Flirting with the Rock Star Next Door

by Lee, Nadia

  I beat on the door. The drumming continued. The turd-brain was either ignoring me or couldn’t hear over his own ear-destroying sound. I beat harder, using both fists. I imagined the door was actually an extension of the drummer. I should’ve put on boots so I could kick it, too!

  The noise finally stopped. A moment later, the door opened.

  I glared up at the offending man. Wait… Was this…? Yes, it was! That sexy-looking, sexy-sounding asshole who’d tried to steal my ice cream the night before.

  “You!” I gasped.

  He was still sexy-looking, his dark hair slightly messy, and a night’s worth of stubble shadowing his jaw, adding to his masculine good looks. His blue shirt brought out his eyes, and he’d pulled the sleeves up, showing off those lean, tattooed forearms.

  The sight of them was hot. And it annoyed me that I found any part of him hot. I was too smart and levelheaded to think anybody who wasn’t a perfect gentleman was hot.

  “Yes, it’s me.” He gave me a slow once-over. “So you do own clothes without holes.”

  “What?” I looked down. I was in a pink T-shirt and white boxer shorts with red hearts.

  “Interesting shirt.” His voice was dry.

  So the Neanderthal could read. The front of the T-shirt said, CUN CRUD IS REAL, across the chest. On the back it said, SO DRINK MORE ALCOHOL, which this jerk couldn’t see. It was a custom shirt my friends and I had made when we’d all come down with a hellish flu after a writers’ conference two years ago. We’d been so sick that we’d misspelled “CON,” and none of us had caught it until the shirts had been delivered. We’d all laughed about it, though, and worn our shirts proudly, especially at conferences.

  I put my hands on my hips. The first thing out of his mouth should have been “I’m sorry for being a loud dick.”

  “I like the placement of the heart right there, too.” He pointed.

  Huh? I checked, then rolled my eyes. Of course he was referring to the lopsided heart over my crotch. Pig.

  “Look, can you keep the noise down? I’m trying to work here,” I said.

  “You are?”

  “Yes. Is that so hard to imagine?”

  “You smell like beer.”

  I guessed he thought that would shame me. “So? I do my best work when I’m drinking.”

  That wasn’t actually true. I did my best work when I was inspired and ready to go. But a little bit of alcohol was the muse’s great helper, especially when it was Hop Hop Hooray’s raspberry brew.

  Then I realized I’d gotten off track. Must not let him distract me. “Anyway, as I was saying, I’m trying to work, and I’d appreciate it if you could cut it out.”

  “Well, see, we kind of have a problem.”

  “Problem? You stop drumming. No problem.”

  “Yeah, but I’m trying to work, too,” he said with a smile more fake than my dad’s promise never to screw around again.

  “Huh?”

  “Work. I’m trying to do some.”

  I scowled. “That isn’t work. That’s just being loud and obnoxious.”

  He gave me a funny look, like he couldn’t believe I was being this stubborn. Ha! If he thought this was stubborn, he was in for a lot of surprises. “I’m a private citizen in my own home,” he said. “And I do have to make a living.”

  “By being loud? With your windows open?” I pointed at one of them. The soft pastel green and white curtains billowed in the breeze. The sight would normally make me smile with appreciation for understated good taste. Like when Mrs. Axelrod had been alive. But this guy? No.

  “It’s hot,” he said.

  “It’s only seventy degrees!” I’d caught that on the car radio yesterday.

  His lips quirked into something halfway between a smirk and a smile. “Yes, but drumming is sweaty work.”

  Then he winked! The nerve!

  “Turn on the A/C, then!”

  “I’m trying to reduce my carbon footprint.”

  “Your very existence is a waste of carbon!” I said, irritated beyond measure. Then another possibility occurred to me. “Did my father hire you?”

  He laughed. “I have no idea who your daddy is. Don’t much care, either.”

  He didn’t look like he was lying. Besides, Dad wouldn’t have hidden it. He would’ve flaunted it and mocked me like when I confronted him about the One-Star Hit Squad.

  The jerk added, “Don’t you care about the planet? Organic cows might not produce enough organic milk to make Bouncing Cows ice cream at the rate things are going.”

  I crossed my arms. “Oh, I see. This is about the ice cream.”

  “And stealing all of Hop Hop Hooray’s raspberry beer. And their Virginia apple, too.”

  My jaw slackened. “Was I supposed to leave a bottle behind just in case somebody might want some?”

  “Yeah, it woulda been nice. Didn’t anybody teach you to share?”

  “First come, first served. Didn’t anybody teach you that? Or are you so good-looking that the rules of polite society simply don’t apply?”

  He smiled. It was genuine this time. And he had a dimple by his mouth. It was totally unexpected and cute. Like a maxed-out ten cute.

  Oh my freakin’ God! What the hell was wrong with me that I was rating the cuteness of his dimple? I was never this stupid, regardless of who I was dealing with! I must be too pissed off to think clearly. I’d been playing into his evil tactic all along.

  “You think I’m good-looking?” he asked, his eyes sparkling. They reminded me of sunlight glittering on a lake in summer—

  Argh! I clenched my hands into fists, wishing I could punch him until he looked like a panda with a case of incurable botulism. “Petty asshole!”

  His smile widened. “Nah. Just a reminder that karma is a bitch.”

  Every inch of my skin heated with rage. I should’ve known rational discussion would be impossible with this guy. I spun around and marched back across his lawn toward my home.

  “Hey,” he called out from behind me. “That’s a nice ass.”

  Fuming, I got back inside my living room and snatched my phone up from the coffee table. Kingstree had a functioning sheriff’s department. As a taxpaying citizen, I should avail myself of their service. There was more than one way to peel an orange.

  I called 911 and waited for the dispatcher to ask me about my emergency. Her voice was reedy with age and slightly gravelly. Probably a long-term smoker.

  “Would you mind sending somebody out to ask my next-door neighbor to keep his drumming down? It’s really loud and disruptive. I’m sure it’s a violation of some noise pollution ordinance or other.” Every civilized community had them. And Kingstree was very, very civilized.

  “You’re calling from…250 Oak Court?” she asked like she couldn’t believe it.

  “Yes.”

  She sighed as though I were an unreasonable toddler asking for more candy. “Honey, just enjoy the free concert.”

  “Free concert? Someone would have to pay me to listen to this, this…cacophony!”

  “He charges a lot of money to perform, you know.” She spoke in a tone an exhausted grandmother might use to explain to her grandchildren that it was never okay to pee in their pants.

  It was all I could do to keep calm. “I don’t care if he charges a million bucks!”

  “He isn’t breaking any laws,” she said. “We really can’t help you here. You need to work it out with him directly.”

  “I tried that option. If it had worked, I wouldn’t be calling you now, would I?” I said, doing my best not to sound too sarcastic. Kingstree was a small town. Everyone knew everyone. Well…except me. I’d made it a point to keep to myself, especially after some nosy woman had tried to volunteer me for activities I didn’t want to do.

  “Killian is such a sweet, reasonable child. Just talk to him.” She hung up.

  Ack! I clenched my phone hard, doing my best not to give in to the urge to throw it against the wall. It’d hurt me more than the pest
next door.

  Killian, huh? The name probably meant “asshole” in Latin.

  I glared in his direction even though he couldn’t see me through the walls. A sweet, reasonable child. Ha! There was nothing childlike about him. And sweet and reasonable? When did their meanings change? I was a writer. I would’ve heard about such a thing.

  I went on Amazon and placed an order for two noise-canceling headsets. Then, as he was being quiet for the moment—maybe he needed to cool off, since drumming was such sweaty work—I started typing as fast as I could to give Molly and Ryan the hump of their lives.

  Chapter Five

  Killian

  I smirked as Emily stormed off. When she vanished into her house, I shut my door and stood there in the living room for a moment.

  Normally, I wouldn’t be drumming with all the windows open, but whatever. America was a free country, and the only person close enough to hear me play was her.

  She’d claimed she was working, but that was doubtful. Unless she was a professional alcoholic, chances were she was unemployed. Probably couldn’t hold down a job. Folks here were nice, but they weren’t soft enough to put up with workers showing up drunk. Not to mention she hadn’t bought any food except Animal Crackers. Gainfully employed people could usually afford to eat a little better than that. They for sure didn’t use their real food money to buy alcohol and ice cream.

  My first impression of her was dead-on. There was something seriously wrong with this chick.

  Only problem was that I liked what I’d seen when she came over. She’d cleaned up some, not that it had required a lot of effort, since our previous encounter had set the bar so damned low. But she’d showered and her clothes were intact. No sweat stains. And she wasn’t doing that weird squinty winking thing. Maybe it was a withdrawal symptom and now that she’d had some beer she was fine.

  But best of all…she hadn’t been wearing a bra. I had no clue if she knew…or if she’d shown up braless on purpose. She wouldn’t be the first. But those nipples had been pointed dead at me. Headlights on high. And they’d stayed pointed even when she got heated up. If she could, she might’ve fired bullets through them.

  Weirdly enough, I wanted to continue teasing her. The fury in her eyes and the color in her cheeks had sparked something in my gut, and I hadn’t felt so hot and alive in years.

  I didn’t understand it. Out on tour I’d had my absolute fill of crazy, delusional women who thrived on drama, and I avoided them the way Superman avoids kryptonite. But somehow I was drawn to Emily.

  My burnout must be worse than I thought.

  I started back toward the drums, but my phone went off, playing Darth Vader’s theme from Star Wars. Miriam’s ringtone, chosen because Vader was her favorite character.

  “Hey, Mir,” I said, and parked my butt in a lounger. I’d bought it for Grandma, and she’d told me it was the best thing ever. As the soft cushions molded to my body, I couldn’t bring myself to disagree.

  “Hey, just calling to see how you’re doing. All settled in?” Her voice was chirpy.

  “Sort of. A little tired. Just got here yesterday.”

  She made a small sympathetic noise. “The tour must’ve been exhausting.”

  “God, yes. You have no idea.”

  I couldn’t shake off how I’d just…collapsed after my last concert. Like a puppet with its strings cut. I’d gotten an IV at a local hospital and braved a long, horrific flight, trapped in a death tube thirty thousand feet above ground, to spent two weeks in an overwater bungalow in Bora Bora at my band mate Max’s suggestion.

  “Nothing clears your head and recharges your soul like sea and solitude,” he’d said. It was an amazing show of love, since he generally avoided that many syllables if he could. Except it hadn’t helped, which was why I was now in Kingstree to recover.

  “So you gonna take it easy there for a while?” Mir asked.

  “Yeah. Relax. Recharge.” I needed it badly. My creative well was drier than a handful of Saharan sand. Not even drumming had helped.

  “And enjoy the local delicacies,” she said wistfully. She lived in Alexandria and worked in D.C. Too far to drive for ice cream and beer.

  “I wish,” I said morosely.

  “You wish? Why? You were grumbling about missing them while on tour.”

  “Some witch cleaned the store out. You might’ve met her. Emily, Grandma’s next-door neighbor?”

  I hadn’t run into her the last time I was in town, to bury Grandma. Even if I had, I probably wouldn’t remember. Everything was such a haze. And I’d started the new tour soon after. My band mates had told me to take it easy, even cancel the tour. The fans would understand. They knew we weren’t machines, but people with hearts and souls.

  And they were right. I’d received an outpouring of support and love from our fans. They’d posted countless messages on social media, expressing condolences. And many of them had sent letters and email.

  I’d chosen not to cancel and done the tour. The decision had nothing to do with my sense of obligation to our fans or greed or whatever else the media had said. It was that Grandma had been so proud of what I’d accomplished on my own. I wasn’t living off the trust my parents left me and Mir. She’d said I was bringing joy to people with my music…that what I was doing was worth something. She wouldn’t have wanted me to stop, especially not on her account. The tour had been my farewell to her—my pillar of strength, my guiding light, always giving a loving hug when I needed it and the whupping I deserved every time I acted like a dick.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Mir said. “I don’t think she was in town when we were in Kingstree after Grandma passed away.” She hadn’t been back since. She’d been busy cleaning up and going through things in the Virginia Beach cottage Grandma had left her. Once that was done, Mir didn’t want to intrude on the house in Kingstree that Grandma had willed to me.

  “Grandma said she was a lady,” I said. “Remember that?”

  “Um…yeah. She was really complimentary.”

  I told Mir all about what had happened at Sunny’s. The weird tic and the sweaty, filthy clothes and the teeth baring and the wild mutterings about Molly and Ryan.

  “Molly and Ryan? Banging each other? Whaaaat?” Mir said. “That’s crazy.” She paused. “And kind of disgusting.”

  “Right? That woman isn’t a lady. She’s a loon.”

  “Then why was Grandma so taken with her?”

  “Probably got taken,” I said, still peeved about the ice cream. And the beer. Emily had some nerve coming over smelling like Hop Hop Hooray.

  “Yeah, but she was such a great judge of character. I just can’t believe she got this one wrong.”

  “Everyone makes the occasional mistake.” I sighed. Damn, I missed Grandma, no matter what she thought of my neighbor.

  Mir made a small sympathetic noise in her throat. “I miss her too, Killian.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hate to cut this short, but I have a meeting in five and need to get going. Chat later?”

  “Sure.”

  “Welcome back to the States. And Kingstree.”

  “Thanks.”

  We hung up, and I looked around the living room. The soft white and green muslin curtains. The worn but comfortable fabric sofa with the sage and gold floral pattern Grandma had loved so much. Purple and pink butterflies fluttering away as a black cat chased them—all carefully and lovingly stenciled on white walls.

  I should change things up at some point, I thought. This was all Grandma, not me. But right now, I didn’t want to touch anything. This place looked and felt more like home than any of the swanky hotels I’d stayed in.

  I went back to the drums and start banging away at Axelrod’s top hits, while praying something new would pop up and inspire me.

  Chapter Six

  Killian

  The next three days passed peacefully. The loony ice cream and beer bandit next door didn’t bother me again, and I drummed away to my heart’s co
ntent, even though it didn’t do a thing to get my creative juices flowing again. I didn’t understand how that could be. When the stunning vistas of Bora Bora had failed, I chalked it up to not having my instruments. Wouldn’t I be more inspired with some well-worn drumsticks in my hands?

  Of course, I didn’t just drum. I was Axelrod’s lead vocalist and guitarist, as well as occasional keyboardist when our songs called for it. So I also played electric guitar and Grandma’s old piano, just for variety. And to keep my skills up.

  But I always went back to the drums. I loved drumming. If Dev wasn’t better at it than me, I would’ve been the band’s drummer. There was an explosive, physical satisfaction to percussion I couldn’t get from other instruments.

  Unfortunately, Bouncing Cows and Hop Hop Hooray didn’t produce any more ice cream and beer during those three days. Not even Sunny Zimmerman, the owner of Sunny’s Mart, knew when there would be more.

  “Sorry, Killian, I wish I did. You aren’t the only one asking,” Sunny said, her slight drawl a vestige of her Houston roots.

  “Can you call me when they get here?” I gave her my best sad, needy puppy face.

  She let out a sound that was halfway between sigh and laugh. “No can do. I’m not calling anybody because I don’t have the time to make over a hundred calls.”

  “That’s fair.” I nodded, although I was slightly disappointed that she wouldn’t make an exception for me. Wasn’t I her favorite rocker? “Thanks anyway.”

  At least the store had wine and whiskey. But it wasn’t the same. I could drink regular wine and whiskey anywhere. I could only have Bouncing Cows and Hop Hop Hooray in Kingstree.

  Fortunately, I’d run into Jenny at the cash register again. She offered to make an exception and call or text me, while looking around to make sure nobody else would catch her doing me this illicit favor. So I gave her my public number, the one that I gave out to people who weren’t in my closest circle of friends and family. Now all I had to do was wait.