Chapter 4
KIARA
Ihate him. I hate him. I hate him.
There are not enough adequate words in the dictionary that describe the type of loathing I have for that man.
Am I potentially getting confused between loathing and sexual attraction?
Maybe. Actually, maybe a little more than just maybe.
It’s a very real possibility, but it doesn’t change the facts.
Raiden Kane is an asshole.
He’s been living next door for a week now, and he is driving me crazy.
I swear, just knowing he is breathing in the space near me is making me insane.
I’m just about ready to blow my cover with Milan so she can have me committed to an asylum, because there’s nothing natural about the way this man has me wanting to scream.
Day one, he screwed the tall drink of water until three in the morning, and I gladly woke him up with my new aerobics routine.
And sure, I felt shitty about waking the neighbors, but the majority of them are either hard of hearing or have early rising jobs.
Lennon downstairs works at the fish markets and leaves at one in the morning, while Jeanie in 303 owns the sweetest little bakery and was long gone before my Britney aerobics class started.
On day two, he really knocked my socks off when he had his latest conquest scream out my name over and over again.
He kept her going until just after four, when she collapsed on the bed and rattled my wall.
But it’s okay, I made sure the mariachi band I’d ordered was there bright and early to sing to him all day long.
It was priceless. But not as priceless as the woman he’d brought home on day three, who wanted to get some kind of commitment out of him before she’d let him touch her.
She was already telling him how many children she wanted to have—how they’d be so cute with her blue eyes and his dark hair.
Honestly, I don’t blame him for how quickly he ushered her out the door, but she really missed out there, because from what I can tell, that would have been the wildest night of her life.
Since there was no random woman up against our shared bedroom wall on day three, I canceled morning aerobics, and we both got our first night of sleep. I suppose even the beast next door has his limits. But on day four, the motherfucker came back with a vengeance.
All that extra sleep gave him way too much energy, and he screwed that woman from nine right through until five in the morning.
So I did what any caring neighbor would do and set him up to be visited by every Jehovah’s Witness door knocker in the state.
I booked so many meetings that he has someone coming to knock on his door to talk about the good Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, every fifteen minutes.
And because I couldn’t possibly give him an escape, I booked meetings at his office too.
Day five, I’d managed to sneak a picture of him on one of his favorite early morning runs, which I’ve come to realize is his way to escape my tactics.
I posted the picture across every social media page I could with the caption, “Are we dating the same guy?” and I happily watched out the window as he walked his latest date back to our apartment complex, only for her to see the post, slap him across the face, and storm off while muttering something to herself.
He’d looked up at me from the street, flipped me the bird, and then spent his night learning the art of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu in his living room.
I took it upon myself to start learning the drums, and by day six, my eyeballs were falling out of my head. I’ve become nocturnal, and it’s really screwing with my overall vibe. I don’t fuck with change. I like things the way they are, and Raiden Kane is screwing everything up.
Luckily, a new contract presented itself to me yesterday morning.
In a matter of hours, I was at the airstrip, taking the jet to Arizona.
The target is a Fortune 500 CEO, but what should have been a quick kill has turned into almost twenty-four hours of recon.
Apparently, someone tipped him off about the hit because he’s gone to ground, but I’m no quitter.
Despite my recent experiences with my new neighbor, when it comes to my work, I generally have the patience of a saint.
I wait him out for the perfect moment to strike, and then earn another million-dollar check. I have just enough time to snap a few selfies at the Grand Canyon National Park for my blog before taking my ass home.
I’m utterly exhausted, but the welcome-home party next door seems perfectly timed. As soon as my head hits the pillow, Raiden Kane picks right up where we left off, fucking his way through LA.
I’ve got to give it to him. He’s found himself a real keeper with this new girl.
She’s loud. And I don’t just mean with her groans and grunts.
She’s a screamer. Like high-pitched, animalistic screeching.
I know he set out with the intention to drive me as crazy as possible, but I don’t know how he even stands it.
“That’s it, baby,” Raiden’s deep tone booms through the wall. “Scream for me. Louder.”
Fuck me.
The woman responds with delight as though no man on the planet has ever asked for more. “OH GOD, YES!” She goes absolutely feral, the sound piercing through my eardrums as I squish the pillow over my head so hard I almost suffocate myself.
This can’t be happening.
He rails her on the bed, the squeaky mattress slamming against the headboard over and over, making the cornices on my bedroom ceiling begin to crumble.
White plaster falls over me like snow, and I can’t help but send a prayer up for the poor girl’s vagina.
How hard is he fucking her to make my walls physically begin to crumble?
Surely that goes past the point of pleasure and firmly into the realm of pain.
Shit, I know I wouldn’t be able to walk for a week after that.
“MORE! MORE! HARDER!”
“Noooo,” I fake sob to myself. “Please, no more.”
It goes on and on, hour after hour.
“YES, XADEN!”
I laugh. “IT’S RAIDEN, YOU DAFT BIMBO!”
The girl gasps, and the room suddenly goes quiet. “Who the fuck was that?”
Raiden laughs. “Just my nosy neighbor,” he says, banging on the wall as if to prove some kind of point.
“She has some weird kinks and likes to listen through the walls. She’s a little freak like that, but it’s sad.
She isn’t capable of coming. She has a rare disease.
They call it Hostile Terrain Syndrome. It’s where the inside of her vag is like experiencing an epic sandstorm.
Really dry and rough. Friction burn and blisters rule her life, so she can’t have sex.
But I make sure she can live vicariously through me, you know, let her really experience a taste of the good life where I can. ”
“Oh, my god,” the girl swoons. “That’s so sad. The poor girl. I couldn’t imagine how that must feel. But you really are the perfect guy. That’s so considerate of you. She’s so lucky to have somebody like you in her corner.”
He chuffs. “I do what I can, so make sure you really include her in the experience. Let her know just how good it is. Maybe talk her through it a bit. Who knows, you might even help her finally achieve her first big O, assuming she can get wet with all that inner chaffing going on.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. My hand twitches for the gun in my bedside drawer.
It would be so easy. I wouldn’t even need to get off my bed.
I could aim through the paper-thin walls and say goodbye to all my problems with a simple twitch of my pointer finger.
I’m just that good. But, apparently, I have some kind of moral compass.
I don’t kill innocents, no matter how frustrating they might be.
They get right back to work, the walls immediately beginning to shake once again, covering me in snowy-like plaster. Hell, all it would take is one solid thrust, and the asshole’s whole damn bed would be in my bedroom with me.
“Oh Godddddd,” she groans as I hear a hand, probably hers, smack against the wall. “Fuck, that’s good. Right there. Shit!”
I roll my eyes and start to mimic their performance with a pathetically miserable tone. “Oh God, Xaden. Yes, yes, yes! Take me deeper.”
“Hey,” the girl chimes. “It’s working. She’s actually getting into it.”
“Fuck, yeah, she is. Keep it going.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kiara St. James,” he tells her. “I’ve worked out that she only likes it when you use her full name. Really helps her, you know?”
“Oh, okay. That’s weird, but I can work with that,” she says with a gasp, still getting railed within an inch of her life.
Raiden grunts and continues slamming into her as I bail on the pillow, throwing it aside and sitting up against the headboard. Surely this shit will be over soon.
Reaching for my bedside table, I pass Spikezilla and switch on my bedside lamp, filling the room with a dull light before grabbing the junk mail magazine that shows up once a month.
I start thumbing through it while continuing to mimic their ridiculous performance.
“Oh yes! More. Give me more. Just like that!”
“That’s right, Firecracker,” he grunts, a laugh in his tone. “Moisten those rough edges.”
I fucking hate him. I really fucking hate him.
“Fuck,” the girl groans. “I’m close. Are you with me, Kiara St. James? God, he fucks me so well. So deep. Yes, Kiara! Fuck, yes! OH GOD! KIARA ST. JAMES!”
I’ve never hated the sound of my own name so damn much.
As the girl gets closer to the edge, the walls truly shake.
My bedside table rocks with the momentum coming from behind the wall, and I really consider the noise-canceling headphones.
How long is this bullshit really going to go on?
And I don’t just mean tonight. Is he going to torment me with his ridiculous sexcapades for the rest of my natural-born life?