impossible these days? Was it so much to hope for?
As much as I feel the same urges as my classmates, I know all the guys approach me only because of my looks, and only want one thing. My blonde, blue-eyed Dutch genes and my mother’s voluptuous curves are more of a curse than a blessing. I’m just a tantalizing Dutch Treat on legs to them—a hot, fluffy waffle with whipped cream on top, ready and willing to be eaten wherever, whenever, like a $2.99 all-day breakfast special. Ugh. I dream of a guy who might actually want me because of me, Quinn VanderKemp. Gentle, smart and caring. And a virgin.
Dammit. Waiting for Mr. Right to “pop my cherry” doesn’t stop me from feeling as horny as the rest of them. Sweat trickles down my abdomen from beneath my tits, and I feel my nipples press annoyingly beneath the fabric stretched tightly across them. Jeez, couldn’t just a little breeze waft in through my open bedroom window? The spinning ceiling fan offers some minor relief from the devilish heat, but not nearly enough.
So I think of the only other kind of relief available to me, and snake one hand downward to the waistband of my high-cut jean shorts. I’m home alone, and Dad respects my privacy when I’m in my room in any case. I listen to the droning whir of the fan and the random sounds from outside as I pull the zipper and spread the folds of denim away, shoving them down past my bum.
Birds tweet and insects buzz. I bite my lip and pull aside the sodden strip of panty covering my crotch. My pubic curls are wet as my finger weaves past them, finding the smooth, slippery canal of my pussy.
I stroke my finger through my wet channel, inciting my clit to throb and swell. Then I touch it, pressing and tapping my little bud to happiness. The combined wetness of arousal and sweat creates little smacking noises as I pump up and down, and a smile curves the corners of my mouth. My clinical mind knows it’s called an orgasm, but the sensation is so much more than that clumsy-sounding, colorless word.
It’s heaven.
I feel the delicious swell of it stirring deep in my belly, like a wave still far from shore, one that’s certain to crest and sweep me away in ecstasy when it arrives. My hips buck, and my skin tingles down low as I pump faster, working to my release. A moan escapes my lips and crescendos into an echoing screech as I finally come, the sound louder than I ever recall making. Good thing nobody’s home or I’d have some explaining to do.
As I my catch my breath and relax to the satisfying, quaking pulses of my private muscles, I realize it’s not me making all that noise. The squeal of high-performance brakes and the hiss of a diesel engine coming to a stop shatters the still, hot air outside. What kind of vehicle like that would be driving up our quiet residential street?
Spent and hotter than ever, I sigh and replace my panties and shorts. I roll off my rumpled bed and step up to the window, parting the sheer curtains to peer out at the street below. A moving van has pulled up at the curb in front of the vacant house next door; the one that’s been on the market for months. It will be nice to have neighbors again; I miss waving hello over a fence and the security of knowing someone is nearby if you ever need a helping hand. I wonder who the new owners are and if they have kids? I’ve lived here most of my life and have babysat nearly everyone on the block under the age of twelve. I especially liked sitting for the Callahan’s two doors to the south of us, but those girls and boys are old enough now to be on their own, and I don’t see them much nowadays. Maybe this new family will have some little ones.
I watch the driver and another heavy-set man exit the front seat of the cab and move to the back of the truck. From the rear seat crew cab, I see a tall man get out and step onto the sidewalk. He’s wearing jeans and one of those sleeveless undershirts that fit so tight the rippling muscles of his chest and abs are clearly visible beneath the thin material. His bulging biceps are no secret either in that outfit, and his skin is tanned to a beautiful golden brown. When he tips his face upward to the sunlight, I notice the rugged lines of his face. He’s older than his body suggests, but handsome all the same; my stomach gives a tiny flutter at how attractive he is.
He turns and lifts out a little girl wearing a cute polka dot sundress from a safety seat in the crew cab. He hoists her in his arms and gives her a kiss on the cheek before setting her on the ground. She jumps happily up and down and does a little twirl that makes her skirt fan out in a circle. She looks like an adorable spinning top. The man lets out a laugh that’s both sexy and joyful to my ears. They seem like a nice family, and I’m glad there’s a small child just as I’d hoped, but I wonder where the girl’s mother is? I don’t see anyone else get out of the vehicle. Perhaps the missus couldn’t get away from work today or something?
I let the curtains fall shut and return to my computer. My studying won’t do itself, and I feel like a busybody staring out my window at the new folks. They’ll have enough to do with unpacking, and don’t need a peeping Thomasina gaping at them the whole time. Maybe tomorrow I’ll pop over to introduce myself and welcome them to the neighborhood. If it cools down enough this evening, I might chance to light the oven and bake some cookies or muffins to bring to them. It’s the neighborly thing to do, right?
Of course, it is. And at the same time, I’ll get to meet that sweet little girl—and her hot dad. I give myself a shake, the handsome, muscled man making me recall what I’d been doing just as they arrived, and walk to the bathroom to wash up. Maybe Rochelle is right; I really do need to get out more and meet people, er, guys. I don’t want to have to masturbate forever, but I’m still a little nervous about sex. I want my first time to be with somebody special—somebody experienced.
I blush inwardly at my next thought, which is that the hunky neighbor man clearly has experience since he has a daughter. I force it away, scolding myself for even thinking such a thing. He’s probably my father’s age for heaven’s sake and married too. I dry my hands and hang up the towel. I think that when Rochelle calls—and she will bless her heart—I won’t say no this time. Maybe the journey to Mr. Right starts with just a few baby steps.