Ten
Danica
Thumping bass vibrates through the wall, reverberating in my chest like a second, erratic heartbeat. The neon numbers of the clock announce it as 11:23 p.m. It’s been two hours of nonstop, ear-splitting music from next door, and my attempts to muffle it are futile. Earplugs have been squished into uselessness. White noise muted but didn’t drown out the vibrations. Even the television’s blaring drama can’t compete with what’s invaded my apartment.
I’ve had it.
Throwing the covers off, I spring out of bed, my feet cold against the floor. Hair in disarray, I march to the door. This is San Francisco, not some never-ending rave. It’s Thursday night! People have jobs, lives…sleep schedules.
I pound on the neighbor’s door, the beat of my knocks jostling for space among the relentless rhythm of the party. No one answers. I ball my fist and hammer harder, the frustration inside me releasing with each thud. Finally, the door swings open, revealing a guy with a half-interested smile on his face.
“Hey! No need to knock. Just come on in!” he shouts over the music, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to welcome a pajama-clad stranger.
“Thanks,” I mutter, stepping into the mess.
The apartment is an explosion of bodies and lights, models draped across every surface like living decor. I feel woefully underdressed in my pink flannel pajamas, sticking out amidst the sea of sequins and silk. I weave through the throngs, searching for the elusive host of this insomniac’s nightmare.
Instead, I spot LiLi Bordan, the newest Hollywood “it” girl, flashing her pearly whites for a camera phone. Holy crap . This is some building Anna’s been living in. She didn’t mention anything about celebrity sightings when we discussed the sublease. Beside LiLi, the guy on her arm poses with practiced ease, their laughter piercing the haze of electronic beats.
“Excuse me,” I say to a passing partygoer, hoping for some direction. But like a ship in the night, he sails by without so much as a glance my way. No matter. I’m here on a mission, and I won’t leave until I find him, the man responsible for this auditory assault. The man who is making my life miserable.
I tap a shoulder, then another, my words lost in the pulsing beats that shake the very air around us. “Whose place is this?” I yell, but it’s like I’m invisible, just another part of the scenery not worth their attention. I already know the head of the HOA is as elusive as this phantom host, and my attempts to figure out the guy’s name by peeling back the layers of shell corporations have yielded nothing but frustration. Who hides behind these walls?
The room spins with the dizzying lights, casting shadows over faces too absorbed in hedonism to care for my plight. My heart races, not with excitement, but with a growing ire that tightens my chest. It’s striking how alone one can feel in a crowd.
Finally, I can’t take the noise any longer.
Defeated, I navigate back through the maze of gyrating bodies and slip out the door. I march home, no closer to solving my problem.
Back inside Anna’s apartment, the noise still bleeds through the walls, mocking my futile efforts. I dial the police, reporting a noise complaint. The clock mocks me too, its numbers flipping past one a.m. as I pace and wait, the noise continuing. How can I be the only one who hears this?
Finally, red and blue lights flicker through my blinds, a silent victory. I press my face against the cool glass, watching officers disperse the partygoers, who stumble into the night. The music dies down, and the hallway outside my door is full of drunk people. Silence finally comes, and it’s never been so vindicating. But even as the quiet settles, I can’t shake the nagging questions. Who is this guy? And why does he insist on making my life miserable?
I retreat to bed. Tonight’s battle is over, but the war, I sense, has just begun. I imagine my neighbor slapped with the fine, perhaps a cool thousand dollars for disturbing the peace. It’s a cost he can bear, but the principle of the matter stands tall in my mind. He reminds me of the entitled frat boys from school. Mommy and Daddy’s money always bailed them out of any trouble.
I didn’t get a chance to confront him face to face, but I’m sure by now he’s seen the note I left on my windshield, threatening legal action if he dares mess with my car again. That must be why he’s hiding, cowering behind his money and his shell corporations. He knows he’s crossed a line with me, Danica Winters, not just some pushover he can trample.
But morning light has a harsh way of shedding reality on night’s illusions. Pulling myself from the tangle of sheets, I dress quickly and head out to my car. The moment I see it, my smugness evaporates like mist in the sun. There’s a glaringly vibrant neon orange sticker attached to my window.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, my fingernails useless against the stubborn adhesive. I try desperately to peel the sticker away. Fantastic. My cheeks burn with anger that coils tight in my stomach.
Can’t you read? the sticker mocks in bold, black font. Towed or impounded if found in this space again.
“Is this how you want to play it?” I speak to the absent provider of the obnoxious message, knowing full well he isn’t here to witness my fury.
He’s probably nestled comfortably somewhere, blissfully unaware of what he’s stirred within me. Or worse, he’s somewhere laughing, thinking he’s got the upper hand. But he doesn’t know me. Revenge is a dish best served cold . When the time is right, I’ll make my move.
With one last seething look at the sticker, I storm back inside, the gears in my head turning, plotting my next move. Let him think he’s won this round. I’m not done yet. Not by a long shot.
Half an hour later, I stride into the Red Rabbit offices, heels clicking on the polished concrete floor, the sound hollow in the void of what looks like a post-apocalyptic movie scene. Since we laid off the leadership team earlier this week, the other employees are dropping like flies, and Brandon is in a panic. Desks are abandoned, swivel chairs askew, the hum of computers and the buzz of idle conversation absent. I’ve never seen it this empty. We run customer service twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week so there’s always someone here.
“Hello?” My voice is swallowed by the silence, reaffirming my solitude.
Troy Whitfield stands up like a gopher in his cubicle. “I’m here.”
“Where is everyone?”
He shakes his head. “Out getting breakfast, I guess.” Troy is the developer behind Brandon’s software.
“Looks like it’s just you and me today,” I tell him. I hesitate before picking up the phone, weighing my options. It’s dinner time in Paris, but if anyone can shed light on the enigma next door, it’s Anna.
After a few rings, Anna’s voice crackles through the line. “Danica, ma chérie! How’s Mischa?”
“Hey, Anna. Mischa’s good, spoiled rotten.”
I watch as Todd from the development team wanders in with a greasy bag and a white box. Back to my task at hand. “Listen, I need to know about the guy you share the floor with. He’s been making my life hell, and we’re locked in some ridiculous battle over my parking space.”
“Ah, Austin Sands? He’s…usually pretty easy going. That loft is his crash pad. Between you and me…” Her voice lowers conspiratorially. “He’s worth a little trouble. You should try having fun with him if you catch my drift.”
My fingers tighten around the receiver, knuckles whitening. “I’m not looking for fun, Anna. This guy keeps parking in the spot I rented, and he’s even towed my car. And his parties at night are obnoxious!”
“That doesn’t sound like him. Austin’s a good guy, and he likes to keep a low profile. He’s not so bad once you get to know him.” She snickers.
“Great,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “That’s just great.”
“I’m sorry it’s a hassle, but things will work out. Listen, it’s great to hear from you, but I need to run.” And with that, Anna disconnects.
“Thanks for nothing.” I sigh, hanging up the phone. No help from the HOA, no luck with property records, and now my sister’s friend is telling me to cozy up to the enemy. It’s like the universe is playing some cruel joke.