Page 1 of Neighbor from Hell
Chapter
One
LAUREN
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bWcASV2sey0&list
-He’s got to be strong and he’s got to be fast-
The barstool creaks under me as I slump forward, elbows sliding on the sticky wooden counter of O’Malley’s Pub. It’s a dive in the heart of Illinois, all chipped paint and flickering neon, the kind of place where the air smells of stale beer and regret. My fingers toy with the damp label of my Stella Artois, peeling it back in slow, satisfying strips.
I’m bone-tired—sales rep life is a grind, a treadmill of monotony; same journeys, same lecherous advances from area managers to handle tactfully, same bullshit quotas that make me want to claw my eyes out. I’m running and running, but I never seem to get anywhere. Twenty-eight, single, and renting a studio apartment that’s one step up from a shoebox. It’s not the dream I had at twenty.
I glance around. The jukebox hums a Springsteen song about glory days, and the chatter of half-drunk locals buzzes like white noise. I tip my Stella Artois back, the bottle’s icy glass kissing my lips, slick with condensation that beads against my fingertips. The beer hits my tongue. The cold, sharp brew slides down my throat like a temporary Band-Aid on a wound that won’t stop bleeding. It’s not enough though, and I am beginning to worry if anything ever will.
Sandy slides onto the stool next to me, all wild brunette curls and a smile so seriously sensuous it could charm a monk into sin. She’s in a black crop top and jeans, effortlessly hot in that way I’ve always admired. Her gin and tonic sloshes as she sets it down, ice clinking against the glass.
“Rough day, huh?” she guesses, the waft of alcohol already on her breath.
“My landlord is doubling the rent,” I mutter, setting my beer down with a dull clink.
Sandy freezes mid-sip, her gin and tonic hovering an inch from her lips. The ice clinks against the glass, a tiny chime that cuts through the bar’s haze—Springsteen’s crooning about better days, the clatter of pool balls, the hum of slurred voices.
“What?” she explodes.
“I’m done with it all, Sandy,” I say, turning to her. “Men, the job, the apartment, the whole damn thing. The rent was already bleeding me dry in that cramped, shitty studio with walls so thin I can hear my neighbor’s Netflix marathons. But double? Shit, I’ll be eating ramen in the dark, praying the power doesn’t get cut.”
“You’ll just have to find something else. I always thought your landlord was a leech of the first degree for making you pay all that money for what is basically a double wardrobe with a toilet and a stove.”
I pick at the soggy label on my bottle, peeling it back in jagged little strips. “Nah, I‘ve really had enough, Sandy,” I admit, the words tasting like defeat. “I’ve been spending time on Zillow, and I swear, everybody’s gone insane. The prices are more than double what I’m paying now.”
“Yeah,” she sighs. “Living in the city is becoming unbearable for sure. With these prices, you’d think they come with gold toilets, but no. It’s the same dreary shit. What are you going to do?”
I shrug. “I’m still weighing my options.”
“You need to find a sexy landlord who’ll cut you a deal, you know what I mean.” She waggles her brows.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I say, but I laugh, the sound spilling out like a release valve popping. The tension in my chest loosens just a fraction. She’s ridiculous, but I love her for it. Still, those Zillow tabs haunt me—each one a little stab of what I can’t have, a reminder of my defeat. Double the rent. Double the misery. Unless I find a way out.
I take another swig of my Stella Artois, the beer’s gone lukewarm now, and it sits heavy in my gut. I lean my elbow on the sticky counter and stare at the defaced label on my bottle like it’s got answers. It doesn’t.
“Sandy,” I start, my voice low, “you know my grandma died a couple of months back, right?”
“Yeah,” she replies. “But you weren’t close, right?”
“No. I never even met her. She cut off all contact with my mom after my mom moved to the States to marry my dad.”
“Oh yes, right, I know this. She disapproved of the union.”
“Yeah. Anyway, it’s just got me thinking, you know? That this feeling of needing a change isn’t just me being bored, or being hounded out of my home by a crazy rent increase. Maybe it’s a sign that I need a change. A real change. Maybe I’m being nudged into the path I’m supposed to be on.”
“What path are you thinking of?” she asks, and I smile. “I know you,” she says. “If you’re saying this now, then you’ve been thinking about it for a while and you already have a direction in mind, so let’s hear it.”
“Well, you know, she left me this property in England. It’s a small house called Sweetbriar Cottage on quite a generous plot of land. I haven’t even seen it, and my original plan was to get an estate agent over there to sell it for me, but I have been thinking about it. A lot.”
“Holy shit, you’re moving countries?” she exclaims.
“Not moving,” I correct. “Just thinking about it.”
