CHAPTER THREE — STEPHANIE
I pull weeds for the next few hours. I'm so engrossed in the work that I hardly notice that Mr. Johnson, David's pervy neighbor on the left, is checking me out.
In fact, when I suddenly look up, he jolts as if he's been caught doing something wrong. He's peering over the fence, leering at me. It gives me a bad feeling.
He immediately looks away, but the bad feeling in my stomach doesn't go away. When David gets back, I purposefully avoid asking him about his date. I tell myself it's because I don't care, but if I'm being honest with myself, there's a part of me that's jealous.
I mean, I dressed up like this for him, and all I got was a quick glance. My ego's a bit hurt, but I'm not gonna give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
David looks around the yard though, and smiles approvingly.
"It looks good," he says. "Did you have any issues?"
A small flare of pride runs through me.
"No, except—"
My voice trails off. Is there even any point in telling him about Mr. Johnson?
"Tell me," he says.
"Well, I'm sure it's nothing, but—"
He steps towards me, and his hand briefly touches my chin, pointing it up towards him. It's such a small action, but I feel my entire body light up when he touches me. I feel electrified.
"Well, I'm sure it's nothing, but when I was pulling weeds, I looked up at one point and Mr. Johnson was, well, kind of leering at me," I say slowly.
Fury crosses David's face. He takes a deep breath and then relaxes his face back to a neutral expression.
"Thank you for telling me," he says. "Hold on a minute."
He spins and marches out of the backyard and to the left.
Is he about to—? He's banging on Mr. Johnson's door. Yep, he is. He's confronting Mr. Johnson.
I can't make out words, but I hear two voices: a loud, gruff one, presumably David's, and a meeker, quieter one.
The conversation, if you could call it that, goes on for a few minutes, and then David comes back.
I'm surprised to see Mr. Johnson trailing behind him, like a dog with his tail between his legs.
"I'm sorry, Stephanie," Mr. Johnson says. "I shouldn't have been bothering you. I should've been minding my own business. It won't happen again. Please forgive me."
He looks up at David. I look at David, mystified. What magical powers does this man have to make a grown man grovel like this?
"It's okay," I say.
"No, it's not," David says, looking at Mr. Johnson. "It's absolutely unacceptable. And if it ever happens again, there will be consequences."
Mr. Johnson just nods and scurries away.
"What did you say to him?" I whisper.
"Doesn't matter," David says, shaking his head. "Are you okay?"
"I'm— yeah. I mean, you really didn't have to—"
He closes his eyes.
"I did, Stephanie. I did have to."
A burst of warmth runs through me.
"Even though it was your choice to wear that ridiculous getup of yours, I should have demanded you change before working in the backyard.
Because as disgusting as Mr. Johnson's behavior was, it was entirely predictable.
You shouldn't have been wearing that outfit in the first place, but that doesn't change the fact that Mr. Johnson's behavior was completely unacceptable.
If I ever hear of him doing that again…"
David stops and takes a deep breath. I want to ask what he was about to say, but he drops the thought and continues talking.
"A grown man has to be able to control himself around beautiful women. I have zero tolerance for weak men like him. It's despicable behavior. Pathetic, really."
"Thanks," I say.
"It's not a compliment," he says. "I'm just stating facts."
"It's still nice to hear," I say slowly.
"What is?" he asks.
"That I'm beautiful," I say quietly.
He laughs.
"Oh, please, Stephanie, as if you didn't know that. As if you didn't deliberately wear this little outfit of yours in an attempt to provoke me."
"Did it work?" I ask.
He conveniently ignores me and continues talking.
"The only reason you would wear something like this is because you know what it does to men, don't you? And you like having that power. You like taunting men. You were hoping to rile me up."
He pauses and stares at me. It wasn't a question. He said the last line calmly and coldly, like he was reciting a key battle from the American Revolution.
Fuck. I feel called out. He's right, of course. That is exactly what I was trying to do: get power over him. Taunt him. But now that he's named it explicitly, it feels less fun. And harder to admit, too.
"Um—" I say, stalling for time.
I have no idea what to say.
"Admit it, Stephanie," he says.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I bluster.
He cocks an eyebrow.
"Oh, really? So tell me then, why did you decide to wear a skimpy, slutty little maid costume?"
"It was the vibe I was going for," I say.
He laughs.
"Please. You don't even sound like you believe that."
"Oh, I believe it," I say, nodding.
"Oh, do you?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say.
I've no idea how we've gone down this road, but at this point, I'm too committed to the lie to back out.
"Okay," he says slowly. "You know, I have a policy to take people at their word, so instead of insisting you're wrong, I'll just believe you. How does that sound?"
"Uh, good?" I say.
I'm confused. I didn't expect him to back down this easily.
"And since this is the 'vibe' you're going for today," he says, using air quotes around the word vibe. "I'm sure you'll have no problem wearing this outfit out to drinks with me right now?"
I stare at him, flabbergasted. He smiles.
"Unless, of course, you were lying about the whole thing and you did wear this outfit to provoke me… in which case, you'll have some serious explaining to do. Because I don't like liars."
My stomach drops. I'm in trouble here.
"So what'll it be, Stephanie? Are you a liar or are we going for drinks right now?"
"Drinks," I say.
The word tumbles out of my mouth effortlessly.
"Good girl," he says.
Good girl?
Those two words make me freeze for a second. Did he really just call me that?
He pauses after he says the words as if he wasn't expecting them himself. His jaw clenches.
That was definitely an accident. David wasn't planning on saying that. On calling me good girl. I'm sure of it.
Even though he's trying to stay in control, he lost it there. It was only for a split second, but still. He lost control. His rational brain was overtaken and he said something impulsive. He gave into desire. His desire for me.
A small thrill runs up my spine. He admitted to wanting me. It may be a small win, but it's still a win.
And I'll take it.
"Follow me," he says, and he spins towards his car.