It’s a sign that I need to find a job that will keep me as far out of his orbit as possible.
* * *
“Thanks for the drink, Saint!”A male voice calls out, startling me.
I turn just in time to see my neighbor pop his middle finger in the air. That’s directed at one of the men leaving the bar. He follows that up with a hearty, “fuck you, Decky.”
I’d expect to hear this exchange late on a Saturday night when a bunch of college-aged guys wander in, but these men are both dressed in well-tailored suits and are wearing shoes that cost a small fortune.
I should know.
I worked part-time for a few years at a high-end shoe store.
The third of their trio chuckles as he exits the bar behind Decky.
My neighbor is on his second glass of scotch, and although he’s a generous tipper, I’m ready for him to take off too.
I glance at the watch on my wrist.
“Champ!”
Rolling my eyes, I look over at my neighbor again. I raise my chin in a silent query.
He curls one of his index fingers to lure me over.
Great.
Since Jade left fifteen minutes ago, I’ve been tending to the other few customers in the bar while working on polishing my resume on my phone.
I thought it was as good as it could be, but since I want that job at Wells, I need to put my best foot forward.
I round the bar and approach the man who has barely taken his eyes off me since he arrived.
As soon as I’m near his table, he’s out of his chair and on his feet.
He towers above me, but that’s not saying a lot. I’m barely five foot one, and I’ve only gained three inches with these heels.
The brute in the suit in front of me is at least a foot taller than me.
“We’ve lived next door to each other for how long now?” he quizzes me.
Twenty-seven days is the correct answer, but I shrug. “A few weeks, I guess.”
It feels much longer.
My neighbor from hell is notorious for listening to music late at night. I asked Mrs. Sweeney if it kept her awake too, but she pointed at her hearing aid and giggled.
The guy also loves inviting people over. It’s not just women. Whenever a baseball game is on TV, he’s wearing a jersey.
How do I know that?
The peephole in my apartment door is a perfect method of surveillance.
I’ve seen him in the hall outside my apartment dressed in that jersey and jeans as he greets his loud-mouthed friends as they exit the elevator.
Then, I’msubjected to three hours of whistling, yelling, and cursing when the game doesn’t go the way they want.
The man standing in front of me may be blessed with gorgeous looks, but he’s lacking in common courtesy DNA.