Karen
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I grab my pillow and bring it over my face, hoping to stifle the noise but it doesn't work. I can still hear the loud music—the booming and thundering of the bass and lyrics by Ludacris.
I love Ludacris, but not when his music is being played at this hour.
Not fucking now.
I grit my teeth together, tossing the pillow aside and sitting up.
"That's it!" I snap.
I shove out of bed and slide into my slippers. I don't give a damn if I'm only wearing my silk gown. He's going to know how serious I am if I show up like this.
I rush down the hallway and yank the front door open, zooming across the street, in between the many cars parked at the curb of his two-story home.
There are college students outside, smoking and drinking. Some see me and they snicker at my attire.
"What the hell are you looking at?" I snap at one of the girls who's giving me a nasty look. She jerks her gaze away, but not without an eye roll.
I stomp up the stoop and bang my fist on the door. The booming of the music drowns it out but I continue banging until the song ends. The banging is louder when the song cuts off and I finally hear footsteps coming from the other side.
"Who the fuck is banging on my goddamn door like that!" a deep voice shouts. I know that voice. I'd know it from anywhere honestly.
It's him. Tyler fucking Reed. The bad boy across the street. The asshole that can never give his neighbors a quiet night or cut any of us a fucking break.
He stayed in this house when his grandmother passed away. His mom has been in jail since he was eight years old for dealing drugs and prostitution and during my six years staying here, I've never heard of or seen his father.
I knew about his mom from Mrs. Sally, the elderly woman next door who always bakes Hadley and me apple pies during the holidays. His grandma was a sweet woman. I wish some of that sweetness had passed down to him.
The door swings open and a tall, strong body appears.
He's a large man, tall and muscular, but he doesn't intimidate me. He may scare the neighborhood with his hard gray eyes and messy hair, but he can't scare me.
He wears black jeans and a black T-shirt, a sleeve of tattoos on each arm. There is one tattoo on his neck. His grandma's name, Joan.
He grips the door handle with inked knuckles, glaring down at me. His firm, square jaw pulses as he looks me over.
"Jesus. Again! What the fuck do you want now?" he grouses.
"I want you to turn your music down, Tyler!"
He smirks at that. "You're here to do this shit again? I've told you a thousand times I'm not turning my music down for you. It's a fucking party. The music is supposed to be loud. Get the hell over it, Firecracker."
