More people arrived.
My jerk of a neighbor went out in the corridor to greet them. I watched all of it through my peephole as my blood boiled.
Swinging my legs over the side of the king-sized bed, I step onto the hardwood floor.
There is enough light filtering in through the window that I can make out where I dropped my faded jeans and sweater on a chair near the closet.
I march over and slip them on before raking a hand through my hair.
I don’t care if I look horrible.
I’m dead tired, annoyed, and aching to scream at my neighbor.
I shove my feet into the first pair of shoes I find, stumbling briefly because three inch red heels aren’t the best choice, but I’m too tired to scrounge around in the dimly lit room to find something more appropriate.
I march through the apartment toward the foyer, stopping briefly to scoop up my keys before opening the door.
The sight that greets me is enough to send me back into my apartment.
A man and a woman are making out as they wait for the elevator. His hand is sliding beneath the skirt of her dress.
“No shame,” I mutter as I approach the door to Saint’s apartment.
I knock once and wait, knowing it’s unlikely anyone will answer.
The music drowns out everything, including the muted voices that I hear behind the door.
I curl my hand into a fist and pound on the door. I do it repeatedly, hoping by some miracle that someone inside will hear the noise and open the door.
It works.
The door swings open, and he’s there.
Dressed in jeans, a light blue button-down shirt, and expensive wingtip shoes, my neighbor cocks a brow. “Hey, Champ.”
My gaze drops to the glass in his hand. Unsurprisingly, it’s filled with amber liquid. “Shut the party down, Saint.”
That sends his head back in raucous laughter.
I glance past him to catch sight of dozens of people in his apartment.
What the hell?
Don’t these people have jobs to go to in the morning?
“I’m not kidding,” I say. “I can’t sleep. Your music is too loud. There are way too many people. Are you breaking the building’s fire code?”
Apparently, he finds that just as amusing because he chuckles with a shake of his head. “It’s not that loud. You need to lighten up. Let me make you a drink.”
He can’t be serious?
My arms cross my chest. “I don’t want a drink. I want your party to be over.”
A woman behind him screams just as something crashes to the floor.
His gaze darts over his shoulder. “The party is just getting started.”
“The party needs to be over, or I’m calling the police,” I threaten even though I know the NYPD isn’t going to rush over here for a noise complaint.
His brown eyes widen. “You’re bullshitting me, right?”
Exasperated, I stomp my foot on the floor. “Tomorrow is an important day for me. I need to get some sleep.”
He leans his shoulder against the doorjamb as the party rages behind him. “A drink will help you sleep. Name your poison. Are you a red wine drinker, or do you prefer beer? I’ve got both and more.”
I swear his gaze drops to the front of his jeans.
Another crash echoes through the apartment as the noise seeps into the hall.
I can’t believe that even without her hearing aids, Mrs. Sweeney can sleep through this. What about the people that live above and below this man? This has to be pissing them off too.
“I don’t want a drink,” I stress. “Shut your party down now.”
He shakes his head as he sips from the glass in his hand. “Not happening, Champ.”
Frustrated, I stare into his eyes. “You’re the asshole brother, aren’t you? Decky is probably the good brother.”
That pulls more laughter from him. His entire broad chest shakes. “Decky is a dick. I’ll introduce you. He’s doing shots in the kitchen.”
Livid, I spin on my heel and march back toward my apartment door.
“Don’t go, Champ,” he calls after me. “I promise you’ll have fun if you come inside.”
I turn and offer him my middle finger.
He presses his fingertips to his lips, kisses them, and then pretends to blow that kiss to me.
“Jerk,” I mutter under my breath as I open the door to my apartment.
I don’t look back again before I shut it and head to my bedroom to get my phone.
Chapter Seven
Callie
“You’re belligerent,” a uniformed NYPD officer says to my neighbor an hour later. “I cuffed you for my safety and yours.”
Saint shakes his head. “I assure you that you’re safe with me.”
The officer’s gaze trails the spots of blood that dot the corridor leading from Saint’s apartment door to the elevator. “It looks to me like someone isn’t safe.”
My neighbor shoots a look at me. “What exactly did you say when you called them? They think I fucking murdered someone.”