Master Debater

1. Willa

If frustration was the name of the game, I was the reigning champ, and it was due to a lot more than just forgetting how to navigate the narrow, potholed streets of Boston. Recently, my anxiety had spiked into the danger zone. And, in a cruel twist of fate, my best source of stress relief had been taken away from me.

Siri’s electronic voice interrupted my road trip music to chirp instructions through the Oldsmobile’s speakers. “Turn right on Fairmont Street.”

“Gee, thanks for the warning.” I cast a glance over my shoulder and swerved into the other lane, earning a Boston salute from the car now riding my bumper. I’d lost count of how many times a middle finger had been raised in my honor today. Evidently, after six years spent in the boonies, the city was too much for me, and I hoped that wasn’t a bad omen of things to come.

Traffic in Sugar River, Maine, with its two stoplights, one dental office, and all of zero one-way streets had included wildlife as often as people. Others might not measure towns by the number of dentists, but since I’d been convinced to settle there on account of the place not having a one, it felt pertinent.

“Now what?” Despite my following the directions to a T, the rerouting wheel was spinning away, struggling to recalibrate. Given how heavily I relied on my precious phone, I’d once joked that if it’d come with an extra-long and powerful vibrate mode, it’d have it all.

Joke was on me, as I had a whole box of toys that vibrated and pulsed at high speeds, and I still couldn’t get off. It’d been months since I’d experienced that type of release, and the spot that’d been used and abused to no avail launched a loud complaint. As I slowed for the red light, I addressed the angry apex between my thighs, the sideswept blond bangs I’d cut on a whim falling into my eyes.

“Hey, I’m doing everything I can.” Same way I’d done when my soon-to-be ex-husband constantly failed to get me there. “You’ve got to work with me, you know.”

A loud honk broke me out of the type of conversation I could only imagine trying to explain to a police officer. Why didn’t I go when the light turned green? Well, I haven’t had an orgasm in so long that I’m starting to suspect I’m broken, and I had to have a talk with my pussy about it.

“Meow.” Van Gogh popped his one-eared head between the bucket seats of the car, the timing so perfect I almost wished a cop hadpulled me over.

“No, we’re not there yet,” I told the ginger tomcat I’d rescued as he nervously made his way into the passenger seat. “Even though I’m exhausted, I have to pee, and Siri said we’d arrive an hour ago.”

Van Gogh put his paws on the door ledge and looked out the window, and then he was yowling as loudly as he’d done when we’d first started our journey. Life changes and car rides were so not his jam. Mine either, but desperate measures and all.

As he picked up the volume, I reached across the console and stroked him. “Dude, you napped through most of the trip and didn’t even have to leave the vehicle to use the bathroom. If anyone should be crying, it’s me.”

They claimed expectation was the mother of frustration, but I rejected any notion that my current predicament was somehow my fault.

Was I not supposed to expect the man I married to honor the vows we made? Eric and I had promised to love each other in sickness and in health, and while I hadn’t been the sick one, of course I rushed to take care of the woman who’d raised me. Silly me, I’d assumed my husband would understand.

Or at least be able to go six whole weeks without cheating on me.

A pang reverberated through my chest, duller than it used to be but still there. While he’d sworn up and down he only cheated the once—well, the several times with the one person—I couldn’t help but wonder. He’d attended several dental conferences in the name of remaining at the top of his game, always in suspiciously beautiful locales, and he’d been next to impossible to reach during them.

Indignance, humiliation, and regret roiled, and I so didn’t want to sort through or deal with any of that right now.

Or ever.

What did it matter, when the end result was the same?

Long story short, but equally painful, after six years spent as a “we,” I’d become overwhelmed with how many decisions I suddenly needed to make myself.

A timely phone call from my former mentor at Berklee College of Music changed everything, like a tossed life saver in the middle of the storm that’d become my life.

“If that’s the way I’m supposed to go,” I argued with the electronic bitch, “then why have I passed that same building three times?”

Instead of turning, I accelerated through the intersection and squinted at the next road sign. In addition to the job offer, Professor Rashida Williams also gave me the number of a woman in search of a tenant for the bottom floor of a duplex. Between the referral, the price-point, the fact that it came furnished, and the pictures she’d sent of the place, I assured her I didn’t care it hadn’t been remodeled like the penthouse portion above it.

Mentioning her “brilliant, single son” lived in the penthouse and that I should introduce myself once I arrived, was a different story. However long it’d been since leaving the dating pool, most women recognized the code for painfully boring and single for a reason.

Honestly, the dude could be the smartest and sexiest guy in the entire world, and I’d still pass. Dating required vulnerability, and I was already a raw wound that bled emotion all day long.

Technically, I wasn’t even divorced yet.

Although, thanks to Leah, my closest friend in Sugar River, I’d received an X-rated “self-care” package, with a note wishing me a happy divorce and telling me I deserved better.

Amidst the mad rush of boxing up my life, I’d only had time to try a couple of the adult toys so far. To no avail, unfortunately, and with every failed session, my exasperation rose that much higher.

Ignoring Siri paid off, and at long last, I found the street I’d been searching for. “And this is why computers will never take over entirely, modified vibration setting or not.”

With so many cars parked along the sidewalk, I could barely fit mine down the supposed two-way street. But the neighborhood was beyond ideal, only a five to ten-minute drive to the college. Biking was another option I planned on looking into, as the divorce left me with closer to thirty pounds to lose instead of twenty, and the 1990s Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme was on its last leg anyway.

“Sixty-three, sixty-five, and… here we are.” Nestled up next to the curb, I gaped at the tall brownstone building, with its old charm and circular outcropping of windows.

Due to my recent series of unfortunate events, I struggled to believe this was my new residence, and that I could afford it on my college professor salary.

Perks of having my own income. Life was so much more complicated when two people got into bed together, and in this instance, I meant business-wise. Helping Eric build a dental practice in his hometown was supposed to be a temporary gig. Along the way, I’d become loan co-signer, office manager, receptionist, and accountant. Where what was mine was Eric’s, and what was his was always nicer.

“Let’s go check out our new home, kitty cat.” I nudged Van Gogh into his carrier and climbed out of the car. I peeled the fabric of my denim shorts from my thighs, sighing at the cool evening air.

Excitement tingled through me as I rushed up the cement steps, and a chuckle worthy of a thirteen-year-old boy escaped when I noticed my neighbor lived behind the door marked “sixty-nine.”

Hardwood floors and powder blue walls with dark wood trim greeted me as I stepped into the living room. To my right sat a cute circular dining table, where I pictured myself having coffee while Van Gogh snoozed in one of the chairs. Yeah, the place was a bit outdated, but it was in good shape, and the ceilings had to be nine—no, eleven—feet high. Perfect for practicing songs at the top of my lungs, with no comments about headaches after long days.

After setting up the litter box, I returned to the car to begin lugging in my possessions. Using the same method I deployed whenever I grocery shopped—multiple trips were for suckers—I stacked three of the boxes from my trunk into my arms.

Taking my neighbor’s address as a sign my pleasureless streak would soon come to an end, I snagged the self-care box and balanced it on the tippy top. As soon as I brought in the essentials, I’d pour myself a bath, open a bottle of wine, and get my freaking groove back, no matter how many oddly named sexy toys and dildos it took.

The stacked cardboard took up a significant part of my central vision, but I had enough peripheral to manage. I swept out my foot as I neared the stairway, attempting to find the bottom one. There.

Slowly, I climbed, one step at a time.

As I neared the top, I shifted the boxes aside as much as I could.

Right in time to see a dark figure bolt out the door next to mine, with the same urgency as an EMT on his way to a five-car pileup. I opened my mouth to warn the guy of my presence, doing my best to scoot aside so he could charge on past, but I wasn’t fast enough.

A grunt punctuated the air as he slammed into me, and my tower of boxes crashed to the ground, the clattering of pots and pans and shattering of ceramic an awful, destructive cacophony. My arms flew wide, desperately seeking purchase and, in that moment, I knew I was going down hard.

Long fingers circled my wrist, and I then was hauled up against a rock-hard chest. My assailant’s other arm snaked around my lower back, and I inhaled and exhaled, my head swimming as quickly as my heart thundered against my rib cage.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, his voice so low and deep it reminded me of the booming bassline in a noisy club. “I didn’t expect anyone to be coming up the steps. Did you need me to sign for a delivery or…?” He peered down at me, likely noticing the lack of uniform.

I stared right back, neck craned as I studied the planes of his face. Dark whiskers dotted his jaw and upper lip, highlighting his scrumptious mouth. His masculine nose drew my gaze upward, to eyes the color of espresso, no cream or sugar.

Holy mother of hotness. That thing I said about my landlord’s son being the sexiest man alive, and I’d still say, “no thanks?” Apparently, the universe wanted me to eat my words.

I must’ve eaten them too. All I could force from my lips was a squeak that had his thick, dark eyebrows drawing together. Was it normal to fantasize about licking the crinkles that’d formed in the scrunched-up space between? My sex clenched, beeping away like a metal detector that had found treasure. X marks the spot, and instead of digging it up, I wanted to bury the prize deep between my thighs.

Don’t just gape at him like a stalker. “Um, I live here. With you.”

The lines in his forehead deepened, and I’d never seen such pouty lips on a guy. Thinking about him lowering that mouth to mine made me wonder if the sun had backtracked and risen again, because it was suddenly hot in here, and I really wanted to take off all my clothes. “I think you’re lost.”

“I think I’m found,” I said, and while I realized I wasn’t making sense, that Nelly song had overtaken my brain. I am getting so hot, I wanna take my clothes off.

Mister Sixty-Nine Beaker Street guided my hand to the wrought iron stair railing and then gave it a pat. “You stay here. I’ll gather up the boxes and then we’ll see if we can’t figure out where you belong.”

My head nodded of its own accord for a second or two before I finally regained my faculties. I turned to help, stumbling over the steps and my words. “Sorry. When you wrecked into me it just threw me off. But I do belong here. Living in the same house—not with you, but under you.”

Great choice of words, and my cheeks blazed as I considered how very much I’d like to be underneath him, his delicious weight pinning me down. Dizziness set in, and I gestured in the general direction of the door I’d come out of mere minutes ago. “I’m moving in today.”

The frown that tugged the mouth I was struggling not to become obsessed with didn’t inspire much confidence. I did my best not to be offended, despite not being all that surprised. “My mother,” he said. “We were supposed to start renovations soon—she assured me she was on board.”

I blinked at him, unsure what that meant for me. “I signed a one-year lease.”

“Of course you did.” He shook his head. “Not your problem. It’s mine.”

Ouch.

He returned his attention to the boxes, and if my eyes had the ability to pop right out of their sockets, they would’ve.

“No, stop!” I cleared the last couple steps in a single bound, desperately attempting to derail the oncoming train wreck of embarrassment. My dishes were likely shattered into a million pieces, but that was nothing compared to the overturned box that’d ejected my collection of sex toys.

They littered the sidewalk, on display for the world to see, although I was mostly worried about my new, smokin’ hot neighbor.

My knees hit the sidewalk, the cement biting into my skin, and I threw myself over every piece I could. I managed to cover the Don Juan Wand, the womanizer I might be able to play off as a mini stapler, and the kitty clitty stimulator.

But the glittery, crescent moon tipped dildo lay beyond my reach, lit up like a glowstick at a rave. Bright side, the glass hadn’t broken; downside, the rugged dude who lived next door was lifting it to study it.

I snatched it away, tucking everything I’d managed to cover with my body in tighter, undeterred by the extra scraping of my skin. Then I righted the box, tossed the items inside, and closed the flaps as quickly as possible.

Scanning the ground like a maniac, I sought the last one. Leah had joked that since I hadn’t cut off my husband’s dick like she’d suggested, she had sent me another, better one.

“Looking for this?” My new neighbor lifted the veiny dildo that had been labeled with a neon note that read: Finally, a claim of nine inches you can believe.

It was so overly graphic, with giant balls and a pump that could be filled with warm water for those who wanted, um, squirting to add more realism. Something I figured I’d pass on, although I wasn’t going to judge.

The guy across from me, on the other hand? His stony expression made it difficult to gauge any judgment, but oh, God, why did he have to find the most phallic, over-the-top one?

So much for my fresh start. I’d semi-met one person in Boston, and I was going to have to spend the rest of my life dodging him.