The boisterous laughter and constant catcalls anytime a woman walks past the Pearson boys irritates me on a level I’m not used to.

These people are mundane and my intellect is dropping points every second I’m forced to be around them.

Overcooked, chargrilled chicken is dumped on my paper plate by Rowan, my twelve-year-old firecracker. She beams up at me, and I can’t help but relax my tense posture and offer her a smile in return.

“Thank you,” I tell her, picking up the flesh and taking a chunk into my mouth. I chew and swallow to appease her, but it’s rubbery and lodges in my trachea, more than likely because Eric insists on barbecuing his own meat at these get-togethers rather than hiring a cook or caterers. For someone who’s rich and likes to flaunt it, the paper plates he has us all juggling are cheap. Just like half the women here. Not hiring a chef to barbeque is an alpha male trait, and he’s too busy drooling over the half-dressed housewives flaunting their bought tits and veneer smiles to concentrate on doing a good job of it.

“I’m going to get my suit and swim with the boys,” Rowan tells me, pulling my attention back to her. She’s been a friend of the Pearson boys since we moved here six months ago.

They attend the same school, kids’ parties, after school activities. I can’t escape the little bastards.

I don’t like her being around four boys, especially Eric Pearson’s boys. Those kids are trouble. Hayden is the oldest, but he isn’t right in the head. I don’t like the way his eyes track my daughter—as though he might do something to her. Over my fucking dead body. Brock, the second to oldest, and around the same age as Rowan, is destined to turn out just like his dad, even has the same goddamn smirk. Nixon is a few years younger than Rowan, but seems lost inside his head and is always muttering under his breath—something I can certainly relate to. And the youngest, Camden, is still a titty-baby momma’s boy despite being in third or fourth grade. Eventually, Eric Pearson will influence that kid too. His idea of role modeling is cheating on his wife and throwing money at any problems that arise. The Pearson boys don’t stand a chance of being anything other than scum. It’s in their gene pool.

But Rowan sees the best in everyone, which works for me, so I don’t try to dull that glitter from her personality. Her soft brown hair that matches mine fans over her delicate shoulders, and her eyelids flutter as she waits for my permission.

I scan the boys who are all taking turns dive bombing into the swimming pool, and visions of the water turning red as I wade through with a carving knife and cut each pecker from their pubescent bodies invade my mind, bringing a real smile to my lips.

Apparently, it’s healthy to socialize with your neighbors, and good for Rowan to have play dates. Those play dates didn’t used to include boys and swimsuits, though.

This is going to be a real test of restraint.

“Go ahead, sweetheart.” I nod my head in the direction of our house.

Her auburn hair falls down her back and sways as she bounces across the lawn and out of the gate.

I pull on the collar of the shirt I took ten minutes choosing just to come to this shit-show. I hate wearing polo shirts, but it’s what I see most men wear when they’re going for a casual look. I paired it with some beige slacks, but I’m thinking I should have gone for shorts like everyone else here. It’s hard for me sometimes to fit in—to adjust to the norm and blend in with other parents.

Bodies mingle and talk animatedly to each other, and all I want to do is flee back to the comfort of my own house—my own company. I have things to do, people to check up on. One of Eric’s wife’s friends keeps looking over at me offering a coy smile, but she’s older than the girls I like and too fake. I hate the rich women who think paying to have toxins pumped into their skin makes them look young and attractive.

They’re wrong.

It makes them look swollen and desperate. Grow old gracefully or die young, but freezing your youth in time forever is simply pathetic.

Eric catches my eye and summons me over with a motion of his hand, the muscles in his abdomen flexing, showing he works out.

In only a pair of shorts, his over-tanned skin is cooking under the summer sun, and I think about the damage that would show under a black light.

Vanity is such an ugly trait in humans, and Eric has it in abundance. I debate not going over. Who the hell is he to beckon me? But for Rowan, I will make the effort, play the part, wear the façade.

“Eric,” I say with a tilt of my head. I have the brief urge to grab his head and plant it on the grill he’s tossing steaks on, smelling the burning of his flesh, relishing the screams and sizzle. The feeling washes over me like a red mist, dimming the sounds around me and making my fingers twitch, but it drifts away with the smoke of the barbeque evaporating.

“Jaxson, glad you could make it,” he says. Calling me “Jaxson” is another sign of power. He knows I go by Jax. I’ve corrected him many times in the past. I think it’s because his wife, Julia, calls me Jax. She’s over familiar with me whenever an occasion arises where we have to talk, her hands are touchy feely, and it makes my skin crawl so he likes to put me in my place.

Desperation is also a trait in people I despise. But it’s amusing he finds me threatening.

“This is Trevor and Levi. They work with me.” He introduces me to his partners, undermining their positions—another show of how badly he needs to be the dominant alpha, while emphasizing his lack of respect for anyone around him. Unbeknownst to him, I already know exactly who they are. I did my research about Eric before buying the property next door. He’s the CEO of Four Fathers Freight. Levi Kingston is a partner, along with Trevor Blackstone and Mateo Bonilla. FFF is a U.S. based global packaging company and delivery service founded in 2005 by Eric and his partners. They’re a rapidly growing business and already the third largest transport company operator in the U.S. Total revenue for last year hit over forty billion. This is why Eric is such a cocky sonofabitch. Money does strange things to the simple-minded.

I offer a polite hello and study each of them. Trevor appears more reserved than Eric and Levi, who both tip their beers to their lips and eyeball a girl barely into her teens as she saunters past and jumps on the back of Hayden, Eric’s oldest son. She makes a screeching sound when he jumps with her into the pool. The splash soaks a couple younger children, making them cry. Her bikini top lifts as she crashes into the water, her young tits on display for a brief moment. I look away, uninterested in child nudity.

“They grow up so fast.” Eric grins, and Levi smirks in return. “Amen to that, brother.”

Perverts. I’m all for looking at a beautiful woman, but teens who barely have fluff on their cunts do nothing for me, and men who prey on them make my blood heat.

Levi is so much like Eric, they could have been spat out by the same mother.

I eye Levi’s impeccable suit, crinkle free, his tie firmly in place, like he’s going to a wedding and not sitting in the yard of his friend in blistering heat. He sees me looking at him and narrows his eyes.

“I came straight from the office,” he barks at me, offended by my assessment of his attire.

If it were just us two and he spoke to me with such a bite, I’d remove his tongue, cook it, and feed it to Eric’s wife’s best friend Mona Marvel’s Chihuahua she keeps in a fucking handbag over her shoulder.

“What line of work are you in, Jaxson?” Trevor asks, feigning interest and drawing my attention from imagining his friend’s bloody demise.

“It’s just Jax, and pharmaceuticals,” I reply without elaborating. Most people assume I’m a salesman, but it’s my company. It’s small, but keeps Rowan and me wealthy, and sees to other needs I have.

Dark, depraved needs.

Needs that aren’t appropriate to discuss over a neighborhood cookout.

He takes his time studying me, and I wonder if he sees something inside me others don’t. I read he was homeless at one point. It’s incredible what he’s accomplished, from rags to riches, yet he still dresses like a homeless man. He should take some pride in his appearance.

“Look at the ass on Jenny Taylor. Now that’s great work.” Eric drools as Levi and Trevor both cast their eyes in the direction he’s staring. Their other partner, Mateo, is the only decent one in the bunch and only has eyes for his wife clutched tight in his arms. Rowan has been invited to sleepovers with Mateo’s daughter, Karelma, in the past, which I’ve allowed because I don’t have to worry about him like I do his shitty, scumbag partners.

“How much do you think it cost her?” Eric muses aloud.

Trevor starts mumbling numbers as though he’s actually calculating the cost of Jenny’s plastic surgery. Her ass looks ridiculous. She shouldn’t have paid shit for it. It’s clearly a botched job and doesn’t match her slender frame. Nobody pays for an ass that big. If I jabbed a knife into her ass cheek, she would leak and deflate. It’s laughable what these men find attractive. She’s also a mother of three and her husband plays golf with Eric. Their disloyalty says a lot about their character.

“Oh, shit. Incoming,” Levi sniggers behind his beer bottle, tipping it up and taking a hearty swig.

Eric’s wife Julia approaches us with fire in her eyes, and I sense a scene about to erupt. I don’t want all eyes cast in my direction, and being this close to Eric when his wife is storming toward him is exactly what’s going to happen. I excuse myself and slip away into the background.

The shadows offer me solace from having to speak to anyone else. I can watch Rowan, who’s returned in her pink one-piece, and is now being dunked in the pool by Brock. She giggles and splashes. My daughter is growing up so fast—too fast. Her body is changing, and boys are noticing. If I could set the world alight and just live amongst the ashes, she and I forever, I would. But the world is a complicated place, and I’ve had to adapt and learn as I go. She was a surprise baby, one I never ever thought I’d want, but she’s the only thing I’ve ever loved. Her happiness is why I live amongst people and not isolated in the mountains.

Before her, there was no light, no sun, just darkness. My soul was as frozen as the winter snow, silent and cold.

Deadly to anyone trapped within it.

A screech from Julia gains the attention of everyone, including the boys and Rowan. What an embarrassment, causing a scene in front of all the guests they insisted on coming over.

“You’re a disgusting sonofabitch, and I’m done, Eric. I’m fucking done,” Julia screams, tears rolling down her red, blotchy face, creating black streaks from her mascara.

“Calm the hell down. We have guests,” Eric growls, grabbing her arms and pushing her inside the house.

Levi sniggers, and Trevor shakes his head in disapproval. Nixon, another of Eric’s offspring, exits the pool and watches his parents through the pane of glass separating them from the rest of us.

“Nix, they’ll be fine, buddy,” Trevor tells him as he walks over to the boy. “Grab the football and I’ll kick it around with you.” It’s actually interesting to see them side by side. If I didn’t know Eric was his father, I’d swear Trevor’s DNA runs through the veins of that kid. They look identical, even down to the way they walk. It’s uncanny. I wonder if Eric sees it too and questions the paternity.

Julia, you bad girl.

I check my watch and decide I’ll give Rowan fifteen more minutes, then it’s home and bed for her. I’ve fulfilled my duty. Dinner and a show. Never a dull moment in the Pearson household.

* * *

Tucking Rowan into bed, I can’t help but sweep a stray hair from her eyes and admire how sweet this kid is. It’ll be hell keeping her safe from hormonal boys in the coming years. Luckily, I have ways.

I pick up her clothes left in a pile on her carpet and place them on the chair in the corner of her room. She grabs the picture on her bedside table with the word Mom emblazoned in messy letters painted across the frame and kisses it.

“Goodnight, Mommy,” she says to the picture, then grins at me. “Goodnight, Daddy.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

I turn off her light and shut her bedroom door. She’s caught the sun and appears exhausted from all the swimming. Tomorrow is a non-school day, and I promised her a day of daddy-daughter fun.

Being her father isn’t a hardship, but trying to offer her a stable and well-rounded childhood comes with some sacrifices.

Parties, school events, and day trips being just a few.

When I get downstairs, I grab the keys for the basement, unlock the door, and take the stairs, switching on the light. Rowan knows I keep medical supplies down here and she’s not allowed to ever come in here. So when I hear movement above me, followed by footfalls on the stairs, my fists clench. She’s never disobeyed the rules before.

Confusion falters my movements when Julia comes down the stairs behind me and dumps a bag on the ground at my feet.

What the fuck?

“Your door was unlocked,” she explains, as if that’s a good enough reason for her to enter my property without knocking and roam around like she owns the damn place. My back doors are always open because it’s summer and I like the sound of the crickets chirping. No one can access the back of my property, though, so I’m perplexed at how she managed it.

She appears to know my thoughts because she continues with her explanation of her presence in my house. In my basement. In my space. “Our children made a gate between our properties so they can come and go between the two.”

She means her boys made a gate for my Rowan to creep over there. Rage coils my muscles, and I find myself picking up the screwdriver I’d left out earlier and squeezing the handle in my grip.

“I’m leaving Eric,” she announces, like we’re friends and I’d care what she’s doing. Is she waiting for me to say something? What do I say to that? Is there a rulebook somewhere I should have read for this situation? Are we friends?

I hate this part of pretending to be like them.

Normal.

I am not like them.

And I sure as hell am not normal.

“I’ve packed a bag,” she continues, briefly looking down at where she’s dropped it at her feet.

She’s leaving him right now? So why the hell is she over here? I hope she doesn’t want to crash here. That would be a huge assumption on her part.

“Okay?” I frown, unclear of my role here. “What about your sons?”

“I need to get on my feet, then I’ll come back for them.”

Before I can say anything else, she rushes toward me and throws her arms around my neck, catching me off guard and making me teeter on my feet as I’m forced to catch her. It’s odd, and I don’t know how to respond.

I pat her back, then detach her from me. She looks down at her feet.

“Thank you for always being kind to me,” she murmurs. “I wish Eric was more like you.”

Once again, I don’t understand what she’s referring to. I’ve never treated her with favor, just tried to be polite to keep up appearances. Maybe she’s crazy and that’s why Eric fucks anything with a pulse. When I don’t speak, she appears to take this as an invitation. She advances on me, lifting on her tiptoes and planting her lips to mine.

What the hell is happening?

Her kiss is frantic and starved as her fake breasts smash against me. She’s an attractive woman, sure, but she’s been worn down by a selfish husband and is famished for affection.

Eric’s smirky, cocky face flashes in my mind, and satisfaction settles in my bones. His little wife has left him and she’s here with me. I pull her away and look at her smudged lipstick as she pants for air.

So fucking eager.

She’s here begging for scraps of affection. Affection she’s conjured up in her own mind thinking I’d be willing to give to her. It makes me wonder if she has ever fucked Eric’s friends and partners. Levi, maybe not. And Mateo seems happily married. But Trevor? Nixon and his likeness isn’t just a coincidence. Julia has been hungry for attention her whole marriage, and Trevor offered it to her at some point. There’s no doubt in my mind.

“Please, Jax,” she begs.

All I can think about is how smug Eric is about his seemingly perfect life. Yet, look how pathetic his wife is—how eager and needy her cunt is for me. No wonder he finds me so threatening. I bet she moans my name while she touches herself.

Dirty Mrs. Pearson.

She’s hungry for me. I’ll feed her, then send her back to him, knowing at every party he throws and invites me to, I fucked his deprived wife. It’s ammo to store and use against him if the need arises.

I’m not usually a petty man…

Oh, who am I kidding?

Of course I fucking am.

All men are, and I’m no exception.

I swipe the tools from the table I use, causing her eyes to widen with anticipation as they clatter loudly to the floor. She moves to hop on, but I stop her with a hand to her shoulder and a shake of my head. I spin her body around so her back is to me and push her shoulders forward with a heavy palm until she’s laying her torso flat against the wood surface. Lifting her little flower emblazoned dress, I stroke over the little scars of stretched skin made only by carrying four children, and fist her expensive underwear, tearing them away with a grunt. She’s panting and trembling, so desperate for human contact. To have someone want her, desire her—give her an inkling of attention and prove she’s still a woman, not just a mother and wife.

When I kick her legs apart, her cunt opens, and her arousal is pungent. It’s been a hot day, and her fuck hole stinks of sweat, so my cock won’t harden. I’ve never been with a woman of her age or who has birthed so many children. I’m learning I don’t find her one bit arousing. That’s problematic. The idea of Eric jabbing away at her over the years is a turn off and her making those eager noises makes my cock want to disappear inside itself like a second belly button.

I want her to shut up.

Force her to be still.

To do as she’s told.

My hand twitches, and I notice I’m still holding the screwdriver in my palm. The handle is made of rubber and shaped like the fat sausages Eric served tonight.

Perfect.

I turn it in my hand so I’m fisting the metal end, then thrust the rubber end of it inside her desperate cunt. There’s no barrier. No resistance. It just slides right in, making her scream at the intrusion. Her body becomes rigid compared to the compellability from seconds ago.

She loves it, though. I’m giving her what she needs and she’s grateful.

“What is that?” she cries out, looking back at me over her shoulder.

Stop fucking talking, woman.

No wonder Eric’s eyes wander. If I had to put my cock inside her every night, I’d want to run away too.

“Shut up,” I bark, holding her down with one hand and using the other to plunder her hole over and over. Juices run down the handle and drip onto my hand. The urge to pull my hand away and swipe it on my slacks is strong, but I grit my teeth and continue my ministrations.

“This is what you want. What you begged for because you don’t like the little sluts who parade their under-age asses around for your husband to fantasize about defiling. He likes their tight cunts and smooth skin. Their delicate moans and innocent doe eyes. And there you are, used up, having birthed his sons. You gave the selfish, ungrateful bastard your youth. He wants to eat new pussy while yours dries up.”

A sob escapes her as my words hit their intended mark.

“I thought you liked me.” She sniffles, grunting.

Why did she think that?

I must be better at this pretending shit than I thought.

“I do,” I lie, using my forearm muscles to speed this shit up. I’m already bored and my mind is on other things.

Why did I bother entertaining her in the first place? To have one over on Eric. I think this actually may be one he has over me. I’m doing him a favor seeing to this chore so he doesn’t have to.

“Look how good to you I’m being,” I croon in a tone I’ve heard men use on women. I’ve learned women are the easiest creatures to manipulate. A few soft words and compliments can usually win over any female.

Her cunt becomes a slippery pit, and gone are the questions. Now she’s clinging to the sides of the table, her nails scraping with every prod. She’s sobbing, her body jerking from the force of her misery. She wanted to be a whore, and now she’s being treated like one.

It’s never as you thought it would be, is it?

I snort and pull the object from her, only to realize it’s not her arousal making her wet but blood. Maybe I was a little rough. I drop the object to the floor and remove my hand from her back.

“You’re welcome,” I tell her with a smirk.

Damn, I wasn’t just including myself in the neighborly functions, I was now doing charity work on top of it.

Shaking, she gathers herself, pushing down her dress and bending to pick up her destroyed panties. She scrubs a hand over her face to remove the tears of elation. I bet she hasn’t been fucked like that before.

She can’t look me in the face, knowing what a whore she’s been.

Her disgusting fluids are making my fingers sticky, so I move to the sink to finally wash my hands. She doesn’t pick her bag up to leave like I hoped, and having her down here in my space is making me fidgety.

Was I supposed to offer her a beverage now or something? Usually this act is played out very differently for me.

She won’t stay. She’ll run home where she belongs because actually leaving Eric means leaving his money.

It’s going to be amusing. Eric will know she’s been up to no good when she limps back to him, and it will be something he always questions. Who, where, with what?

A gasp alerts me to her discovering something she shouldn’t have. I dry my hands and turn to face her.

Goddammit.

Why did she have to come over here?

Her instincts on who to flee to were way off.

She closes the door to the basement fridge and stumbles backwards. Her foot lands on the screwdriver, tilting her at an askew angle, and she falls to her ass with a thud. Her face is as white as a sheet as shock washes over her.

“You’re quite the nosey neighbor,” I tisk, shaking my head and stalking toward her.

“I only w-wanted a s-soda,” she defends, her voice cracking. She’s trembling all over so badly, she looks like a character with a computer glitch. “What is that?” she chokes out, pointing to the fridge.

I crowd over her and shake my head in disappointment.

“Something I wish you hadn’t seen.”