Snatching a black tank from the pile of clothes still in the bag I’d brought them in, I tear it over my body before swinging my bedroom door open, coming face-to-face with an angry-looking Ryan. No surprise there since he probably got less sleep than the rest of us after deciding to unpack straightaway. Weirdo. “The hell is going on?”
“Sounds like the neighbor is having a rough morning,” Caiden comments just as he leaves the bathroom and passes us, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. Psycho.
Ryan opens his mouth to say more but finds himself cut off by a pained, “Fuck my ever-loving life!”
His eyebrows shoot up his forehead in confusion, a mirror image to mine, just as Bax comes stumbling from his own room in nothing but a tight pair of boxers and a white shirt. Bleary-eyed and looking dead on his feet, he growls, “This better not be a daily thing, or I’m going to lose my shit. Does she know it’s eight in the morning?”
“I heard her talking real quiet earlier when she was out on the balcony before heading back inside. She was on the phone talking to her friends, and she said something about having to be quiet, so she probably does,” Caiden mentions, leading us all to the kitchen before going about making his gross protein drink. “She didn’t sound sleepy or anyth—”
The guy is cut off by a shrill scream and a crash so rattling that the lights hanging from the ceiling in the hallway flicker and shake. The clattering of stuff falling and the shattering of glass worries me a little. Maybe she’s in the middle of a breakdown or something? Venting her anger by smashing her dishes? It doesn’t sound like that’s what’s happening, but what do I know? I’ve only had four hours of rest, and I’m beat. It’s not like we can hear perfectly through the ceiling, either. It’s only because she’s being so loud that we can hear her cussing.
Like we’re on the same page, we all quiet down, listening for what comes next. When nothing else follows, a strange ball of worry forms in my stomach. That last crash didn’t sound too great. What if she hurt herself?
“Should we check on her?” I ask, my voice raspier than usual since it’s the first time I’ve used it in hours.
The guys shrug, looking at one another like they have no idea what we should be doing. Rolling my eyes, I head to the front door and swing it open, snatching my snapback off the entry table to hide my sleep-rumpled hair. Bypassing the elevator, I shove my hat on my head backward as I bolt up the stairs before reaching our new neighbor’s door. She’s on the very top of the building, except her apartment spans the entire floor, so I’m not at risk of bumping into anyone else as I go. Good, because I’d likely snap someone’s head off and make a bad first impression with how I’m feeling right now.
The others follow me, gathering around my back just as my fist pounds thunderously on her front door. I probably should have done it a little more gently, but I’m tired, so I only feel a little bad when the only answer I get is a blood-curdling scream.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?” Baxter calls from behind me, all of us sharing a concerned look.
The woman keeps screaming, right before there’s a grunt and a squeal of pain, her scream ending abruptly. That’s… well, that’s not good, is it?
Bax must have the same thought, because he reaches for the door handle and turns it. Stupidly enough, the thing opens right up, allowing the four of us entry into the woman’s home. Why is her goddamn door unlocked?
That question slowly fades when I look at her amazing apartment. There’s a balcony attached to a wall of windows much like ours, though a hell of a lot more expensive-looking. A literal wall of windows that opens out onto a spacious balcony littered with greenery and vibrantly decorated pots. Damn. The wall to the left is nothing but exposed brick, glass and broken frames on the ground in front of it. She has an open-plan living room and kitchen that looks like something straight out of a magazine, from the white marble countertops and rusticwhite cabinets in the kitchen to the warm brown couch and obnoxiously big TV. White planters are scattered around the place, hanging from walls and sitting on the coffee table. They all look meticulously placed, like they’re there to fit in with a theme that can only be described as vintage bohemian. I mean, this woman has exposed beams that match the color of her hardwood flooring, each one wrapped in fairy lights. A few photos litter the walls, artfully placed, though I can see more on the ground in pieces in the hallway. Christ, who is this chick? And what has she done to the place?
As soon as we’re in her apartment, Bax tries calling for her again. “Ma’am?”
There’s no answer, and that ball of worry expands until I’m actually concerned this girl has gone and done some serious damage. Looking around the bright open space doesn’t give me much confidence that she’s all right. Broken shards of glass coat the dark floorboards, the kitchen is covered in red and white mush with random bits of noodles stuck to counters and cabinets, while the fridge door hangs open and the TV plays a rerun ofGame of Thrones.
“What the hell happened here?” Ry questions, just as confused as me. Glad I’m not the only one.
I’m pretty sure Caiden answers him with a distracted, “I don’t know,” but at the same time, I hear a pitiful mewl of pain coming from the hallway. Deciding to leave those dumbasses to worry about what happened to the place, I go in search of the owner. Careful of the glass on the floor and cursing myself for not putting shoes on before leaving our apartment, I head down the hallway. I peek my head into a master bedroom that looks like it would fit my room and Baxter’s together, spotting another wall of glass that leads to what almost looks like a jungle. Then I check a smaller guest bedroom that’s the size of the biggest room in our apartment before coming to a stop at the bathroom.
It takes a moment for my brain to catch up to what my eyes are seeing, but when it does… hell, I’m still not sure what the fuck I’m looking at. Wedged sideways in the bathtub is a blue-haired woman, legs sticking up in the air while her torso looks like it’s leaning away from something. Her head is pressed against her knee, and a little sniffle is muffled against her skin. Her white shirt is stained in various shades of red, and I panic that little bit more. Is she hurt? Bleeding?
Deciding to get the guys’ attention, I answer Ryan myself. “I think I do.”
The first sound of my voice has the woman’s head snapping up, making me wince a little when the back of her head connects with the faucet behind her. She lifts her hand to rub at the sore spot while the guys surround me, peering in on the chick covered in red and white goop, looking like she’s bathed in something greasy as fuck and has pale-blue hair sticking up at all sorts of angles. Is… does she have a noodle in her hair?
I can do nothing but stare at her wide-eyed for a long moment, hoping I’m still sleeping and this is the dream my overtired brain has conjured. It would explain a lot. Discreetly, I pinch my thigh. Nope. Not a dream. Very real.
The girl in the tub takes a very deep breath, releasing it with a gust of air before holding a greasy hand out to us. What? Does she want us to shake it or something?
As though she has the same thought, she rolls her eyes and drops her hand, growling like she’s had enough of herself. There’s something about her that’s familiar, something niggling in the back of my mind, but I seriously can’t get over the image of her folded like a lawn chair in her bathtub.
She takes another breath before speaking. It takes me a moment to understand what she’s saying since I get hung up on the underlying rasp in her voice, and how it’s undeniably feminine. Blinking rapidly to try to get my head back in thegame, I catch the last sentence that rushes from her lips. “I’ll also pay each of you five thousand dollars to never speak of this again once you pass back through my front door. Do we have an agreement?”
The four of us are quiet for a full minute before we start laughing. Seriously, who is this woman? And how the hell can she afford to pay us for our silence? It’s not like any of us need the money, given we’re all pretty loaded thanks to our respective careers. We got a lot luckier in life than most. Baxter owns and runs a high-profile garage where he’s had countless celebs asking him to hook them up. He also has a knack for restoring old cars and selling them for stupid money. Caiden is a personal trainer to the stars, owning his own brand and gym that makes a killing. Ryan comes from old money, though he likes to invest a lot of it, making his own money with stocks and shares because he’s a smart bastard like that. Then there’s me, the tattoo artist whose clientele is more of the famous variety. Just like Bax, my work has been in countless magazines, and my shops are in high demand. I almost had a TV show that would document the goings-on of my shop and staff, but I decided against it. I didn’t need, and don’t need, that shit in my life. It’s bad enough my face ends up in magazines or online articles.
I miss what the chick says again, tuning in at a weird moment when she says, “If it’s all the same to you, I’m in a lot of pain, my pussy is giving fire crotch a whole new definition, my apartment looks like it’s suffered a trash panda orgy, I feel like a human version of a taco, and I’m covered in lube… which is completely unrelated to the trash panda comment. What I’m saying is, can any one of you strangers help me, please?”
I can’t help the abnormal grin that pulls at my lips. Not when she says the word pussy, or with the rest of the crap that spews from her mouth, because this has to be one of the best introductions I’ve ever had in my life. At least it is now that Iknow she’s not badly hurt. But what the actual fuck is the red stuff on her shirt?
When the others don’t make a move to help her out, I curse under my breath and make my way toward the woman. Holding a hand out toward her, she timidly places her slippery one in mine. I try to pull her out of the tub, only her hand glides right back out of mine, making me groan and drop my head back so I can glare at the ceiling with a tired laugh. Looks like I’m going to have to scoop her out of the fucking tub. Nice.
I get a little closer, looking into the tub, and my eyebrows almost hit my hairline. Why is she only in a goddamned shirt and covered in… what did she say it was? Lube? That only brings more questions than answers, and I honestly can’t wait to hear how she tries to explain all of this.
