Coming Next…
NEIGHBOR FROM HELL
CHAPTER 1
Lauren
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 buzz 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 leach 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 months back, right?”
“Yeah,” she replies. “But you weren’t close, right?”
“No. I’ve 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 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 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.”
“So you’re not moving?” she asks.
“I don’t know. It’s a cottage in England. It probably has meadows and all that. I’m tempted, I mean why not?”
“It could also be a total dump.” she says. “She must have been a nasty old lady to cut all contact with her only daughter just because she disapproved of the man her daughter wanted to marry.”
“Hmmm…I keep thinking… what if I went? Just for six months. See what it’s like. If it sucks, I’m back. If I love it…” I trail off, meeting her eyes.
She blinks, processing, then leans back with a sad smile. “Oh God, you’re serious.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. I reach over, grabbing her hand, her skin warm against mine.“I’d miss you though,” I say quietly.“You’re my best friend, Sandy and I love you forever,. but I’m drowning here. I need to try something different or I swear I’ll go insane.”
She squeezes my hand back.“Yeah, okay. I can’t stand in your way of a better life for you so I’ll just have to hope that you’ll stay for a couple of months and realize that country life is boring as shit and come right back to me. Maybe by then you’ll have gotten your fill of what you need.”
“Hopefully,” I say.
She nods. “Fine. I can survive a few months. But you better bring me stories. Like, filthy ones. English dudes, hot accents—be my Carrie Bradshaw over there?”
I snort, pulling my hand back to cradle my bottle. What the fuck are you on about? I’m going to avoid men, remember? My life is screwed up enough. Last thing I need is another failed relationship.”
She smirks, wicked and unstoppable, and lean in close.“Oh, please. An English dick might be exactly what you need to unstick yourself. I hear they’re proper in all the right ways.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“Stop it,” I say with a groan, but her riotous laugh pulls me in, and I start grinning.“You’re deranged.”
“I’m serious,” she says. “You never know. They might be packing more than our lot.” Her eyes light up, and she goes for her phone, nearly knocking over her glass.“Let’s find out. Science, bitch. We’re googling this.”
I roll my eyes, but wait curiously to hear her findings.
“Okay,” she says. “Average penis size UK vs US.”
I try, but can’t hold back the cackle that rises into my throat.“This is so dumb.”
“Got it!” Sandy crows, holding her phone up like a trophy.“UK—5.6 inches hard. US—5.1. Fuck yes, they’re bigger!” She’s loud, too loud, and the guy next to us, an older dude in flannel, shoots us a look, but we’re too far gone to care.
“No way,” I say, pulling out my own phone. I make my own research and soon enough I’m scrolling through my own results, squinting at the tiny text.“Shit, you’re right. And thicker, too? We’re a disaster.” I’m laughing now, full-on, my stomach aching as I slump against the bar, tears pricking my eyes.
“Yes, we are.” She grabs her glass, raising it high, gin sloshing over the edge.“I’ve changed my mind now. I support you wholeheartedly so here’s to England. To cottages and big dicks and you getting the hell out of this hellhole.”
I lift my bottle, the clink sharp and bright against her glass.“To chances,” I add, a thrill of excitement running through my veins. The beer’s flat now, but I drink anyway, and it hits me like a promise. That cottage, some crumbly speck in England, might be my lifeline. Green hills, black and white cows, quiet, a reset. Maybe an Englishman with gray eyes and a thick dick —fuck, where’d that come from? I shake it off, blame it on Sandy’s dirty mind leading me astray.
The bar spins on, sticky and loud, but I’m somewhere else already. This could be it. My way out. My shot.
I feel the blood rushing through my veins again, eager for what life has in store for me next. It’s a wonderful feeling, one I haven’t felt in forever and so I hold on to it with all of my might.