Boy Next Door (Chapter 2)

Note: 18+ readers only. All characters are 18+ and consenting adults. There are no explicit scenes in this chapter. All imagery is created by me.

This is chapter 2 of Boy Next Door. If you haven’t already, you can read the previous chapter here:

Chapter 1

POV: John Callahan, 25. Neighbor to the Ashford’s.

Saturday morning routine at our house hadn’t really changed since I was a kid. My dad up before me, reading the newspaper, sipping coffee.

He looked up from the sports section. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks. I was up till two redoing the east wing.”

“The one you redid Wednesday?”

“That was the west wing.”

It had been just the two of us at this table for almost two decades. My mom left when I was six. He never really talked about her, and after a while, neither did I.

“You’re going over there today?” He nodded towards the neighbors’ house.

“I said I’d help set up.” I pushed a piece of egg around my plate. “I probably shouldn’t. I’ve got the whole floor plan basically rebuilt, but…”

“Son.” He set the paper down. “What is one afternoon? Go.”

It was never one afternoon with them. With them, it was more like a test. A test to proof to myself I could keep my distance. Keep my distance while being sucked in. Sucked in with every twitch, every antic, every blink of a specific muddy-grey eyed Ashford sibling.

“Richard and Anne know about this party?” Dad asked.

I shrugged.

The secret party would no doubt reach Mr. and Mrs. Ashford through images circulating online within the first two minutes.

“Right.” Dad smiled, looking over his glasses. “You’ll go anyway.”

The reason I’d go anyway wasn’t the one he thought it was. He assumed it was loyalty or habit or not wanting to let Luke down.

After breakfast I changed into chino’s and a light pastel button-up shirt. I was torn between open sandals and the soft purple loafers.

I did the dishes because it gave me an excuse to stand at the kitchen window, which faced the driveway next door. Right on schedule, Mr. Ashford’s Aston Martin DB12 rolled out of their garage. When their car disappeared around the bend at the end of the lane, I dried my hands, told my dad I’d probably be next door most of the day and slipped through the gap in the high hedge that separated my house from theirs.

I’d been making my way through that hedge since I was six, back when it was still short enough to hop over instead of duck through. The Ashfords never once treated me like a guest but simply like a fourth brother. Growing up as an only child, stepping into their household chaos, always made me feel one of them, minus the last name.

I slipped through the large open glass-window door to their kitchen.

“John!” Luke grinned from ear to ear, carrying a bunch of party stuff and grilling equipment. “You up for another of our famous pool bashes?”

Marc was half inside the overflowing fridge, rearranging the six-packs puzzle.

I scanned the open plan space toward the pool house.

Luke noticed my searching gaze and pointed one of the tongs upstairs. “He’s been up there all morning planning a whole DJ set. He’s nervous. Can you believe it?”

“Last year he played the same six songs on repeat and everyone had a great time. I don’t see why this year’s different.” Marc shut the fridge door with his hip.

“This year Chase Whitfield’s little sister is coming.” Luke rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

Upstairs bass thumped once, cut off, thumped again.

“Since when does our baby brother care about Jessica Whitfield?” Marc asked.

Luke picked up a giant bag of icecubes. “Since forever, apparently. He wouldn’t shut up about her last night.”

I busied myself untangling a giant ball of party lights when the bass upstairs cut off mid-beat.

Matthew came down slow, one hand trailing along the banister, one hand on his hip, wearing nothing but a ridiculously tiny speedo.

He let his gaze land on me, gauging the effect of his appearance.

“Here,” Luke stepped into the frame and pressed the ice bag to Matthew’s chest. “Make yourself useful.”

“Where does it go?”

“Outside bar.”

The lights were finally strung over the grill area. I checked the propane tank and laid out the grilling tools when fingertips tickled my side.

I turned around. Matthew looked straight at me, the little specks in his eyes lighting up like fireworks.

“Can you help me with music?”

“Sure.”

“Interesting choice of swim wear.” I nodded at his crotch.

“You like it?”

His mouth at arm’s length, my thumb followed the perfect curve of his ruby-soft lips, tracing each fold, every tiny groove. My nail drew a fine line along the contour before, with barely any pressure, I pressed my thumb in, a centimeter, an inch, and gently folded the corner of his warm lower lip downward.

As delicately as turning the edge of a thin sheet of paper.

A snap of fingers.

“Hey. Hello?” He waved his hand in front of my face. He was still waiting for me to say something meaningful, to feed into his constant need for validation. He stretched his leg and twisted his bare toe into the ground, like he wanted me to notice his long legs and the narrow hips above them.

I didn’t say anything. We got the side table from the garage and turned it into a DJ booth in front of the pool house. Well, I did. I dragged the table out of the garage, I untangled the cables, I set up the speakers.

Matty didn’t lift a finger. He hovered over me when I put the cables into the extension cords.

“You haven’t said if you like it yet?” He put his palms on his tight round ass.

In a weird way he was insecure. Especially around me.

He did a little twirl, giving me a close look at his dick crammed in that small scrap of fabric.

I picked up his scent.

Every time I did, my brain clicked into the same annoying nervous tic: trying to classify the smell. In an attempt to find a comparison that fell short time and again.

Today it was:

Fresh. Like the damp morning of the first warm day in spring, in a meadow with daisies opening slowly beside a gently babbling mountain stream.

For some weird reason these compulsive descriptions always came in a documentary-like voice which really got on my nerves.

“It’s gonna cause quite the stir,” I said and smiled at him, to get it over with.

He grinned. “Perfect.”