Page 13 of The Man Upstairs

“It’s not your mother I’m going to be wanting, Rosie, it’s you.”

The hitch of her breath and the shock on her face made my cock swell.

‘Me,’ she mouthed, no sound escaping. She swallowed, took a step back.

“Yes, Rosie. You. So please, get yourself to work, stay the hell away from me, and endeavour to quell your mother’s enthusiasm as soon as possible.”

The girl virtually stumbled backwards. Her cheeks were burning bright when she straightened her cap and pushed her glasses up her nose one more time.

“I might not to be able to do that…” she said. “I think she might visit you first.”

“Really? What makes you think–”

Ah. Of course. I sighed, tracking the train of events.

“You mean after the pub tonight, with your neighbour. Trisha, is it?”

“Yeah, that’s right. They can get a little bit…”

“Trashed, yes. I imagine so.” I put the conversation to bed. “I won’t answer the door.”

“Ok, fine,” she said, with a twist of emotions on her face I just couldn’t read.

“Goodbye, Rosie.”

She stepped out backwards, her wide eyes not leaving mine.

I closed the door on her, and pressed my back to it, waiting for her footfalls as she walked away. It took a few seconds before I heard them.

My microwave meal could get fucked tonight. Instead, I opted for whisky, downing a decent swig straight from the bottle. I sat down on my sofa, got my cock out and jerked off over the thought of Rosie’s shocked face with her coconut scent still fresh in the air. Jerked off to the thought of licking her pale flesh. Jerked off to the thought of imagining her stripping naked. Jerked off until my fist was soaked with cum. Why fight a beast that can’t be tamed?

That seemed to quell my urges for a short time at least, and through the rest of my pointless evening I watched mindless crap on TV, drinking myself through every second as I tried to ease myself into numbness. How my life had plunged to the depths.

Once upon a time, I’d have had my laptop out, crafting out words like a wannabe Mervin Helville – inspired by Moby Dick rather than possessed by my own dick. But no. Here I was in front of reality TV nonsense with a whisky bottle in my hand and cum-soaked tissues on the coffee table. Contrast didn’t even come close.

I’d almost managed to drink myself into a sleeping stupor by the time the knocks on my door started up at just gone eleven. I turned the TV down and stayed silent, wishing I’d had the foresight to turn it off.

The knocks kept on coming, louder and louder. Drunk hands are always so much more confident.

“Julian?” Beverly’s voice said loudly from outside. “Are you in there? I want to talk to you. To say thanks.”

I ignored her, but she kept on going.

“Julian? It’s Bev. I want to say thanks!”

At this rate, she’d have the guy with crutches out there along with her, wondering what the hell was going on. So, I sucked it up.

I opened the door, and my eyes shot straight to Beverly’s chest. She was wearing the same, deliciously tight purple dress she’d been wearing earlier, only this time there was a lot more cleavage on show. That made her smile, drunk confidence showing. She twisted her fingers in her hair, biting her lip like she was in a porn movie. Most men would have been all over her like a rash.

“I appreciate your thanks,” I told her.

“I canshowyou my thanks, if you like,” she said, then held up a bottle of wine in a grandiose gesture. She dared to take a step forward, but I closed the door just enough to get my point across.

“It’s late, Beverly. I’m sorry, but I need to get to bed.”

As it turned out, I didn’t have to say anything more. She must have been uncomfortably familiar with rejection.

She started, upright, her eyes sharpening through her drunken haze.