Chapter 2
KIARA
Thump. Thump. Thump. Groan.
Fuck me. This is not happening.
The fuckfest next door rages on and is driving me crazy.
It’s been going on for over an hour. Who needs to fuck that long?
What’s wrong with a quickie in the kitchen followed by a movie with no volume?
That’s the brilliance of subtitles. Hell, what’s wrong with just a little consideration for your neighbors?
I mean, shit. If you want to fuck loud enough to wake the dead for over an hour, then apartment living is not for you.
Go buy a property where you can fuck your little heart out.
I’ve spent the past hour trying to ignore it, but let’s be honest, my ability to focus isn’t great.
I’ve attempted to pull my laptop out and work on my blog, and that didn’t go well, so I figured I’d take an everything shower, and by the time I was done, the fuckfest next door would be over. But nope. I’m not that lucky.
Instead, I lay on my bed, my pillow squished over my head, tossing and turning as the woman next door groans and pants while getting absolutely run through.
I mean, whoever this arrogant bastard is, he’s really giving her everything she’s asking for.
He sounds thorough. Inconsiderate, but thorough, and really, that’s all a woman could ever ask for, right?
A man who can put in the effort and get her across the finish line.
Though to be fair, he’s already gotten her over the finish line at least eight times, assuming I didn’t miss any during my shower.
Feeling absolutely helpless, I put my AirPods in, crank my music as high as it’ll go, and stare up at the dark ceiling, doing absolutely everything I can to drown out the noise from next door.
Is this my life now?
My home is supposed to be my happy place.
It’s supposed to bring me peace and comfort, but right now, it’s bringing nothing but overwhelming frustration.
Would it be wrong to go over there and silence them permanently?
Potentially, but fuck, it’d feel good. At least, for a little while.
I’d feel like a piece of shit come morning.
Just because I have a tendency to kill people doesn’t mean I’m a bad person.
I have good morals. I smile and wave at my neighbors.
I always pay my rent on time. I even feed Mrs. Macy’s cat, Ollie, when she visits her grandson every few months.
So killing people while experiencing one of life’s greatest pleasures isn’t exactly my vibe, but I’m getting close to crossing that line.
If I have to hear one more “Yes, harder!” I think I’m going to scream.
“Oh, fuck,” a man’s deep groans come through the wall of my bedroom just as the picture frame above my bed falls to the ground, shattering the glass on my floorboards. “Take it. Just like that.”
Arghhhhhhh.
I squish my pillow tighter over my head and scream.
This isn’t normal.
“That’s my good little whore,” he grunts.
That’s it. I’m done. I’m going to kill them. There’s no other option.
Throwing my pillow off my head, I scurry across my bed and lean over, tearing open my bedside drawer and curling my fingers around the gun I keep there for those just-in-case moments.
Then, just as I grab the silencer and start twisting it on, my phone comes alive from somewhere within the sheets, instantly pulling me out of the rage-filled irritation clouding my mind.
Gently placing the gun back in the drawer with the silencer still on—you know, just in case—I scramble through my sheets, searching for my phone. There is only one person who would have the absolute indecency to call a woman at this hour.
My best friend—and agency rep—Milan. I mean, that’s not really her name. Just the name she gave herself when we first spoke, and that had everything to do with the fact I was in Milan at that time.
In my world, legal names are not disclosed.
Milan only knows me as Crimson Blade. If someone uttered the name Kiara St. James in her ear, she wouldn’t have a clue who that was, just as I wouldn’t have a clue who she truly is.
But we don’t need that. Despite not knowing the basic fundamentals of who we truly are, we know enough to have formed a lasting friendship, and for the past few years, that’s all I’ve ever really had.
Apart from Spikezilla, of course—the one true companion in my life.
Finding my phone, I scoop it up and immediately accept the call. “You haven’t called,” Milan says, her accusatory tone coming through loud and clear. “Have you not completed the job?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, crashing onto my pillow and pulling my blankets back into place, knowing just how much she lives for the recaps of my missions. “I was meaning to once I got home, but the jet lag really kicked my ass. I crashed the second I hit my couch.”
“Shit. That bad?”
“Isn’t it always?”
“Very true,” she says. “So, how’d the job go? Get it done?”
“Is that doubt I hear in your tone? Have I ever not gotten it done?”
Milan laughs, and her fingers click across a keyboard as she marks the contract complete, making sure I get paid. “I mean, there was that one time in Spain—”
“Shit. I thought we agreed that we’d never mention Spain ever again.”
Her laughs turn into uncontrollable howling. “I know, but I can’t help it,” she says. “I would have paid to see the look on your face when that bull almost turned you into a human pinata, via a thorough sphincter jabbing.”
“Nooooooo,” I groan, remembering it all too clearly.
That bull almost turned the phrase tear you another asshole into a chilling reality.
And to be honest, I’ve steered clear of accepting contracts in Spain ever since.
The PTSD is strong for this one. “Don’t remind me. I’ve had nightmares ever since.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll let you off the hook, but only if you have a good story for me.
You know I live to hear all about your gory conquests—wait,” she mutters, her words falling away and making me worry that something isn’t right, that maybe she’s in danger.
“What the fuck is that sound? Is that . . . Bitch! Are you watching porn?”
I groan and roll my eyes. “No, I—”
“Girl, if you’re busy flicking the bean, the decent thing to do is to at least mute the video before accepting my call. I know you have needs and all that, but shit.”
“No!” I groan, throwing myself out of my bed.
“I wish it were porn because at least then I’d be able to turn it off.
Hell, even getting something out of it, but it’s my new neighbor.
I swear, the asshole only moved in this afternoon and is already driving me insane.
He’s been fucking this woman for over an hour right up against my bedroom wall.
My picture frame has already fallen off the wall.
And shit, Milan. They’re so goddamn loud.
All I’ve heard for the past hour is, Fuck me, Daddy.
Yes! Deeper! Spank me,” I say before switching to a man’s tone.
“Yeah, just like that, my sweet little whore. Who’s been a bad girl? ”
She howls with laughter. “Oh shit. Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Not even a little bit,” I mutter before taking the AirPod out of my ear and pressing it against the wall. “Can you hear that? It’s insane.”
As if on cue, my new neighbor groans. “Ahhhh fuck,” and Milan bursts into uncontrollable waves of laughter.
“Holy shit, girl. You’re living next to the human equivalent of a Dolby Surround Sound System: The after-dark edition. That right there is a full-volume mating call. What the actual fuck. And it’s been going on for an hour?”
I groan and glance at my phone. “An hour and ten now.”
Milan just laughs again. “Shit. You’re jealous.”
“I am absolutely not jealous,” I tell her. “I am no prude when it comes to loud, performative sex. Nobody has better sex than me. I’m just—”
“Jealous.”
“No!”
I groan, and as my neighbor continues going to town on his girl, I throw my blanket off, frustration burning through my veins like never before. “That’s it. I’m going over there.”
Milan gasps. “You can’t do that.”
“The hell I can’t,” I mutter to myself, grabbing my phone. “If they’re going to perform for the whole building in the middle of the night while I’m trying to get my beauty sleep, then they’re basically asking for it.”
“Oh shit. This isn’t going to go wrong at all,” she laughs, not bothering to try to talk me out of it. She knows damn well that once I set my mind to it, I’m a woman on a mission. There’s no stopping me, and this woman has got a lot to say.
Storming through my apartment in nothing but a skintight cotton cami and a pair of black cheeky panties, I throw my door open and march out into the corridor.
“What are you going to say?”
“No clue.” I position myself in front of the door for apartment 305 and curl my hand into a fist before ruthlessly banging as hard and as violently as I possibly can. “OPEN UP, YOU WALL-SHAKING, OBNOXIOUS, ARROGANT EXHIBITIONIST DISASTER OF A MAN.”
“Whoa,” Milan laughs in my ear. “That’ll teach him.”
My fist doesn’t stop pounding against the door, not when the fucking stops, not when I hear the woman gasping inside the apartment, not even when I hear the heavy footsteps of a man striding across the hardwood floor.
I just keep going, because fuck knows that’s the kind of resilience he enjoys in a woman.
The door flies open a moment later, and the momentum of my missed door-banging sends me toppling forward. I catch myself quickly and fix my balled fists at my sides when that deep tone I’ve been listening to for the past hour cuts through the newfound silence.
“Oh, hey. You must be my new neighbor,” he says, too fucking chirpy for my liking. “What’s going on?”