Just Neighbors Page 3

  “I’m not ashamed of my sexuality,” she snaps with a sneer.

  “Appears that way to me. You pleasure yourself. Who the fuck cares? I’m more concerned that you consider it weird that you masturbate but not weird that your boyfriend didn’t give two shits if you were satisfied.”

  “Contrary to your belief, not every relationship is about sex.”

  “True, but Kent not giving a shit about satisfying you wasn’t a healthy relationship. It was a selfish one.”

  “I don’t like being around you,” she huffs out.

  “Tough shit. We’re neighbors. Get used to it.”

  She shifts in her seat to face me. “Speaking of that, why would you buy the house next door? What’s your play here?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself by thinking I’m secretly in love with you,” I say with a laugh. “It’s a nice home in a decent neighborhood with great landscaping.”

  Lies. The landscaping sucks ass.

  “Oh, look, we’re here,” I say while pulling into her driveway. “No more time for your paranoia of me moving in to ruin your life.”

  “Until you tell me why, it’s what I’m assuming.”

  I park the car. “Keep assuming wrong then.”

  She starts to talk, no doubt to continue this ridiculous argument, but her hand closes over her mouth. “Oh shit,” she groans.

  Fuck!

  Those are never good words to hear from a drunk person with, most likely, a low alcohol tolerance.

  I turn off the car. “Oh shit, what?”

  The door flies open, and her head disappears from my view.

  Motherfucker.

  She’s a damn puker.

  I unbuckle my seat belt and walk to her side. Sure enough, there’s vomit. It’s not just outside but also on the side of her mouth and on her top.

  I drag my flannel off, step to the side of the puke, and wipe her mouth with it. “Swear to God, you’d better not fucking flip me off tomorrow morning.”

  After I’m finished using my favorite shirt as a puke rag, I assist her out of the car. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight me, but I can see the humiliation on her face. I’m the last person she wants help from. My arm is on her shoulder, the other at the dip of her back, and her side is resting against mine. She points to the door key on the ring, and I unlock the door before walking in. A lamp in the room’s corner provides light for me to walk through without running into furniture.

  “I’m usually not up for drunk babysitting,” I say when she points toward what I’m guessing is her bedroom. “Not even for my little sister, who can hold her liquor better than you. Jesus, you damn lightweight.”

  She argues with a groan and a tip of her middle finger, and I can’t stop myself from laughing.

  This is my first time stepping into her house. It’s nice—plenty of feminine shit everywhere. We pass a child’s room, and she points to an open doorway. I flip on the light and take in her bedroom. It’s not what I expected from her—not uptight. It’s bright purple with gold accents scattered throughout.

  “Come on, let’s get you in bed,” I say, jerking my head toward it.

  My statement is more of a guess.

  Does she want to go to bed?

  Shower?

  Sleep by the toilet?

  I take the bed as her decision when she allows me to lead her there and grab her waist to steady her. The way I deposit her on the bed is far from graceful, and I hear a thud when her head hits the headboard.

  Whoops.

  I’m not trying to be Mr. Romantic over here anyway.

  She rubs her head while chewing on her lower lip. “I’m going to bed alone.”

  I hold my hands up and grimace. “The frilly-ass bed is all yours. Taking advantage of puking, drunk chicks isn’t a hobby of mine. I wouldn’t kiss you right now if you begged me. French-fry vomit is not a turn-on.”

  She makes herself comfortable, still wearing her clothes and shoes, and I wonder if it’s how she’ll sleep. I’d offer her help, but I’m not risking her losing her shit on me. She stretches out on the bed and pulls the blanket until it smacks her chin. Her blonde hair is half-smashed against the headboard and half-down in tangles, and she stares at me with mascara smudged around her baby-blue eyes.

  Even when she’s a drunken mess, there’s no mistake that Chloe is fucking gorgeous in every sense with her light skin, freckles scattered along her nose and cheeks, and plump lips that tasted like candy the first and only time we kissed. I wonder if they still taste the same.

  “I thought any woman willing to sleep with you was a turn-on,” she replies, proud of her comeback.

  “As usual, your thoughts are inaccurate, Nancy Drew.” I do a sweeping gesture to the hallway. “By the way, are you hiding children in here?”

  She could be dating someone with kids. But he’d have to be against staying over or going out in public with her because I’ve never seen anyone.

  She shakes her head and then hiccups. “I help my sister with my niece and nephew.”

  I draw in a breath. “Ah, I’ve seen her drop them off a few times.”

  “You need to quit stalking me.”

  “You need to quit thinking I find you important enough to stalk.”

  That shuts her up real quick.

  I walk backward while staring at her. “Anything else you need?”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  “You sure? Water? Advil? Your vibrator?”

  She grabs a pillow and hurls it at me. “Get out!”

  I turn around but glance over my shoulder at her before taking off. My voice softens. “And, Chloe, thank you for not running the story.”

  I asked a woman who works at the printing company, and she confirmed Lauren’s name was nowhere in the paper.

  Her eyes narrow in my path. “You’re not welcome. I’m risking a potential promotion—all because you threatened to blackmail me.”

  She’s right.

  It didn’t feel good, threatening her, but I protect the people I care about.

  I turn on my heel, her keys still in my hand, and leave the room. I lock her front door behind me, the key ring swinging around my finger on my short walk home.

  I started my day telling Chloe good morning.

  I’m ending my day telling her good night.

  Tomorrow, she’ll tell me to fuck off.

  It’s the circle of us—enemies since my balls dropped.

  My phone vibrates with a text as soon as I stroll through my front door.

  Gage: You home?

  I drop both our keys into my designated key bowl before replying.

  Me: Just walked in. What’s up?

  Gage: You home alone?

  Me: Why? Does Lauren want to come over and give me company?

  My phone vibrates in my hand seconds later, and I answer it after two rings.

  “Say something like that again, and I’ll come over and beat your ass,” Gage warns as soon as I pick up.

  I chuckle. “You’re not doing a satisfactory job as a fiancé if you’re calling me this late and not snuggled up with her … or whatever you lame, monogamous people do these days.”

  “I don’t share my bedroom talk.”

  Gage is my best friend, but Lauren is a delicate subject for him. He loves her more than anyone—has since we were kids.

  I fake offense. “Not even your best friend?”

  “Especially not with my best friend, who referred to her as Satan for years.”

  “Some would find the name flattering. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of a call so urgent that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

  Gage is my partner, and I’ll see him bright and early in the morning, so we rarely do nightcap conversations.

  “Call me curious, but I was wondering if you were sleeping over at your neighbor’s.”

  I stroll into the kitchen, snag a bottle of water, and head to my bedroom. “Mrs. Kettle? We went to school with her son. Gross, man.”

  He laughs. “He
y, maybe it’s time for you to change your type. Nothing else has worked out for you.”

  I’m not looking for anything serious and unsure if I’ll ever be. “I’m not at Chloe’s. Drunk chicks who can hardly walk don’t make my dick hard.”

  He releases a long breath before responding. “Jesus, Kyle. I wasn’t referring to you fucking her. I want to know where her head is regarding publishing the story.”

  I toss my puke-decorated flannel into the hamper and undress. “You’re asking if I questioned her while she vomited?”

  “No. I’m asking if you questioned her when you visited her office or when you spent your night canoodling with her in the pub’s corner. Please make sure the story isn’t run.”

  “I know for sure she’s not running it in this week’s paper. How did you know I was in her office today?”

  “Her assistant, Melanie.”

  “Is Lauren aware you’re chatting it up with Chloe’s assistant, Melanie?”

  “I’m not chatting it up with anyone. Melanie is fooling around with Joey and told him. Joey relayed the message to me.”

  Damn Joey.

  No more women advice from me for him.

  “So, you used Joey’s big mouth to your advantage?” I ask.

  “Obviously.” He sighs. “Give me the fucking details on what’s running through her head.”

  “I was hoping for a bedtime story first.”

  “Once upon a time, a dude needed to give his friend details. He didn’t. Got his fucking head ripped off. The end.”

  “I love a happy ever after.” I grab a towel and turn on the shower. “I think I made myself clear, but I’ll talk to her again, okay?”

  “Thank you.” He sighs again. “Tell her she owes you a favor for your drunk babysitting.”

  I grin. “Don’t worry; I intend on letting her know.”

  Three

  Chloe

  Yesterday morning, I thought my ex tying the knot would be the lowest thing to happen to me. I was so wrong. Somehow, my mission to escape thoughts of Kent derailed me straight into the company of a man I’d been avoiding for years.

  I drank with him, allowed him to drive me home, and gave him the keys to my house to escort me inside.

  He was in my bedroom, for Christ’s sake.

  I’m appalled at myself for admitting how I received most of my orgasms in my last relationship.

  Today’s to-do list: research realtors and vacate my ass out of here ASAP.

  While I shower, my head pounds with a reminder of every sip I took last night, praying Kyle doesn’t deliver his morning greeting. Maybe he’ll see me as a weird, self-pleasuring freak he no longer wants to live next to.

  Maybe he’ll move.

  Fingers crossed.

  Doubt it.

  He pressed me for every detail about the morning Kent had walked in on me. I don’t know if it was the drinks I’d consumed or Kyle seeming sincere for once in his life that drove me to spill the embarrassing story.

  I get dressed and opt for flats rather than heels. It’s easier to run in them. Operation Avoid Kyle is now in full force, and my first mission is to sprint to my car as soon as I open my door. I find my bag on the couch and shuffle through it in search of my keys.

  Nothing.

  Maybe he left them in my car.

  I suck in a calming breath and open my front door.

  “Good morning!” His voice is louder than usual, closer than usual, more annoying than usual.

  I shriek, my coffee falling from my hand and splattering onto my porch, and my heart stops in my chest.

  Kyle is standing on my front porch, smiling in front of me.

  My mouth drops open. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter under my breath. I guess I didn’t scare him away last night. “This is getting out of hand,” I add when he bends down to pick up my coffee mug. “And stalker-like.”

  He sets the cup and lid on the porch railing, and there’s mischief in his smile.

  Oh shit.

  “What? You spilling your coffee? It is clumsy, you know.”

  “No. You showing up at my door.”

  “I was in your bedroom last night.”

  “That doesn’t sound less stalker-like.”

  His smile turns playful. “Shut it, Fieldgain. I didn’t come over to admit I peeped through your windows and sniffed your panties. I came for reimbursement.”

  I blink. “I’m sorry, reimbursement?”

  He nods. “Yes. It’s time to pay your debt.”

  “Excuse me? I don’t owe you shit unless it’s a swift kick in the nuts for being on my property, uninvited.”

  He appears entertained while leaning back on his heels. “I was invited last night. The invite is valid for a full twenty-four hours.”

  I roll my eyes. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. You told me to stop by whenever I wanted, remember?”

  I park my hands on my hips. “Those words left my mouth alongside the vomit?”

  “You. Owe. Me. Now, I have a few options on payment.”

  I scoff, “I owe you for being a decent human being?”

  He points to me and snaps his fingers. “Correct.”

  I clench my teeth and tap my foot. “I can’t believe I’m entertaining this, but what are my options?”

  He holds a finger up. “One: we have morning sex.”

  I snort. “Not happening.”

  He holds up a second finger. “Two: we have sex after work this evening.”

  “Next.”

  He adds another finger to the mix. “Three: you take me to breakfast.” When I don’t answer, he gestures to my empty cup. “Unless you plan on slurping it from the ground, you need a fresh cup.”

  While taking my sweet time to determine my next move with him, I get chills when I realize he’s not bare-chested today.

  What a shame.

  Instead, he’s giving me the gorgeous view of him in his blue uniform again—another one fitting him perfectly.

  Definitely not a shame.

  Whichever sight he delivers never fails to turn me on. My nipples tighten, and I wonder what it’d be like to strip his uniform off and for him to use his handcuffs on me.

  I nearly fall over in embarrassment, and my eyes meet his at the sound of him clearing his throat.

  A cocky smirk plays at his lips. “Chloe, while I appreciate you checking me out, unless you plan on doing something about it, let’s not make my dick hard, okay?”

  It takes me a moment to pull myself together, and I gesture to the door. “If breakfast is what you want, come on in. There are Cheerios and Pop-Tarts in my pantry. Have at it.”

  Here I go again, being stupid.

  Who invites their enemy into their home again?

  People in horror movies who wind up murdered—that’s who.

  “As much as I’d love to come in and have you serve me breakfast—” he begins.

  “Serve?” I interrupt with a snort. “I’d throw it to you and walk out the door.”

  My answer further amuses him. “Shirley’s Diner. I can drive us, or you can meet me there in five.”

  I feign annoyance.

  He grins.

  “Fine,” I deadpan. “Thirty minutes. One pancake.”

  “Forty minutes. Two pancakes.”

  “Jesus. Just fucking follow me.” I yell his name to stop him, and he turns to leave.

  “Decide on a better offer, one involving us in your bed?” he asks with a raised brow.

  “You wish. Where are my keys?”

  “I might know the answer to your question.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I screech. “You jacked my keys?”

  “Technically, you gave them to me, but I kept them to lock your door on my way out. You should thank me for eliminating the risk of you being executed in your sleep.”

  I push my open palm his way. “Hand them over.”

  He pats the pocket by his groin, and I notice the outline of keys underneath the fabric. “I’d p
refer if you grabbed them. The pockets are tiny, so smaller hands would do better to rescue them.”

  I take a deep breath. “The longer you play your games, the shorter time we spend at breakfast. Choose your battles, Lane.”

  My mouth waters at the idea of going forward and startling him by grabbing my keys. I’d love to watch his reaction if I did reach in, graze his cock, and then pull them out slowly and torturously.

  I don’t though because not only am I a chickenshit, but he also drags them out and dumps them in my hand seconds later.

  “I hope you bring your appetite.” He shifts around and strides to his new Jeep.

  I further check him out and shrug with no shame before walking to my car.

  Shirley’s Diner is packed with people stuffing their stomachs with every breakfast food imaginable. The diner has been a staple here for longer than I’ve been alive. Blue Beech, Iowa, is a small town where everybody knows everybody. Most residents reside in town, in comfortable neighborhoods void of dilapidated homes, or are lucky to own acres of land.

  Me? I was raised on the outskirts, given the name West Side Trash decades ago. There’s no cute ’50s-themed diner within walking distance of the west side. It’s at least a mile walk anywhere—the school, Town Square, any stores.

  I pledged I’d move from the west side trailer park I had grown up in when I made enough money. I did. Unfortunately, my sister and mother refuse to do the same. They both live in the same run-down double-wide with my niece and nephew. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t judge people from there, but it’s where most of the crime takes place.

  Shirley gives Kyle a grin when we walk in and seats us, muttering something about giving us his favorite booth.

  Of course he has a favorite.

  Unlike other patrons who aren’t the biggest fans of my family, she greets me with a friendly smile while we sit down, and she takes our orders.

  No matter what other people think about my family, Shirley has never let outside influence change her opinion of me. In high school, I’d come to the diner to do homework, and Shirley always brought me free milkshakes.

  I order a coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast. If I’m stuck with him, I might as well eat.