Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Joey
Mondays aren’t my favorite. Are they anyone’s, really? But at least I can leave my pajamas on if I want, because my commute is literally only a few steps into my apartment’s extra bedroom where I have my home office set up.
I work remotely for a wireless company, answering chat requests for customer service. No face-to-face. No phone conversations. No contact, whatsoever. Just the way I like it.
Peopling is hard, and I’ve found the perfect job to keep that particular activity to a minimum. Okay…I guess in the grand scheme of things, Mondays aren’t so bad for me. I shouldn’t complain. But I’d really rather be reading in bed .
I finish up with my customer, then pick up my phone to surf Cackle while I wait for the next chat request. It’s my favorite social media site because I can post my thoughts without using pictures or videos. No one knows who “JoeVSVolcano” is. There’s no possibility of comments on my appearance or my weight. I stay away from political topics, which seems to limit the number of attacks on my intelligence or morality. For the most part.
There are still trolls who love to attack any comment on any post, but I’ve learned to let those roll off my back. Well, most of them, anyway. There’s one particular user who manages to get under my skin every time––DFW, aka Bodacious Buckaroo.
After our initial disagreement and subsequent argument last year, the jerk followed me and started making snarky comments on all my posts. And, of course, rather than blocking his ass and being done with it, I followed him back and started doing the same to him. Immature? Sure. I can admit that.
But it’s like some kind of sick, twisted obsession, finding ways to bring him down a peg or two. As much as I hate to admit it, our battles invigorate me. Make me feel powerful. Even if Buckaroo does piss me off like no one ever has before.
A pinging sound echoes from my computer’s speakers, so I close out the app and set my phone aside. Using the mouse, I click the icon to accept the chat and paste my standard greeting with my name and an offer to help into the chat box before pulling up the phone number’s account page. The customer responds to my greeting quickly, and I’m relieved they aren’t one of those people who requests the chat and walks away, thinking it’s going to take a long time like when they actually call the company.
310-555-0020: Hi, Josette. Thank you for your assistance. I’m moving today, and I need to change the address on my account.
Josette: I can help with that. Can you please verify your name, current address, and account number for security purposes?
When the customer responds, I quickly compare the information to what’s listed on the account, and it all matches. I respond with a quick thanks and ask for his new address so I can update the account. My eyes grow wide as he recites the address, and I turn in my chair, staring at the wall like I’ve somehow developed x-ray vision and can see right through it.
Turning back, I read the address again. Yep. It’s the apartment across the hall. What are the odds? I help customers who live all over the country, not just California, and yet, somehow, I’m the one who gets the request from my new neighbor?
I heard someone moving in yesterday, and I thought about popping out to welcome them to the building. But then, I remembered who I am and chuckled. Yeah. I am not the person who initiates conversations with strangers. Not in real life, anyway. I was also wearing my rattiest pajamas and had yet to brush my hair, but those were only excuses I came up with to make myself feel better. The truth is, the thought of introducing myself made me feel nauseous.
I did, however, tiptoe to my door and spy through the peephole. What? I’m human .
I only saw my new neighbor’s back as he carried a couple of stacked boxes into the apartment, not his face, so all I know is that he’s tall. Like, really tall, especially when compared to me. I barely top five feet, and I swear, his hair brushed the top of the door frame as he disappeared inside.
Okay. Maybe it didn’t. But he is tall. He has to be over six feet.
I look at the name on the account again. Dallas Westfield. Should I tell him we’re neighbors? That would be weird. Right? But then again, if we ever meet in the hallway, I’d have to pretend I don’t know his name. I could probably pull that off, but what if we become friends? Could I go on lying to him, forever? Would I want to? No. I’m not a liar.
And how will he react when I eventually tell him the truth…probably blurting it out like a psycho in the middle of a totally unrelated conversation? Will he laugh it off? Or think I’m some weirdo stalker and cut off all contact?
I close my eyes and take a few slow, deep breaths. I’m spiraling, making a huge deal out of nothing. Scenarios that may never happen and aren’t really important in the grand scheme of things.
It’s a skill I’ve honed and perfected over the course of my life .
Making the decision to just get it over with, I start to type.
Josette: Thank you for your patience, Mr. Westfield. I’ve updated your address, and you’ll receive a confirmation email shortly. On a side note, and you’re going to think this is crazy, but I live across the hall from your new address. Small world, right?
I hit send on the message, and my entire body tenses immediately as regret courses through me. Why did I do that? I’ve already forgotten my reasoning as dread petrifies my muscles. I just told a stranger on the internet where I live. Okay, it’s not the same as posting my address on social media, but still. I don’t know this guy. I don’t know anything about him other than the fact that he lives across the hall and he’s twice my size. Fuck. What if he gets angry over his cellphone bill and comes over to take it out on me?
310-555-0020: I can’t believe you just told me where you live, Josette. Risky. But rest assured, I’m not a psycho stalker, or anything like that.
The tension rolls out of me, and one corner of my mouth actually lifts at his humor.
Josette: Exactly what a psycho stalker would say.
310-555-0020: True. I guess you’ll just have to trust me.
Josette: Oh, sure. Trust you. No problem. Why didn’t I think of that?
310-555-0020: I’d argue that you did, considering you told me where you live with zero manipulation on my part. I didn’t have to follow you home under the cover of darkness, or anything.
Josette: I lied. I actually live in Nebraska. Ha-ha. Got you! Go Huskers!
310-555-0020: Impressive. Did you Google Nebraska football, or did you already know?
Josette: I knew it. I live there, remember?
310-555-0020: Wouldn’t you say “here” instead of “there” if you actually did live there?
Josette: Please don’t break in and steal my toothbrush or my dirty clothes, k?
310-555-0020: I won’t. Promise.
My smile is so wide, my cheeks hurt, and though I don’t want the conversation to end, I have to put a stop to it. These chats can be monitored, particularly if they go on for too long, and I don’t want to get reprimanded for wasting time on a non-work-related conversation.
I get back to business, reminding him the change has been made, that he’ll receive a confirmation email, and inquire if I can do anything else for him today. He seems to catch on that I need to end the chat, so he assures me there’s nothing more and thanks me for my assistance. I end the chat and lean back in my chair, my smile lingering.
That was…fun.
My muscles lock back up as a knocking sound echoes through my apartment. I jump out of the chair, turning left, then right, then left again as panic lances through me. What do I do ?
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper as I move toward the door, my socks whispering across the carpet.
Pushing up on tiptoes, I peep through the hole and see a broad chest covered by a black t-shirt. It’s Dallas. It has to be.
He starts to turn to go, and without thinking, I reach out and disengage the deadbolt with a definitive click. His big body turns back at the sound, and I drop back onto flat feet, take a deep breath, and smooth my hair back before pulling the door open, leaving a six-inch gap. I wedge a foot behind it like that’ll somehow stop him from barging in should he decide to and lift my gaze to his.
“Josette?” he asks, his voice deep and pleasant as he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Sorry. This is weird. I just took a guess that you work from home and wanted to introduce myself, officially. I’m Dallas.”
Releasing his neck, he stretches the hand toward me, and I take it automatically, focusing on the way it envelopes my smaller hand entirely. It’s large enough to circle my throat, choking me with little effort. One tight squeeze and jerk to the side, and he could snap my neck.
He releases me and drops his hand, and I snap out of my dark, ridiculous thoughts. My voice cracks as I say, “It’s nice to meet you.”
An awkward silence falls between us for a few beats as we stare at each other, and then Dallas takes a small step back, saying, “Okay, well, I’ll let you get back to work. I just wanted to say hi and show you I’m a normal person, not a stalker. ”
He smiles with that, and my heart leaps into my throat. God, he’s beautiful. A work of art.
I cough and clear my throat before nodding. “Welcome to the building.”
“Thanks,” he says.
“See you later,” I murmur.
“Bye,” he says softly.
I close the door a little too aggressively, locking it quickly and leaning against it to take a few cleansing breaths. That was...awkward.
Dallas probably thinks I’m a freak. I doubt he’ll come over again or try to cultivate any kind of neighborly relationship after that shit-show of an introduction. God .
I don’t know why I can banter with strangers through a screen, but when it comes to real life, I’m a blubbering mess. Maybe it’s the introvert in me.
And…I just remembered I’m wearing my pajamas. Fantastic .
Blowing out a long breath and pushing off the door, I shuffle back to my office. I do need to get back to work. And I hope it gets busier, or else I’m going to obsess over that entire interaction for the next several hours, picking it apart to analyze his motivation and my own shortcomings.
Because that’s who I am at my core. I overanalyze everything.
And my first meeting with Dallas Westfield––specifically my own behavior and his possible opinions of me––has given me plenty to analyze.