Just Neighbors Page 2

  “If it’s not-my-favorite asshole,” I reply before swirling my tongue in my mouth to capture any lingering excess alcohol. To deal with him, I need to be as drunk as possible.

  “Oh, favorite? I like that.” He winks, stands up, and comes my way even though I’m not sending an I want company vibe. “Maybe I’ll work my way up to your favorite fuck.”

  I roll my eyes. “I take it back. Just asshole, delete the prefix.”

  His scent and proximity drag me into a high stronger than anything behind the bar will.

  “What do you want, Kyle?”

  He smirks—a sign he came over to fuck with me. “Didn’t expect you to show your face in public tonight.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “You’re plastered,” he states.

  I shoot him a glare. “And you’re an asshole. A smart one, with your very intelligent revelation, but still a definite asshole.”

  He rests his elbow on the bar and leans into it while facing me. “Are asshole and fuck your favorite words in the dictionary?”

  “Only when it comes to you.”

  He places his palm over his chest. “Aw, I’m flattered I have a special place in your brain.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “And there you go, thinking about me again.”

  “What do you want?” I repeat. “You want to rub my shitty life in my face?” I pause. “Wait, why are you here? Isn’t everyone and their damn dressed-up dog attending the stupid wedding of the cheaters?”

  His eyes meet mine with humor. “Shouldn’t you be there, objecting?”

  “I hate you,” I grumble.

  “Good.” He sets his beer down and situates himself into the seat next to mine as if my insult were an invite.

  “Now, what are you doing?” Why am I constantly asking him this?

  “I’m giving you the pleasure of my company to help clear your head,” he says as if it were as obvious as my Social Security number.

  I hold my empty glass up. “I’ve already found the solution. Go annoy another poor soul.” I’m not surprised when he makes himself comfortable.

  “You know what would do an even better job?” he asks.

  I hold my cup up. “Shattering this glass and then slicing your genitals off with a broken piece?”

  “Damn, you’re brutal.” His attention swings from me to the bartender, Maliki. He yells out an order of fries and water.

  Maliki nods in response and then calls out the order to the kitchen. Maliki owns the Down Home Pub and insisted all drinks were on him tonight when I plopped down earlier.

  Kyle stays quiet while sipping his beer, and I play with my glass, uncertain if I should order another vodka I can barely stomach.

  What’s his play here?

  He doesn’t speak again until Maliki slides the fries and water down the bar, and they land in front of me. I glance over at Kyle in question, and he snags a fry before holding one out to me.

  “Eat up, drunkie,” he demands. “And drink the water if you don’t want a hangover tomorrow and risk oversleeping. It’d be an unpleasant start to my day if I couldn’t annoy your ass while enjoying my coffee.”

  I narrow my eyes at him but bite off the end of a fry. He’s right, but I won’t admit that to him. When I finish the fry, he pours ketchup on the side of the basket and slides it closer to me. My stomach growls. I had no appetite earlier and worked through lunch and dinner.

  He snags a few fries, and we eat in silence until his arrogant voice breaks through.

  “Aw, we’re sharing a meal, Fieldgain,” he teases. “Consider this our first date. Do I get laid?”

  I wince at his comment. It sickens me more than the alcohol and breakup heartbreak combined. He had to bring up our history, knowing today is already hell for me.

  I throw down the fry in my hand, sick and tired of his games. “Did you forget that happened years ago?”

  The playfulness on his face falls into regret. “Chloe.”

  I brush my hands together, removing the salt on my fingertips, and push the basket of fries toward him. “Save it. I don’t want to think about it tonight. I have enough disturbing memories to drink away. I don’t need another on my list.”

  He leans back and snags another fry. “Fine by me. I’d prefer not to talk about it either unless you give me the chance to explain myself.”

  “Hard pass.”

  He grabs the water and hands it to me. “How about we make a toast?”

  I take it from him with a frown. At least he’s changing the subject.

  “No.”

  He grabs my wrist, pulls my hand up, and clinks my water against his beer. “What if we toast to douchebags?”

  “To you then.”

  He shrugs. “I was thinking more of your ex, but I’ll take your verbal abuse because I’m a nice guy.” He sets his glass down to settle his elbow on the bar again and puts his attention on me. “Why are you upset though? Word is, you cheated on Kent before he fucked around with Lacy.”

  “Cheated?” I scoff. I’m tired of Kent using it as an excuse for his unfaithfulness. “I hardly believe it’s cheating when it’s with yourself.”

  His head cocks to the side as he blinks in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

  I want to stop talking, but the alcohol forces me to defend myself. “I cheated on Kent with myself.”

  His lips curve into a wicked smile. “Explain, please.”

  Oh shit, Chloe. Abort confession. A-fucking-bort confession.

  The confession pouring from my mouth seconds later informs me that I’m no longer sober enough to make responsible decisions. “He caught me, uh … pleasuring myself … you know … doing his job.” The words come out in slow stutters.

  His mouth drops open at the same time he knocks over his drink with his elbow. I’ve never seen him so flustered before. I smile, knowing I caught him off guard.

  He stares at me with interest. “Are you telling me, he got pissed at you for playing with your pussy?” He grins. “Damn, I thought I was possessive.”

  “Don’t say it like that,” I grumble, wishing I could cut and run from this conversation. Unfortunately, I’m certain I can’t even get off my stool without falling on my face.

  He grabs a napkin and cleans up his mess. “So, he’s labeling you a cheater for getting yourself off?”

  I avert eye contact. “Yes.”

  Half his body slides off his seat when he moves in closer. “Can you please provide details of what happened, so I can determine if he’s correct?”

  I press him into his own space. “I gave you the details.”

  “You didn’t give me shit for details. Was it with your hand? A sex toy?” He tilts his head back and groans. “Fuck, this makes my night.”

  I hold my hand up as a flush of embarrassment hits my cheeks. “Oh my God, I’m not doing this with you.”

  He runs his tongue over his lips. “Come on,” he begs. “Give my imagination something pleasurable to think about when I’m home with my hand around my dick.”

  Oh my God.

  I shut my eyes and pull at the collar of my top, suddenly burning up.

  Is he saying he’ll jack off to whatever I confess?

  “I’m not giving you any details. I don’t want to conduct a casual conversation with you, let alone one about my sex life.” I shove his shoulder. “And don’t talk about having your hand on your dick around me.”

  He eyeballs the bar. “Why? It’s not out of the ordinary to play with your pussy. Ask anyone in here.”

  “Quit calling it playing with my pussy!” I hiss. “And I’d rather not poll that right now … or ever.”

  He chuckles. “You masturbate. Good for you. I do it on the regular right next door. I’ve made it clear how much I love those skirts of yours.”

  I’ll smack myself for this tomorrow. “We were, uh … you know …”

  Thankfully, he catches my drift in seconds. “Fucking?”

  “Yes, fucking. It was in the morning, befor
e work. He got off. I didn’t. When he left, I grabbed the vibrator he knew nothing about from my bedside drawer.”

  He grins, eating this up. “Wait, so this happened frequently?” He appears baffled, disgusted, and entertained, all at the same time.

  “Quit interrupting, or I’ll stop,” I warn.

  He holds his hands up. “My bad, my bad. Do continue the Chloe Masturbation Saga.”

  “So, I started to, uh … take matters into my own hands.”

  “You played with your pussy,” he corrects.

  I push him again and shyly glance away. “Yes. I didn’t hear the front door open. I was almost there, and next thing I knew, he came barging into the bedroom. He’d forgotten his wallet.”

  “And, also, to give you an orgasm.”

  “He got pissed, accused me of emasculating him, and called it cheating, arguing he should be the one giving me orgasms. He’d already been sleeping with Lacy, but he uses that as an excuse to make me the bad guy. Kent knows I won’t defend myself and tell people he caught me masturbating, not cheating.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand and want to curl away in embarrassment when I realize what I confessed and who I confessed it to. Kyle is the last person I should’ve told. I wait for the snide comments from him, but they never come.

  He licks his lips and stares at me in fascination. “If you were mine, I would’ve sat down and enjoyed the show. That’s after I had given you the best orgasm of your life. Then, you’d go to work, missing my cock and rubbing your thighs together, anticipating me doing it again. During your lunch break, I’d visit you in your office, spread you out on top of your desk, and eat your pussy. Later, when we were in bed, I’d fuck you all over again.”

  Jesus. This man and his words.

  Those words in that voice.

  Heat shoots up my spine while I fumble for a response. My heart races as I imagine him doing all those things.

  Maybe a one-night stand will help rid me of my thoughts of Kent the Cheater.

  No. Nope.

  This is Kyle Lane.

  I clear my throat when our eyes meet, hoping it will kill my dirty imagination. “So …” I stutter out. “That’s how I cheated.”

  “It’s not cheating, but at least it helped you dodge a bullet with that one. Dude is an asshole. He was the backup to the backup quarterback in high school. The fuck were you thinking, being with him?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “He was the only guy who’d talk to me, thanks to you.”

  Guilt creeps up his face again. “Returning to the subject at hand … your hand on … or in your pussy.”

  I cover my entire face with my hands this time.

  He removes them one by one.

  “Can we not talk about this … or act like we never did talk about it?”

  “There is no chance in hell I’ll forget this conversation.” He winks. “I’m starting to like you more, dear neighbor.”

  I’m drunk off my ass with the man I hate sitting at my side.

  Last time we hung out, it crushed me.

  Kyle chuckles, drags my drink away from me, and sets it out of my reach. “Cut-off time for Chloe.”

  I scowl at him and gesture to the bar. “Look at that, ladies and gents. The life of the party has graduated to the party pooper. Is the music too loud for you? Should I ask Maliki to turn it down a notch, so you can get your full eight hours of sleep?”

  “I love wasted, smart-ass Chloe.” He smirks.

  I’m clueless as to how long we’ve been sitting here with each other. Kyle’s company has outshone every thought of Kent. Being around him is entertaining and much better than drinking myself into a stupor alone. I’m an emotional drunk. The first time I got wasted, I blubbered about losing a pet goldfish before puking and passing out.

  Hanging out with Kyle—if that’s what you can call it—has been interesting. We argued when I attempted to order a drink stronger than the vodka in front of me. Five minutes later, I realized I had no choice. When I yelled my order to Maliki, Kyle shook his head, and Maliki turned around like a traitorous little shit.

  Somehow, Kyle volunteered for Chloe babysitting duty—not surprising. He’s always enjoyed being in charge and bossing people around. Sober me does not like him being in charge and bossy. But drunk me—good ole stupid, drunk me—loves his authority.

  Somehow, the liquor numbs my hate for him. His attractiveness is the culprit of my sliding closer to him as the night grows later. My attention closes in on his hair as I think of how amazing it’d be to mess it up, run my hands through it, while he touched me in places he shouldn’t. The flannel hugging his muscular arms looked hot when he sat down, but my mouth watered when he unbuttoned it later and revealed a black V-neck tee. He hung the flannel on the back of his stool and stretched his arms out on the bar.

  I knew vodka went straight to the head, but I didn’t know it messed with your head like this.

  Maybe I should drink away those thoughts.

  Excellent idea.

  I need to up my alcohol intake.

  I reach for the half-full glass of vodka soda he confiscated, but he grabs my hand. His finger massages the space between my thumb and finger before sliding the drink farther away from me.

  “Nice try,” he says.

  “But it’s half-full!” I argue as if he took my favorite toy. “Isn’t that a drinking foul?”

  “True, but you’re way over being tipsy.” His response drips with authority, and I shiver.

  “Duh. It was my game plan tonight.”

  He cocks his head toward the door. “Come on, my drunk Nancy Drew. I’ll drive you home.”

  I cross my arms. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can find my way home.”

  He snorts. “It’s not like it’s out of my way or anything.”

  “I’m not getting in the car with my archnemesis.”

  “Archnemesis?” he scoffs. “What are we, a fucking high school drama?”

  “Piss off.”

  “Come on, I’m a nice guy. I ordered you fries. Mean people don’t order other people fries. They keep them to themselves.” He elbows me. “So, admit it. I’m a nice fucking dude.”

  I reach for my water, which he allows, and play with the straw, staring at it instead of him. “Maybe now … but not then.”

  His eyes narrow my way. “I was a stupid teenager, Chloe. Get over it.”

  “Get over it? You don’t understand the consequences I had to deal with because of your stupid teenager actions.”

  He throws cash onto the bar and rises from his stool. “Stand up before I call your ex-fiancé and ask if he’ll ditch his wedding to pick you and your vibrator-loving pussy up.” He pauses and grabs his flannel, throwing it on over his tee. Then, he leans in. “On second thought, I won’t even need to call him. The groom’s party walked in. Now, you can either leave with me and not face your ex and his new wife or you can keep your ass in this corner and watch their happiness. It’s up to you.”

  I glance up to see Kent’s best man walking to the bar with a bridesmaid at his side.

  This is where they chose to reception it up?

  I grab my purse. “Fine, but how am I getting my car in the morning?”

  “I rode with my sister. She helps Maliki close sometimes. I’ll drive your car.” He holds out his hand. “Keys, neighbor dearest.”

  I roll my eyes but grab them from my bag and shove them in his hand. “Can we go out another way, so they don’t see me?”

  He nods toward the back exit and grabs my water. “Sure can.”

  I allow him to take my hand, and he guides me down a dimly lit hallway. My head spins, and I use the wall and him to level myself. The chilly night hits me when we make it outside, and my car headlights blink when he hits the unlock button on my key.

  Opening the passenger door, he assists me into the seat and then moves to the driver’s side.

  He hands me the water and helps me with my seat belt. “Drink this,”
he orders.

  I gulp it down, realizing how thirsty I am.

  He rests his hand on the top of my seat while reversing out of the parking spot. “See, I’m a nice guy, babe.”

  “Fries and rides don’t make everything better,” I mutter. “They don’t erase my hate for you, so, no, you’re still not a nice guy.”

  “I’ll prove it to you then.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

  “You shall see, dear neighbor.”

  Two

  Kyle

  Five days out of the week, my mornings consist of showering, pouring myself a cup of coffee, and then walking outside to fuck with Chloe before she leaves for work.

  I consider it our cute little routine.

  She most likely thinks of it as a prologue to the day she murders my ass.

  I tap my fingers against the steering wheel of Chloe’s Honda and peek over at her slouched in the passenger seat. She’s desperate if she’s publicly drinking and allowing me to drive her home.

  I ditched the guys as soon as I caught sight of her sitting in the back of the bar, resembling an old heartbreak country song. Gage gave me a glare and then a sly smirk when I instructed him to bury my body next to my grandmother’s in case she killed me, and my sister sent me five smile emojis after I sent her a text saying I didn’t need a ride home. They’ve been up my ass about getting a girlfriend, like it will establish world peace.

  “Quit staring at me like that,” she snarls.

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Like you pity me.”

  “I don’t pity you.” I stop to correct myself. “Scratch that. I do pity you.”

  “Someone grew up and put their honest undies on.”

  I soften my tone and explain myself. “I don’t pity you for the reason you think. I pity you for having a boyfriend who failed to get you off.”

  My response is met with silence.

  “Was it every time?”

  Groaning, she shifts her neck from side to side as if it’s sore. “I’m not discussing this with you. I should’ve never told you in the first place.”

  “Jesus, Chloe, I won’t tell anyone you own a vibrator. It’s not uncommon, but if you’re ashamed of your sexuality—”