1. Georgia
Chapter 1
Georgia
I hated my next-door neighbor. As I put my book down and glanced at my phone, I inwardly seethed at seeing it was well past ten p.m. at this point. My thin wood door did nothing to smother the sounds of rhythmic groans and gasps from across the narrow hall. Having lived in this particular apartment complex for over three years—not to mention my time in my youth—I had been happy with my next-door neighbor, Mr. Cooper who, until he moved in with his daughter about four months ago, had been the ideal tenant. Then he moved in.
I still remember the day the moving truck had posted up outside the ivy-covered, red brick building, inarguably blocking my car from leaving the tiny parking lot that was attached to the old building. After nearly running into me in the shared hallway with moving boxes, I decidedly, at that exact point, didn't like him.It was when he came barreling into the tiny hall that I realized just who my neighbor was: Sebastian fucking Quinn. The same guy whom I’d had the unfortunate pleasure of attending high school with. My awkward schoolyard crush had been obliterated when he hadn’t even remembered my name at graduation. Did he recognize me? I had no idea because I immediately walked to work, knowing I would have to actually interact with the asshole if I wanted his ridiculous truck to move. Younger Georgia Clark might not have been great with confrontation, but older, more mature Georgia Clark was perhaps a bit worse.
That feeling only intensified as the days progressed, and it became glaringly apparent that he was the exact opposite of Mr. Cooper. Of course, being that Mr. Cooper was a 70-something-year-old English man and Sebastian Quinn was decidedly not an elderly man. He was annoyingly tall, loud, and apparently just as popular with women in his adulthood as he had been in Perrington, at least if the last thirty minutes of non-stop moaning was any indication. I slammed my book closed and startled my poor cat who jumped off of my lap with obvious disdain; I turned off the lights and all but stomped into my bedroom. I did, however, kick the bedroom door shut for good measure, just hoping that maybe he could hear it and perhaps get the hint. I wasn't one for confrontation, but passive aggressiveness I could do with ease.
The apartment building was only a collection of six units spanning over three floors. Most of the people had lived there for years—it was a very old building, and many had even lived here most of their lives. I was the latter, as my grandmother Mary, who had raised me, had recently been moved into an assisted living facility when it became clear I wasn't qualified to take care of her anymore. This was a fact that still didn't sit right with me, no matter how long I sat at her bedside or how many thousands of dollars I paid to cover what insurance didn't. Like my grandmother always said, growing old was an expensive, lucrative business.
I nearly sighed with relief when I heard the unmistakable click of Unit 2’s door. The building was old; the walls were thin. And everyone heard everything. Doors shutting, people yelling, or cats meowing. Or moaning. Or bed frames slamming against walls. Everything. I knew way more about my neighbors’ nocturnal guests than any good neighbor should.
A ball of black and white fur, commonly known as Hannah, leaped from the floor to lay beside my head. The overweight feline had a pillow designated just for her, and her evidence of habitation covered the white pillowcase no matter how many times I lint rolled it. And now that Hannah had settled herself on my pillow and quiet had fallen across the unit, I was finally able to close my eyes.
And then slowly, I opened them. My phone rested on my bedside table, along with my ever-growing collection of water bottles and old coffee mugs. A warmth settled in my stomach as I reached for it, the soft glow illuminating the space around me, and I hastily switched to incognito mode. I looked at Hannah before putting a pillow wall between us for propriety's sake.
"Don't judge me." I hissed at the pudge-faced cat and rolled over to type the familiar website into my browser.
www.themaskedwolfe.com
"New Video Update" scrolled across the page in bold letters.
Gnawing on my lip, I clicked the video, knowing it was only a couple-minute preview of the full video. Despite being a "fan" of Wolfe's for over a year, I had never subscribed. Sure, I had seen a livestream or two when he streamed, but I wasn't sure how I’d feel knowing an adult film site was being charged to my credit card every month.
Turning the volume down so that only I could hear it, the phone screen illuminated with a masked face of Wolfe, the over-6'3 sex worker with gold skin who, while not overly muscular, definitely wasn't skipping out at the gym. I felt my heart skip a bit when he got down on his knees, grey sweatpants straining at the bulge between his thighs. He knew what he was doing. His videos practically screamed 'female gaze.' Wolfe's large hands palmed his covered length, his head falling back to offer a view of his neck as his Adam's apple bobbed in tandem with his swallowing. There was no noise, nothing except for the rough sound of his deep breathing, courtesy of the well-placed mic I knew was sitting right out of the camera angle. As his thumbs looped into the waistband of his pants, my fingers felt their way over my peaked nipples and made their way to my underwear. As soon as Wolfe had his hands down his pants, I found my wet center. Taking a ragged breath in as he freed his cock from the confines of the grey sweatpants, I began to massage my swollen clit. He wasn't even doing anything that outrageous, just deep golden eyes staring down at the camera behind a black mask—the only part of his face that was visible. Well, that and the rest of his tan body. My eyes traced the trail of black hair that began at his belly button and trailed down to his member, which he was currently stroking. It wasn't taking long; I already felt that pull at the base of my navel, my fingers circling faster and faster, keeping in rhythm with his strokes, his deep guttural pants coming from underneath the black mask.
"Are you touching yourself too?" Came a rough voice like it was being scraped across gravel. That was all it took, and I found myself biting into my pillow, my fingers buried deep within myself as I rode the waves of my orgasm.
Fuck.
The grunting sound of Wolfe continued from my now-abandoned phone as I panted into my pillowcase. It took me only a moment to hurriedly turn off the video and lay back feeling relieved but also ridiculous. Part of me felt weird objectifying this random stranger even though he put the video on the internet for the purpose of being objectified. But I still felt like a voyeur. I had been single for a very long time, and I couldn't remember the last time I had had sex with something that didn't have batteries. Not that it bothered me much, as I wasn't exactly looking. I had a busy job at the bookstore down the street and was currently working on my novel. Again. The book I had been working on for over two years.
"Were you a good girl?" I squeaked and grabbed the phone I thought I had turned off and immediately closed the page, feeling my cheeks burn.
But there was no one in my room to judge. This nocturnal activity was just between me and my internet browsing history.
Wolfe was my little secret.
The autumnal chill settled over the city like a shroud. The grey skies overhead signaled the oncoming rain as I tossed on my worn black denim jacket over my sweater, pushing on a beanie to combat the frizziness of my hair, dying for moisture in the chilly early October weather. Hannah wove around my legs, her long white fur sticking to the dark jean material as I nearly tripped over the animal.
"I'll be back this evening, love," I murmured and stroked the cat's soft coat before grabbing my tote bag, which was my book bag, grocery bag, and purse all in one.
Locking the old door behind me, I—of course—turned right as Sebastian opened his adjacent door. My skin blazed indignantly as I thought of the amorous noises that had escaped his apartment the previous night.
"Clark," he grumbled my surname as a way of greeting, running a hand through tousled black hair. I made a sound in return, “Busy night?” I snapped, maybe with a bit more venom that I had originally intended.
He wrinkled his brow when he looked at me before relaxing into a lazy smile, “Might say that.” Quinn crossed his arms, looking me over. “Got some cat hair on your pants there, Clark.”
I all but growled as I looked down. “Well, thanks for that astute observation,” I snapped, dropping my keys into my bag. “Here’s one of mine: if you could keep it down to a normal decimal, most of us are in bed at 10:00 p.m.” And without waiting for a response, I quickly made my way out of the complex.
“Technically, I was in bed!” The echo of his sharp laugh followed me and a blush broke out across my chest and flushed up my neck.
Sebastian was annoying. And loud. And possibly problematic. But he did have a nose that would make the Romans jealous and was tall enough that he still dwarfed me, and at nearly 5’8 I wasn't what one would call petite.
The crisp October air hit my face, cooling my flushed cheeks and waking me up more effectively than the morning coffee had done. I thanked my lucky stars every day that I worked only two miles away from my apartment. It saved me so much in gas, and honestly, the walk to work every morning was something I always looked forward to, especially in the fall. The leaves crunched underfoot and the city was in the process of slowing down as if the coastal fall was an excuse for the whole city to hibernate.
The brass bell above the door rang as I entered Hemingway Books; the smell of cinnamon candles and coffee wafted over me like a welcoming balm as I dropped my overstuffed bag into a chair behind the register.
"Good morning, Emma!" I called out, deciding to keep my hat on as the chill seemed not yet to have left the air in the store.
Distant movement told me that the owner, an older woman by the name of Emma Page, was shuffling around in the back. The bookstore was one of the older fixtures in the city, artfully arranged next to a coffee shop with plenty of foot traffic.
Emma peered out from behind the curtains below a sign that read "employees only" and smiled at me, her salt and pepper hair pulled into a soft bun. "Good morning!"
"It's pretty cold in here. Is the heater on the fritz again?" I asked, tugging the jean jacket closer to myself as I signed into the computer system.
Emma sighed and shook her head, "Utilities are just a bit high this month, trying to keep the cost low." I nodded sympathetically, opening my mouth to say something just before a customer walked in.
Working at a bookstore meant stacking books, taking inventory, and helping customers. It also meant that in my downtime, I could work on my book—something I had been trying to finish for years now. The sultry romance novel that had been dancing in my head had never completely formed itself on paper yet. I had the plot, the characters, the climax, and the resolution. But it lacked something. The romance fell flat, even though I could clearly see it in my head. It was as if I just couldn't catch the passion of the two characters. I stared at the blinking text line, blinking…blinking…as if it was mocking me, asking me why I wasn't writing. What wasn't working for me? I had an English degree with a minor in creative writing. I knew my story. I knew my characters. Why was I stuck?
It was at that moment that a coffee cup was in front of me, startling me from my self-deprecating thoughts. I looked up to see Sarah Hart, who worked at the coffee shop beside us. Emma and I had been so excited about the new coffee spot when it had moved in that we finally threw away the old coffee maker that burnt our roasts nearly every time. Now, when the shop is open, you catch the lingering smell of coffee beans.
"Oat milk latte, two pumps vanilla, one pump lavender, extra whip?" Sarah offered with a smile, picking through a few new book stickers on the rack. Sarah was amazing, her blond hair always swept back into a slick ponytail and blue her eyes sparkling. She had a way of just knowing when to pop up and when to say the right things. Her manicured nails and smell of vanilla perfume that followed her made me always wonder how she didn’t have a trail of men or women vying for her hand.
Of course, that might be a little anti-feminist of me—but seriously, the girl was gorgeous and kind.
"You're an angel," I groaned, the heat from the warm cup seeping through my bones. Sarah just waved me off as she picked up a bookmark and tossed it on the counter.
"Why do you bother with the whipped cream if you get oat milk anyway?"
I shrugged before taking a deep sip, immediately burning my mouth. "I'm not lactose intolerant or anything. I just like the way it tastes."
"It's freezing in here. Did Emma forget to pay the gas bill?" Sarah whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. I rolled my eyes as I rang my friend up. "It's not that bad. Just, you know, being frugal."
Sarah hummed and glanced at my open laptop, its screen left on the half-written document. "How's the book coming?"
"It isn't," I sighed, shutting the laptop, not bothering to save my progress since there hadn't been any.
Sarah looked like she was going to say something but paused as the doorbell rang overhead.
"Welcome in!" I called automatically around Sarah, whose eyes widened in apparent appreciation at the customer .
"Well hello, neighbor," came a familiar, deep voice from the front door.“Didn’t know you worked here.”
My eyes narrowed as I peered over my friend to see my tall, dark neighbor with hands dug in his pockets as he looked around the bookstore in obvious interest, though I had never seen him here before.
"Oh, it’s you,” I replied warily, trying not to sigh in annoyance. "What are you doing here? Looking for a book on how to be quiet at night?” His strong black eyebrows raised slightly as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Not my style Clark, just looking for a book, which I assume you sell here,” he responded, looking around at the bookstore as if the answer was obvious.“Besides, I like being loud.” Sarah’s eyes bulged at the wink he tossed at her, obviously just to piss me off.
And it worked.
I shrugged, leaning on the worn wood counter, ignoring the look that Sarah was giving me. "I didn't know books interested you." The tall man looked at me with narrowed eyes.
"It's a gift."
"Ah, that makes more sense." I felt Sarah’s incredulous gaze on me. I was what some people would call a ‘people pleaser,’ but those tendencies did not tend to extend to one Sebastian Quinn. “Do you need help? We’re alphabetical, so if you need to hum the song to remember the order, feel free.”
Sarah’s eyes widened again and looked between me and my neighbor in a mix of interest and awe.
"Nope," he said with a pop, starting to walk towards the back. "Contrary to popular belief, I can read."
I pasted a placating smile on my face. “I’m sure you can. Children’s section’s over there.” His eyes narrowed at me and he looked as if he wanted to respond, but before he could do so, the bell dinged over the dark wooden door as another guest arrived, giving me the perfect opportunity to divert my attention. In my peripheral vision, I saw him shake his head and walk up to the loft area where the classics were housed.
Jerk.
“New Video Uploaded!” flashed across my phone screen as I typed in the webpage I knew by heart. I wasn't obsessed per se; it was just a once-weekly ritual.
Once a week, Wolfe uploaded a new video, and once a week, I found my pleasure like clockwork. I liked the predictability. I didn't have time for a boyfriend—not that I really wanted one. I liked my peace, my rituals; my small, old apartment and my house plants. My cat went to a groomer more than I went to a hairstylist. So Wolfe? Wolfe brought me the pleasure I didn't bother to seek with other men. No talking, no drama. No faces. Just pleasure. Just fantasy. And I was absolutely fine with that.
This time, the dark screen cut to the backside of a woman. Once in a while, Wolfe collaborated with another creator on the app—always masked, just like him, and always the same woman, though it didn’t necessarily matter. What mattered was his tanned hands tangled in the faceless woman's hair. The way her breath came faster and faster as his hands delved between her thighs. Sometimes, I would imagine it was me, that I was the faceless woman who could get her pleasure with a man without ties, without the ceaseless worry that usually occupied my mind. It was again after the fog of my orgasm that I felt ridiculous for my fantasy, like someone could be peering into my thoughts at any time and would laugh at me for the sheer lunacy of the idea that a man that confident would be interested in sleeping with me.
I had been with one man in my entire life—the first boy who had been nice to me during the first year of college as I pursued my English degree. He said all the right words and looked just the right way. His name was Dylan. And he wasn't a bad guy. But there was never that passion I read about in my books. Or seen in movies. And I knew that porn was fantasy, not real life, but fuck, the way my fantasies made me feel ? The way the romantic leads in my books felt? Nothing was like that for me. But I went through the motions and lived with Dylan for two years before our relationship inevitably fell apart.
It was then that I ran back here to the coastal city I was raised in, to a dream job at my favorite bookstore while I figured out my novel and my next step. It soon became apparent that the woman who raised me fell into the trap of old age and slowly slipped into dementia. I became a roommate and helper to my grandmother, cooking her dinner, taking her to appointments, and making sure she got her medicine. Still now, even in my sleep, I would sometimes startle awake thinking I had forgotten her medication or a doctor's appointment—dream job forgotten, because this was my purpose now. Saving her, like she had saved me.
The rumbling purr signaled to me that Hannah had joined me on the bed, the overstuffed comforter dipping as she padded her way up to me. Blinking into the brightness of my phone, I groaned with the realization that I had been scrolling for far too long and had fewer than five precious hours before I would need to get up. Tucking the hefty cat into my side, I closed my eyes, hoping sleep would somehow come to me.