Social Neighbor (The Social Series Book 1) (15 page)

Graham

Noted

“I
’m fine, Halley,” I repeated for the third time, rubbing my eyes even though it didn’t help the burning at all. It had been a full day since my delectable neighbor had seen fit to pepper spray me in the face and the burn hadn’t subsided completely.

“Stop calling me Halley. It’s no longer funny, Graham.” Halley—Margaret—was particularly pissy that morning and the opportunity to pick at her was too enticing to pass up.

“Okay. Sorry, Halley.”

“You’re such a child. Are you going to Martin’s anniversary party? How long has he been sober now?”

“This will be the big eighteen for him. I hope to be there, but it all depends on how my leg is doing and when the doctor says he will switch me from this external fixator thing to a regular cast,” I said while eyeing the contraption on my lower leg.

“And when do you go back to the doctor?” I was growing tired of her pushy inquisition.

“I don’t know. I have to look at the appointment card,” I muttered.

“Who is taking you?”

“Damn, Halley. Want me to just have Conrad send you my full calendar? My neighbor is taking me.”

“Since when do you rub elbows with your neighbors?” Her voice had become a higher pitch than normal and it didn’t suit her at all. It didn’t suit me either. It reminded me of the days when her incessant whining usually got Tommy and me in significant trouble.

“Oh, it’s been a recent development.”

“Fine but if you can’t make arrangements to get there, you’ll let me know and I will send the nurse that I’ve
already paid
and she can go do the job
I hired her to do
.”

“I don’t need a nurse, Halley.”

“Stop calling me Halley!”

“Calm down, Halley.”

“Ugh! Goodbye, Graham.”

“Bye, Halley.” I couldn’t help but laugh once she’d hung up on me, successfully cutting me off before I could squeeze yet another “Halley” in. Teasing my little sister had yet to get old and I’d been doing it for all her twenty-seven years.

Being stuck in Tommy’s apartment with little to hold my attention had only spurred me on. I needed something to occupy my mind.

Flor instantly came to mind. Who was I kidding? She’d been on my mind for the entire duration of the previous day and night and thus far that morning. Sleep had eluded me last night. All night I’d listened closely, hoping maybe I’d hear a muffled laugh from her through the wall but there was nothing but deafening silence, and it made sleep near to impossible. Attempting to rest in a recliner wasn’t exactly comfortable and my burning eyes wouldn’t stop tearing, but that wasn’t the reason for my insomnia last night. She was.

Flor.

She was right next door and I wanted nothing more than to wheel myself to her door and explain everything. I wanted to tell her that I stayed in my brother’s apartment sometimes because of a compulsion to be near to him by being near to his things.

I wanted to tell her that I was a recovering alcoholic and that was why Halley had been so ugly with her. My sister, for all her well-meaning intentions, had a strange way of trying to take care of me.

Her methods were terrible. But her intentions were good. I knew that. Flor didn’t though. She needed to. She had the right to know why she had come under attack. I was just too much of a coward to bite the bullet and reveal my ugly truth.

Typical alcoholic behavior.

I chastised myself for not taking ownership of the confusion. She didn’t deserve to be treated badly or mislead in any way and yet here I was. Misleading, lying by omission, saving my own skin, worried more for myself and how I’d ever be able to give an adequate explanation.

Hadn’t this kind of thinking caused enough trouble in the past? Hadn’t this sort of carelessness resulted in the greatest loss I’d ever experienced? Hadn’t I learned my fucking lesson?

You’d think so.

I couldn’t dwell on it any longer. I couldn’t keep chastising myself for things that I’d never be able to take back. I just had to make things right. I would never be able to take back Tommy’s death, but I could certainly make things right with Flor. Even if she hated me and chose to never see me again, at least I would know I had done the right thing. It was no consolation prize, but it was something.

In spite of being more than exhausted, I waited near Tommy’s door for sign of her. When the sound of feet coming down the hall caught my attention, I cracked the door open and peeked out. So far, I had only a few odd stares from neighbors under my belt, a completely numb ass, but no reconciliation with Flor. Not to mention that maneuvering my wheelchair each time I had to open and shut the door was becoming bothersome.

I had given sincere consideration to blasting music as loud as possible to lure her to my door, but that would only piss her off and I wasn’t entirely confident that she wouldn’t unleash her pepper spray again. She clearly hadn’t liked me much as a neighbor already. Pepper spray to the face was proof of that much.

She liked me a lot in the elevator at Four-19. She had keened softly in my arms and the effect on me was tremendous.

I ran my sore hands through my hair and looked around Tommy’s place feeling pretty aimless. I was awash in one hell of a shit storm with no obvious path out.

I lied to myself. I knew the way out; I just hated to resign myself to it.

The obvious path out was to be honest, to apologize and to start over with Flor in hopes that she’d understand and accept me.

It was hard to say if she would understand and accept, though. The simple fact of the matter was that I didn’t know this woman beyond a few encounters, but I wanted to know her. I still craved to feel her beneath my body. I still wanted to touch her very deliberately until she was trembling with need and was reduced to pleading for release—release that I’d provide her. But more than that, for the first time, I felt compelled to
know
a woman. I wanted to know her body and her mind. She was a mystery that I needed to unravel.

Martin and I had spoken a few times about women. He had always reassured me that the difference between a woman for a night and a woman for your future was in your appetite for her.

If you craved the dessert above everything else on her menu, then she was the woman for a night. If, however, you wanted to sample from everything she had to offer, and meet the chef afterward to give your compliments, then she was a woman for the future. I always laughed at his analogy and how crass it seemed, but Martin had a way of putting things into very relatable terms. I’m a big man. I love food. I love women too. He was clever for coming up with that analogy.

He’d learned a lot from his own battle with alcoholism, and I had hope that perhaps one day I’d be just as wise.

I opened the Facebook app on my phone and tapped the search box. Once my name was entered I clicked on the little magnifying glass. Exactly how many Graham Stones were there in New York? As it turned out, there were six. This baffled me.

It took me all of ten seconds to find the page belonging to the Graham Stone that sold insurance in Queens. If he was indeed the sick fuck that had sent Flor a dick pic, then maybe he deserved the pepper spray that had been meant for him.

Though I felt the urge to put my hands on him for sending Flor,
my Flor
, a picture of his cock, I was aware that this was likely all my fault anyway. I had chosen to keep my settings as private as possible and this had ensured that my name was unsearchable. I valued my privacy, and I valued separating myself from bad influences from my past, but this had resulted in mistaken identity. My eyes were still burning because of the whole mess.

Florence Randall
.

I clicked the magnifying glass again and was pleased to see that there was only one Florence Randall in Manhattan. “Of course it would have to be only you…” I whispered to myself, feeling enraptured by her picture. I clicked on the profile image beside her name and stared at her beautiful face, marveling in the thought that she was right next door and she was very much mine. Even if she didn’t know it yet, Florence Randall was my very own bottle of fine wine from reserve, and I’d be the only man to drink from her. I had to be. I needed to be. I’d just have to convince her to pour herself out for me.

The child in me couldn’t help himself. I clicked on the message tab and typed out a short note to her.

Graham Stone:
For the record, this is Graham Stone, your neighbor, your “Goliath.”

I waited for what felt like forever for her to respond. I wasn’t sure she even would. I had hope, though.

Florence Randall:
Noted.

“Noted?” I grunted, feeling frustrated that she had little else to say to me. That was it? That was all she was going to say?

There wasn’t much else to do or to say. I requested to be her friend on Facebook. It was a starting point, I supposed.

Flor

Picture Painted

L
ike any normal person, when something confused me, I Googled it. Graham Stone, not the insurance salesman but the businessman, confused me.

I typed his name into the search engine and waited for my screen to populate with results. Various articles about Manhattan nightlife popped up. His name was mentioned multiple times in the
New York Times
business column where he was hailed as Manhattan’s King of Clubs.

“Witty,” I mumbled to my computer screen. I clicked on the images tab and my breath caught in my throat as a montage of pictures of him lit my computer screen.

I slouched forward in my chair, wishing and hoping against hope that he could somehow be available. It was wrong of me to wish for but who was I kidding? Physically, I still wanted him. Maybe more. As to wanting him beyond that? No thanks. He was a jerk, a liar and the world’s worst neighbor. I made him cookies and he knew I was his neighbor!

I glared at the images on my screen both swooning over him and despising him. At the moment, both emotions were no longer mutually exclusive or discernible. They ran together creating a tangle of emotions that I wasn’t keen on confronting at the moment.

I scrolled down and couldn’t help but scowl at the images of him and his wife that peppered my screen.
Owners,
Graham and Margaret Stone at the grand opening of Indigo in Manhattan
, the caption beneath one image read. They had their arms around each other. She was gorgeous in a form fitting red off-the-shoulder bandage dress that was complete with matching red heels. She held a metallic gold clutch. Her dark brown hair was perfectly coiffed into a bun at the nape of her slender neck.

Bitch.

It was hard to look at her. Jealousy had made sure of that. He was harder to look at. Sexual discontentment had made sure of
that.

I huffed as a new wave of anger and embarrassment crashed over me, leaving me feeling dirty and cheap all over again. As if fate just couldn’t resist, a Facebook message from “Graham Stone” popped up on my screen. I ignored the small fluttering sensation in my stomach and typed out my response harder than necessary.

“Such an asshole,” I grumbled to myself. Matt was on a Sunday brunch date with Cal, where I was certain he was recounting the pepper spray fiasco over eggs benedict. I didn’t dare check social media that morning. I knew there had to be about a million comments on the post that Matt made the night before. I had a sudden case of cabin fever. I needed air.

I didn’t know what I would buy, but the bookstore sounded like just the place to burn some time.

I roamed the children’s book section for more than two hours. I smiled as I thumbed through some of my favorites. I read a handful of the newest bestsellers, and it occupied not only time, but my mind too. Mostly.

Even in one of my favorite places, surrounded by countless characters and countless worlds, somewhere, in the back of my mind, I wondered what Graham was doing. I wondered if he was in pain. I wondered if anyone was around helping him out. I wanted to check on him, but the sour taste of being played for a fool kept cropping up and reminding me that I was still angry with him. Like a broken record, it skipped and repeated the same thing.

I made cookies! He knew it was me!