Barefoot Kill

Chapter 3: The Neighbor

Chapter 3: The Neighbor

I took a flight from Chicago to Seattle. On my travels through the blue-white sky I did my homework on hiking through the woods of Mt. Rainier’s landscape and purchased woodsy gear from an online city outfitter, which consisted of a compass, hiking boots, vests, and other supplies that I would retrieve from an outdoor retail shop in downtown Seattle, after landing. Exhausted, I drifted off to sleep and dreamed…

We meet on Barefoot Beach. I hear noises in the empty bungalow next door, which sits approximately two hundred yards beyond the line of narrow jungle that separates the two beach properties. No one has lived in the bungalow for the last three years since Helen Tanzi died of a heart attack on Christmas Eve at the age of seventy-three. I knew she was childless and willed the house to her sister, Evelyn Tanzi. I met the sister once, who wasn’t impressed with Barefoot Beach, which is north of Naples and south of Fort Meyers.

“What the hell?” I say to myself, listening to hammering, a drill, saw, and other tools at work on the Tanzi beach front property. I exit my study, rush through my bungalow, and step into the beating sun. It feels as if the high temperature should be on Mars instead of planet Earth. But this is expected for July in Florida. Any resident of Barefoot Beach knows such a condition. The heat is sticky without a cloud in the sky. Rain isn’t expected for another two days.

I bolt to the property line, step into the thin jungle between the acres, and surround myself with a variety of tall grasses, lush fichus lyrata, and slim ponytail palms. Again, I hear tools at work: more hammering, a circular saw, and a rumbling drill.

I see the bungalow through Aztec and gama grasses. It’s small in size, just like mine. The structure is somewhat dilapidated with broken windows and a missing door, weathered because of abandonment and hurricanes along the Gulf. Beyond the bungalow is the blue Gulf: wavy and beautiful, never at peace during the hot day.

We meet…

I see the stranger working on the three wooden steps that lead up to the bungalow’s portico and bleached red front door. He’s massive with Peruvian skin, a dark crew cut, dark eyes, comprised of two-hundred and forty pounds of all muscle, stands over six feet tall, and is chiseled with a tapered waist. I estimate he’s thirty-eight years old and not a native of Barefoot Beach since I’ve never seen him before. He wears khaki green shorts, shin-high socks, and military boots with black laces. He slams nails into freshly cut oak boards, wipes his brow because of the intoxicating heat, and turns around to fetch a canteen of water.

I view his bare torso and face for the first time, which causes my limp d**k between my legs to stir with excitement. The man is beautiful with his torso designed of ripped abs and its thin layer of dark hair. The man’s n*****s are the size of quarters, and his navel is furred, which is a total turn-on for me.

I stop in the Floridian foliage approximately forty feet away from the handsome stranger. Here, I watch him take a drink from his military canteen, one chug after the next. He tilts his head back and pours water over his chiseled face. The liquid rolls down and over his forehead, cheeks, and the cords that line his neck. Zigzag tracks of the water roll over his sculpted chest, over all of his abs, and into his khakis.

“Jesus,” I whisper, open-mouthed and hard between my legs. I can’t remember the last time I saw a man who was so handsome, masculine, and sexy. Without a single thought in mind, excited in the greens, I push the erection down, try to catch my breath, and decide to close the gap between our heated bodies.

When I step out of the jungle that separates the two properties, the stranger immediately reacts. He drops the canteen to the dusty ground next to the refurbished steps, spins to his right, clasps his right palm against the handle of a discreetly hidden M9 Beretta and swings it to his left, aiming it at my chest. The stranger yells, “Don’t move and no one gets hurt, buddy!”

The sidearm is just as sexy as its handler, and everything I want to write about for the magazine I work for, Guns & Target. This is total bullshit, though, since I’m lying, keeping my real career a secret from him. From a distance, I study the weapon’s sleek beauty: a double-action, semi-automatic that holds 15-NATO standard 9mm rounds. The truth of the matter is simple: I don’t know which I want to hold more, the man or his handgun. Instead of deciding, I raise both palms above my head, and yell back, “Don’t shoot! Lower your weapon! I’m unarmed!”

We finally meet, as expected. The bulky and handsome stranger eyes me from head to toe, studying me with an avid concern. I wear a T-shirt snug against my chiseled torso, navy blue shorts, bootie socks, running shoes, and have a pencil above my right ear. He calculates every detail of my body with dubious care, maybe liking what he sees and finding me attractive for his dating needs.

Does he take me for a magazine writer? Does he realize my infatuation for sexy men, high risk situations, and loaded guns? Can he pinpoint my likeness for s*x with men who just happen to look exactly like him?

“Who are you?” he calls out, dropping his weapon to his side. The steel barrel brushes against his muscled hip. He makes eye contact with me that states: Don’t f**k with me. I’m not afraid to use my sidearm. I’ve killed a man before and will do it again, if prompted.

I slowly lower my arms and reply, “I’m your neighbor. I live on the other side of these grasses.”

The massive man seems to relax a little, blinks, rubs his left temple with his free hand, and inquires, “Did you know my aunt?”

“Helen Tanzi?”

“Yes. My mother’s sister.”

I carefully nod and answer with a direct surety, “I was very close to Helen. She was like my own aunt, and I miss her dearly.”

“I’m Marcos Tanzi,” he says, setting aside the loaded M9 Beretta exactly where he retrieved it. “I’m Evelyn’s son.”

I step closer to him, bridging the gap between us. Still cautious, I reach my right hand out for him to shake.

He man-handles my right palm with a firm shake and asks, “What’s your name, pal?”

“Julian…Julian Yardling.”

“Nice to meet you, neighbor.” Again, the stranger checks me out from top to bottom.

My eyes look to his right and see the M9 Beretta next to his toolbox. Saliva enters my mouth with the need to touch its glinting steel.

“Don’t get any ideas about my sidearm. I’m pretty quick about reaching it and plugging you with a round.”

I shake my head and admit, “It’s a beauty,” and I rattle off facts regarding the handgun: Italian made, from the 92 series, overall length is 217 mm, and muzzle velocity is 1280 feet per second.

He drops his massive paw from mine and a grin of seduction and interest forms over his all-man face. He says, “How do you know so much about my sidearm?”

I tell him what magazine I write for, and my editor’s name, Hilliard Dawning, which is a totally made up name. More lies escape me, “Your aunt helped me with my articles when I was younger. She was an amazing English teacher at Barefoot Beach High.” These details are bogus, of course, keeping my sniper life a secret from him, and anyone else who dares to find out what I really do for a living.

He seems impressed, nods, and says, “I’m not familiar with Dawning. But yes, my aunt was a stickler for dotting i’s and crossing t’s.”

“She and I wrote a lot of articles together. I was always looking up to her for help, and guidance.”

“You looked seduced by the M9, Yardling.”

“What can I say? I like men and their guns.”

He smiles from ear to ear at my playful quip, and adds, “It’s nice to meet you,

Julian.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” I respond, eye up his sexy frame again, but concentrate on his sidearm even more.

I learn that Marcos is only visiting Barefoot Beach for the summer. He tells me that his mother, Evelyn, practically begged him to make the drive from Jacksonville to Barefoot Beach and attempt to mend the discarded bungalow. He tells me he’s good with his hands, likes to work with tools, and enjoys carpentry. I tell him I’m good with words, sentences, and paragraphs, lying to him, proving to myself that I’m a pretty good bullshit artist.

* * * *

Twenty minutes passes in his company and he asks me to share a beer with him in the shade. I want to stay, but don’t. “I have an article to finish.”

“What’s it about?” He has a spark of curiosity in his black eyes.

“Sniper rifles.”

A smile warms his face yet again. “Which ones?”

“The AW50 and the L115.”

“I’d like to read it when you’re finished, Yardling.”

“Not possible. I don’t share my work until it’s published.” I’ve used this on other men and intend to use it again in the future. Lying is my skill, among other traits of a bad boy.

He nods his head and says, “I can respect that. If you change your mind…I’d still like to read it, though.”

“I’ll make a footnote of that,” I reply before shuffling away, back through the jungle. “If you need anything, I’m just a few hundred yards away.”

Again, he nods, thanks me, and continues with his carpentry.