Emily Uncensored Book 1: The Neighbors Read online

  Emily Uncensored

  Book One: The Neighbors

  Fiona Lexus

  Contents

  Join my mailing list!

  1. Molly

  2. Derek

  3. Jonathan

  4. Mother

  5. Apartment 103

  6. The Waiting Game

  7. Sexsession

  8. Routine

  9. Jonathan’s Story

  10. The Contract

  11. Mike

  12. Dad

  13. Becky and Dustin

  14. Hot Mess

  15. Spinning

  16. The Whole Truth

  Author’s Notes

  Also by Fiona Lexus

  Check out this other indie author!

  Everyday Apocalypse: Season One

  For Pieter

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product’s of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  Emily Uncensored Book 1: The Neighbors

  copyright © 2017 by Fiona Lexus

  www.fionalexus.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

  Join my mailing list!

  Step into my world.

  XOXO

  -Fiona

  1

  Molly

  I take one last drag from my cigarette, feeling like I’m filling up my car with a full tank of gas. I know I shouldn’t smoke in here, but I lost my security deposit a long time ago. I discreetly blow the smoke out of the crack in my apartment window.

  Molly’s gloves are sitting on the side table to my left. I found them in the mailroom yesterday and recognized they were hers so I decided to walk them down to her apartment on the first floor.

  She opened the door at my knock.

  “Hey Molly, I found these, you must have dropped them,” I said, handing the gloves out to her.

  “I didn’t drop them, I fucking left them there!”

  I felt a bit confused. Was this girl seriously acting like this? I was dreaming up a scenario in my head where I punched her in the face and blood dripped down her chin. Then I licked it off, and we made sweet love on her couch. I quickly removed the fantasy and, blinking my eyes in rapid succession, I believe the words that came out of my mouth were:

  “Uh, what?”

  Molly replied with her natural tendencies of bitch-dom: “I don’t want them, Emily. So. I. left. Them. There.”

  She then slammed the door in my face.

  Wow. I probably stood there for a few seconds in shock before intentionally dropping the gloves on the floor in front of her doorway and continuing upwards towards my apartment. Halfway up the stairs, my conscience kicked in.

  “Ugh!” I rolled my eyes and ran back downstairs to snatch them up.

  As if it was my fucking problem!

  But that is me.

  So now they lay on the counter by the window which is where I routinely sneak my puffs.

  Molly is one of those girls who I wish I could be more like. She is rude, but in a sexy way. Men love her. She doesn’t care much for them, but it seems to work. Yes, her heart is black, but that’s beside the point.

  She’s irresistible.

  She is always herself.

  I on the other hand, was raised in a strict, upper class, British household and had no hopes of spreading my wings and flying in that sort of direction. The rebellious direction. I am the opposite of a rebel. I am a chicken shit. A very nice and sweet and loving chicken shit, but where does that get you anyway?

  It gets you single, living by yourself in a shitty apartment with your cat.

  This is why I sneak cigarettes and deny to my mother that I have any sort of lesbian tendencies. Not that she wouldn’t understand (that’s up for debate) but because it’s just too much explaining to do at family functions.

  Last week I tried to test if I had any inkling of rebellious nature. I intended to take a candy bar from the local little league baseball, parent-ran, snack shed that is located about a half a mile from my house. I go there on weekends sometimes to people watch and get my weekly ration of sunflower seeds.

  It’d be easy enough. No one would expect me. They would indeed blame the nine year olds for this mishap. But when the time came and I was placing the Snickers into my pocket, a small girl with blonde hair looked over at me. She gave me this look like, “what the fuck do you think you are doing?” along with, “I am so going to tell my mommy.” Little bitch didn’t miss a beat. I decided to play it off, and told the parent at the desk: “Oh, hey, I am taking this one too!” and then handed the peculiar-looking parent some more money. I hurried out of the shed thinking along the way: “Did I just let a small child dictate my actions?”

  Yes, I did.

  Because I’m weak.

  Nevertheless, I ate that damn candy bar and it was fucking delicious! I am an addict. To sweets. To sugar. Oh, and coffee. And, maybe cigarettes. So my rebelliousness goes as far as me being an addict. I’m hardcore. Sometimes I buy a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, sit on my couch watching Netflix and finish off the whole thing. Yes, I said it, I can finish a pint of ice cream in one fell swoop. I am the queen of sugar. Bitches beware.

  So, as you can see my life is pretty lame. Or at least more so than I had expected it to be at this stage in my life. For a graduate from Berkeley, a book nerd, film nerd, filthy roommate (even though I live alone) and escapist to the extreme, I had a feeling that the East Coast might knock me on my ass. But I didn’t foresee it also throwing me down three flights of stairs.

  I work at a gym in SOHO where I can read all day and hand towels to sweaty men trying to blow off some steam after a long day at work. They don’t even look at me because I am in a gym uniform for one, and for another I try not to make eye contact with any of them. The last thing I need in my life is an affair with some married millionaire whose wife will later call to bitch me out on the phone and hire a hitman to follow me around. I watch movies like that, but in no way would I want to be in one. Plus, if that hitman were to ever get a good shot, my cat would be lonely.

  Oh, and I have a cat. Gertie the Gremlin, as I call her. She only loves me when I feed her or when she needs warmth on a cold winter night. Actually, last week I caught her snuggling on my feet during the last half of Mad Men (season finale). I tried to stay perfectly still as not to move her, but her bitchy kitty cat instincts prevailed and she knew I could see her, so she moved to the opposite end of the couch. As she was walking by, I tried to swipe a pet and get some soft goodness from her fur, but she is a quick fucker.

  Sometimes I just grab her and hold her against her will, so I can release some anxiety, or fulfill some need to be loved, but I know she hates it, and this is probably why she moves to the end of the couch in the first place. So, actually she wouldn’t be lonely if the hitman got a good one right into my side. She would be gloriously happy.

  But let’s go back to Molly for a second. She is two years older than I am. I know this because I found her wallet once near the mailboxes downstairs and looked through it before returning it. She really needs to stop losing all of her shit. Anyway, she is thirty-one years old, has a smoking hot husband who, did I mention is a lawyer? He also is actually human, unlike his wife, and will say things like “hi”, “thank you”, and “hey how’s it going?”

  Strange.

  But Molly, she is this infectious being who invades my ridiculous thoughts. Whether it’s thinking of her in a bag in the
trunk of some beat up Cavalier, or sucking on her lips for hours on end, it’s really quite an imposition she is putting me in.

  Here is the thing: I like beanies, and my black converse, and wearing my oversized watch. I look down when people pass by me and I hate starting (or continuing) conversations. But, I am reasonable, I have manners and I have a conscience. I return things, I don’t steal and I am fucking brilliant if I do say so myself. I work at a gym, but my major in college was chemistry with a minor in astrophysics. I mean, c’mon I am a catch.

  OK, so my apartment is a mess and I hate to cook. Oh, and children freak me out. But Molly, devastatingly beautiful and sassy Molly; She wears skirts everyday (even in the winter) which in New York is like having a death wish. Her hair is always immaculate and for some reason lip gloss is her best friend. She is a total bitch. I mean ravenous, takes no shit, and wants to pluck your eyes out bitch.

  I, on the other hand, am always late, never send birthday cards, and I keep the oven on in my apartment to keep warm. I am kind of a hot mess. I came to New York to escape two things: a pretentious mother and a millionaire psychopathic grandmother (who has been dead for two years, God rest her soul) and I end up living right above her living incarnate.

  Have you ever liked someone so much you just want to stab them with your stiletto? Not that I have those, but I’m sure Molly has thought that same thing a few times. Do you see? Do you see how she invades my mind? Enough of this cigarette. I need to get ready for work.

  I’m on the night shift (6pm-12am). It’s the perfect time for finishing my latest novel: THE CUNT FROM RED OCTOBER II, SLAVI SECONDS (Russian Spy Erotica). So I said I was brilliant but I still have guilty pleasures, OK?

  Sloppy gym shirt, check!

  Black beanie which is somewhere under my shirt from last night, which is under my event planner (which I never use), check! Pets from the pussy, check! “Bye Gertie, I will miss you!”

  Gertie gives me an evil look as she licks her privates in front of me. I stare for thirty seconds and the thought crosses my mind: “does my cat get more action than I do?” Answer: most definitely. And now I am completely defeated. Well, the Fall air will help clear up any of these misconceptions about my life (if they are misconceptions, and if not, I will write my own tragedy, later, right after Breaking Bad and Jessica Jones (my idol, of course).

  2

  Derek

  I arrive at work and it’s starting to get dark out. It’s cold but not dead of winter cold. Cold enough for the scarf (which I discard into my locker) and cold enough for my beanie which I will most definitely be keeping on. My beanie is super awesome. It’s soft and has a small Hello Kitty on the side. She is my impromptu kitty whenever Gertie is giving me grief (which is all of the time).

  My sweater comes off and goes into the locker which reads ‘Emily Elizabeth Hawkins’ in hot pink spray paint. I told everyone at work that I was outraged by this act of vandalism, but in reality I had snuck in and spray painted it myself, right after my shift one hot summer night. I love hot pink and, well, I was bored. I grab out my (sexy) book as well as some Tic Tacs. Tic Tacs are to me like… cigarettes are to me, but I can’t smoke in a gym! Trust me I have tried, but I guess it goes against “all logic of what a gym promotes…” says Derek.

  Pshhhh, Derek in his high castle. Oh, Derek you ask? He is my boss.

  Derek is one of those super genuine people you meet and can’t help but like. He is also a little too genuine and you can’t help but make fun of him. He is 6’6” which is just an unusual size for someone who works out and owns a gym. I can just imagine him trying to run on a treadmill, with his string bean legs engulfing the poor machine and arms flailing about…

  Oh, wait.

  I see him now.

  He is running on a treadmill.

  What. The. Fuck.

  My whole perception of him just became a reality.

  On to the front desk! Ignore what you just saw, Emily. Don’t make eye contact.

  Just then, “Hey, Emily! Good to see you on the night shift. I just ended my workday and decided to get in a nice long workout before I head home to watch the tube.” He calls the television “the tube” because I told him once that it’s what my relatives in England call it, and he thought that was “just amazing”.

  I feel like Derek looks at me the way I look at Molly.

  Irresistibly enchanting.

  And of course he is right.

  Derek is a middle aged man who loves everything. If I am a luscious, dark forest, then Derek is a spiky cactus in the hot desert. The anti-Emily. Not to be confused with the anti-christ. Well, it can be a little confusing. Anyway, I am not giving him enough credit. He gave me this job two years ago when I first moved out to The Big Apple, or the unequivocal best city that has ever existed besides Atlantis (the one under the sea). He has always been kind to me, cuts me slack when I am “sick” and “can’t come into work”. He even gave me a raise to “Night Manager” which I thoroughly take advantage of.

  Derek is sweet and lonely and a victim of this city. So we are alike in that way. Just call us the Odd Couple, because some people already do. Like Justin. That bastard can’t recall for the life of him who is dating who, even though I keep telling him “Derek is the last person I would ever date, but don’t tell him that”.

  “Hope you have a good night Emily, and watch out for all those men in there,” he says, pointing to the weight room. “They are beasts!”

  Awkward silence.

  He steps out of the lobby flinging his towel in the air, coming very close to hitting the top of the doorway as he exits with his scary tall, Abraham Lincoln features.

  “K, boss. See you later!” I yell after him.

  It’s warmer than usual in here and my head is itching under my beanie. I pull out my book and start reading as the night-owls come in for their late night workouts. One smoking hot male after another. Females too, but it seems women tend to work out in the morning and men give it all they’ve got when the sun goes down.

  I wonder if there is a study out there on why men act like creepy vampires at the gym. They spend half of their time working out and the other half looking around, talking or spying on the (very few) women. These men are businessmen, tightly wound and rich as hell. But all in all, this is a nice gym.

  Well, it’s expensive, let’s put it that way. So it attracts those sorts of people. The kind that wear their Rolexes while they work out. I do not look like I fit in.

  My Hello Kitty beanie only holds up in here because when push comes to shove, I get shit handled. I mean, I could run this place with my eyes closed. And 99% of the time they are pretty much closed, as I stare into the pages of my latest drama-trauma-sexy-fantasy novel. People come to me with issues and either I give them a huge, cute (and fake) smile, which either:

  A) Scares them, or

  B) Finds them flirting with me while leaning over the desk.

  So, either way it works. I tell them if they really have an issue they can take it up with the owner when he gets in at 8am.

  I’m not trying to get out of work, I’m just bored with the work I am doing. I haven’t chosen to work in my field of study, so I work to live and live to read. And watch. And just be. Not concentrating on the money factor because plainly, I don’t have to.

  Derek asked me, “how can you afford to live in SOHO? It’s so expensive to afford an apartment by yourself. I mean, I can do it because I own this gym.”

  I stared at him blankly and in disgust.

  “Good for you, Derek,” I replied.

  “No, I’m serious, I don’t mean to brag. I am just curious about you.”

  I leaned over the desk and looked at him dead straight in the eyes. I motioned for him to move in closer. I licked my lips before stating…

  “I have a sugar daddy, and he lives on the Upper East Side, but if I suck it just right on Tuesdays and Sundays then he pays my rent.” And then I sat back in my chair and popped another Tic-tac into my mouth. I twir
led it with my tongue and I could sense him watching it roll around.

  “Oh.” He said as he stood up straight, adjusting the collar to his work shirt.

  “Derek” I called to him.

  “Yes, Emily?”

  “I’m kidding.”

  “Oh wow. Yes I thought you might be joking around with me you little devil.” He backed up and ran into a woman coming in to work out. She scoffed and he apologized. I held back my laughter. I smiled, incredibly happy with myself.

  “So, really…” he prodded.

  He wanted it explained further. He couldn’t understand how a bright, pretty, young thing like me works at a gym and still affords an apartment in NYC by myself.

  Oh, Jesus.

  “Look, Derek, my grandmother died two years ago and left me a shit ton of money. I just haven’t figured out what to do with it yet, so I pay for my rent and cat food, ok?”

  He didn’t look satisfied with the answer but he put his hands up and said, “Alright with me, sorry about your grandmother.” He started to walk away and I returned to my book, but he came back a second later and asked if I would like to go on a date sometime.

  “Derek, are you sexually harassing me?” I asked without skipping a beat (very proud moment as an employee).

  Derek looked offended. “Oh, Emily, gosh no, I am serious. But hey I totally understand and I am sorry if I offended you.” I let this one seep in for a while (because I am evil).

  “Look Derek, I’m kidding. Here’s the thing, I won’t go on a date with you, but we can go get drinks sometimes as co-workers, would that work?”

  I have never seen a man smile like Derek did that day. I mean ear to fucking ear. He almost couldn’t speak. So I spoke for him: “OK great. I get off at midnight so meet me at Toad Hall on Grand.” I looked down at the clock near the front door of the gym. It was 7pm on a Tuesday if I remember correctly. Yes, I do remember because Tuesdays are Judge Judy afternoons, and also the day when my upstairs neighbor’s mistress comes to visit. They do a little rendezvous in the bed around 1pm (lunch time for stock brokers I guess?)