to love or lust [mike schmidt AU]

i.

i.

[bet]

              never need a
                        bitch im what
                                       a bitch need

heartless — the weeknd

| "She's a stripper... and that's a problem?!" |

MIKE.

I stand in my kitchen, fuming. While my friends are in my living room, talking, laughing, joking, and drinking, I am busy seeing red. I am furious, nearly blinded by the fiery rage that burns inside of my chest. I pace in my small kitchen, wondering what the fuck I'm going to do about my bitch of a neighbor, Sol. but She's filed yet another noise complaint against me, a second complaint, and my landlord has sent me multiple text messages, ordering me to lower my music for the sake of other tenants... and the only tenant I have, is that damned girl next door.

Fuck.

Two fucking strikes?

Is this girl serious?

I have filed numerous complaints against Sol, and to my knowledge—per the landlord's rules for his tenants—I should be living in peace, playing my loud fucking music as I please. She should be gone. But no. She still lives across the hall, bitching and complaining about my music.

It's not fair.

This girl, who has been making me lose my fucking mind, plays music loudly—if not, louder than mine—and has her little entourage of high-maintenance, prissy friends over nearly every goddamn night, singing and screaming about fuck knows what. I, too, have the landlord on speed dial to purposely administer the same pettiness she extends to me, but it seems that my attempts fail time and time again. And I'm sick of it.

My friends in my small living room call my name and holler with laughter above the sound of my speakers' music. They tell me to bring them more beer. I sigh, kissing my teeth. I nod my head, as if accepting minor defeat to this little war that I have between me and my neighbor. I grip the handle of my fridge, nearly tearing it off of its hinges in anger. I grab an entire pack of canned alcohol, destined to make use of them and drown my fury in White Claws. I kick the door shut with the heel of my shoe, and walk to the commotion on my couches.

In my living room, seated around my coffee table in opposite couches, there's my best friends, who I've known for years—Pauly Delvecchio, Matt Rife, and Chris Tucker.

Pauly, who I met in high school, when he moved to California from Rhode Island, has one hell of a personality. He has a thick Jersey accent, refusing to let the West Coast dialect steal every last bit of his East Coast roots. He's a carefree guy, little to no mean bone in his body until you cross him, which is very hard to do. He has a tendency to blurt out random shit with no rhyme or reason, but women can't seem to get enough of him. It's his tattoos, his physique, his constant feening for a tan, and ridiculous blow-out, spiked hair that tends to lure his hookups. We give him constant shit for his hair and 2000s style that he just can't seem to let go of; he doesn't listen to us... clearly, his style works for him.

Matt Rife, on the other hand, I've known him since we were kids, and he's like a brother to me. He's what we call in the group—a Justin Bieber lookalike... if he had half the talent and half the looks. It's a joke that, surprisingly, he likes to hear. He likes to be reminded that he could even be compared to Bieber, whose got so much fucking money, lots of pussy, and the looks to do whatever the hell he wants. But, of course, Matt can't sing, and he is not, in fact, on Justin Bieber's level. He has no problem, however, with fucking around with just about any girl in this town. You could ask him if he knows a girl you're trying to get with, and he'd have a one-night stand story on the ready. We know not to pursue a hookup or any sort of relationship with a girl unless we've asked Matt if he knows who they were. And you'd be sick to your fucking stomach to know that Matt had hooked up with who you were trying to pursue. He's a dog, sure, but he can be sweet if he wants to. He's a softie on the inside, a jokester, too, and God forbid Matt and Chris decide to do their own version of stand-up comedy to roast you, you'd be pissed off for days...