Sexy Bad Neighbor (Sexy Bad #1) Read online

  My mission here is complete.

  Before I can gloat, Paynter leans toward me and I get a whiff of something that makes me think of the woods and lumberjacks and ... sex. What the hell is it with this guy?

  “Chloe, one, Paynter, zero,” he says, low and close to my ear. I can feel his breath. It’s hot and it makes my hair flutter. I said hair, not heart. There is no heart fluttering here. My heart is cold and dead and locked away and I threw the key into a deep ravine the day I figured out Marcus was using me so he could steal my promotion.

  “And now I’m out of here, before these piranhas decide to lynch me for all the past crimes you’ve reminded them other men have done to them. Watch your back, Chloe. I don’t lose well.” He touches his bottle to his forehead and struts away, not looking at all like he lost anything. In fact, he looks as though he owns the entire damn world, and it infuriates me that I can’t stop imagining what he’d be like lying on his back in my four-poster canopy bed, with me astride him, encouraging him to hold out just a few minutes longer because I’m so close, oh, so close...

  Shaking my head, I turn away from the sight and the fantasy. I will never see that guy again. He is some random loser I ran into in a bar. And I put him in his place.

  A song I recognize from the seven million times I’ve secretly watched Magic Mike starts up and gradually becomes louder and louder. This is strange because aren’t most sound systems stationary? Not to mention, the music should be coming from that party on the other side of the bar. It should not be moving toward the Taco Tuesday gathering where the attendees have finally attacked the taco bar. Strippers are not on tonight’s agenda, I’m sure of it.

  And then the music is so close, it’s practically in my ear, vibrating through my body and making me remember what it was like to have sex with another person in the room. It’s been a long time. Since that one guy I forced myself to pick up after Marcus screwed me over. It had been sloppy and quick, in a hotel room. To be honest, I’m not even sure if it was good or bad. I don’t remember the details. And while my partner lay on his back and snored, I quickly dressed and rushed from the room, crying before I reached my car, and when I got home, I stood in the shower until the water ran cold, and I vowed to never, ever do that again.

  While I’m reliving this particular bad decision, I feel a hardness rubbing against my ass. All the women in the meeting are staring at something directly behind me, mouths hanging open, eyes glazed, salsa and guacamole dripping from taco shells held inches from their faces. A few are panting.

  I am afraid to do it, but I whip around anyway, and come face to face with ... a stripper?

  “Hey, birthday girl,” he croons while gyrating against my leg.

  I push at his shoulder and my hand slides down his arm. He’s covered in some sort of sickly sweet smelling oil. And that’s pretty much it, save a pair of chaps slung low around his hips.

  “Wrong party,” I say, trying to step out of his grip. But he’s got an arm around my waist and waves the other in the air as he shouts, “Yee-haw” and grinds against me. The music, I now see, is coming from a phone that is strapped to his bicep.

  “That’s what the guy at the door told me you’d say,” the stripper says as he flips me around so he can rub himself against my ass. “He said you’d insist you’re the wrong girl, but that’s because you like to play hard to get. He gave me an extra fifty and told me to finish out the song, no matter how much you protest.”

  “This skirt is silk.” I am envisioning my dry cleaning bill. “Wait, what guy?”

  Realization dawns. Paynter. That bastard. I twist my head back and forth, trying to see if he’s still here. Cowboy stripper decides to accommodate me and turns so that the party where he was undoubtedly supposed to be the main attraction can watch us.

  And there’s Paynter, laughing so hard I can actually see the tears in his eyes from across the room. All I can do is stand here and be humiliated by this oiled up, fake tanned body that is gyrating behind me, encouraged by the whistles and catcalls from the powerful women who a short time ago I might have considered as friends.

  If I ever see Tall, Dark, and Blue Eyes again, I am so getting revenge.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PAYNTER

  Garrett strolls in from outside with the last box for the kitchen. Setting it down on the marble counter, he thrusts his hands in his pockets and surveys my new digs for what seems like the hundredth time today. My older brother has barely been here for half an hour, and his contribution to getting everything moved in is dismal. I knew I should have told him I was moving next week.

  He wanders around the gourmet kitchen, stopping by the door of the adjoining stately dining room and letting out a low whistle. “This is impressive, Paynter.”

  Collapsing another of the smaller boxes, I add it to the stack near the folding doors that look out over the deck and expanse of lawn to the wooden jetty on the lake. At least the house has private access to the tree-lined shore in its favor. That was the one thing Bernadette hadn’t been pleased with when she’d gone on and on about her dream house, and the only asset that sold me on buying it.

  “After what I paid for it, it ought to be.”

  “True.” He stares at the baseboard near his feet. Blue eyes, not unlike my own, crinkle around the corners, making his exhaustion more obvious.

  It can’t be easy raising a two-year-old on his own. My niece is cute as hell, but a handful, and Garrett’s had to learn how to be a sole parent in a matter of months. He didn’t even know he had a daughter until her mother dropped her off at his office six months ago. Apparently Abby didn’t quite fit into her life, so it was better she live with her father.

  Garrett clears his throat, and I can tell he’s itching to say something about my ex, and how I’m not moving on, since that’s where most of our conversations have led recently. Especially since he’s still managing to squeeze in a date every other week and rarely with the same woman. “That chandelier in the foyer couldn’t have been cheap.”

  Bernadette had insisted the fixture would be the perfect grand extravagance to greet guests as soon as they stepped inside the stately home she’d visualized as the crown jewel of her goals. It’s just another reminder of how far I was willing to go to make her happy. Not that it had meant a damn thing when she’d up and moved across the country.

  I might be stuck with that glass and crystal monstrosity in the foyer, but at least it reminds me that Miss Hoity-Toity Five-Year Plan is past tense. I’d been holding her back, according to her email. Guys like me just weren’t husband material for someone like her. If only I’d gotten into a field of work that meant something, she might have been able to see us as the power couple she needed to be part of, but I’d never been reliable when it came to her life ambitions.

  It had been perfect timing really. The moment everything I’d worked toward fell into place as she’d bowed out. Though I’m a little put out at moving into this pretentious neighborhood without her. I’m not even sure whether I’ll keep the house or put it back on the market. It’s a giant “fuck you” reminder though to not get involved again. At least not with a stuck up, heartless woman who would crush anyone in her path to get ahead. Like that chick at the bar last night, Chloe.

  I smirk a little as I use a cutting knife to slice through the packing tape on the last box. That pole she was sporting was shoved so far up her ass I had no trouble imagining the thing protruding from her head. For a minute there, I’d thought she was hot in a “not my type of woman” way and had considered the fun in replacing that damn pole with my own. My mistake.

  She was very clear about what she thought of me, and all I did was ask her what she wanted to drink. Then there was that whole dynamic with those women she was meeting. Bernadette had been involved in something like that too. Women who have plans and couldn’t care less who they trod on to achieve their goals. Except that one woman whose partner vomited on her boss’s shoes. That guy should have been trying harder to support his
woman.

  “So the chandelier? How much did that set you back?” Garrett’s voice breaks my train of thought.

  “You have a whole house to pick on and you choose the lousy chandelier?” Opening the box, I check the contents. Silverware and kitchen towels.

  “I’m just trying to shed some light on the fact that this isn’t really your style.”

  “Do you think I’m unaware of that?” Of course he would make a bad play on words. Pulling out the towels, I stack them into a drawer. I still have no idea what happened to the iron, since I unpacked everything else last night and this morning. Guess I’ll have to buy another next time I go to the store. “You’ve got a handle on the lame dad jokes, I see.”

  “Part and parcel of being a father, I’m afraid.” He snickers, moving to the refrigerator and opening one of the French doors to snag a beer. “I don’t know why you didn’t sell the place and buy something a little more you.”

  “Like what?”

  “I suppose there aren’t many houses marketed as basement living.” He lifts his brows, a wide smirk crossing his face while he uses a corner of his shirt to twist the lid of the bottle in his hand. If I have learned anything in thirty-odd years, it’s that my older siblings are always going to give me flack for staying so long in our parents’ basement. Serial killer, nerd, geek are all words Garrett and my sister have thrown around. Nerd and geek are titles I’ve come to accept, since my career is in coding and apps, but the jabs are getting old.

  Tossing the last of the silverware into their separate spots in the top drawer, I get my own beverage. “You know it wasn’t my plan to live there as long as I did. I was just helping our parents out.”

  I take a swig of my beer as I cross to the folding doors and step out onto the deck. There’s not much garden, just a long stretch of lawn boxed in by trees, but from the deck I can see into the neighbor’s backyard.

  “You didn’t show up last night,” I accuse Garrett. “You talked me into going to that shindig and bailed on me.”

  “Sorry about that. The sitter cancelled at the last minute.”

  “It would have been nice if you called me. I could have gotten more of the house in order. Or stretched out with a beer or two and admired this view.” Which would have been preferable to making small chat with people I don’t know. Not that I’d been exactly bored. Last night had come with its own unique entertainment.

  If only Chloe could have seen her face while the cowboy stripper was grinding all over her. The woman had turned a mottled shade of puce. If the hostility in her dark blue eyes had been laser beams, I have no doubt I’d be dead, but there was nothing she could do but endure it. I laugh as I scrub my hair back from my forehead, and Garrett side-eyes me as though he thinks I might have lost my mind since it seems I’m laughing at nothing. At least not something I plan on sharing with him anyway.

  Best money I’ve ever spent.

  Surprisingly, watching the stripper rub up against her had turned me on. Despite my eyes stinging and my abs aching from laughing, I’d gotten aroused to the point of having to adjust the crotch of my jeans at the idea of taking the cowboy’s place. Of hooking my hands around her hips, having her close, maybe brushing my mouth along the soft skin behind her ear. She probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it. Thankfully, I’m never going to find out.

  “I thought you might have met someone, had a bit of fun. You’ve barely been out since Queen B took off.” Garrett strolls down the length of the deck. It’s a multi-level deck that runs the length of the spacious house, so I follow him around to where the view beyond the lake is broken up by mountains that point into the sky like rough diamonds. “You can’t wait for her to hand you back your balls. You have to take them.”

  I glance down at my crotch. “Jesus, it’s been months. She sure as hell doesn’t have my balls stuffed in the bottom of her purse. I’m just not interested in being some woman’s sex toy. They have vibrators for a reason, you know. To spare us from having to deal with the fact they’re too uptight to get off.”

  “That’s not true,” Garrett says. “I have no issues in that department.”

  “I didn’t say I did.” I scowl at him. Although having sex with Bernadette had been like fucking a dead starfish. I got more mutual action from my hand.

  My next-door neighbor wanders out into her yard. That distracts Garrett from my love life. Actually, she’s kind of hot from what I can see of her as she carries a laundry basket to the clothesline. Sweats hug her hips and make her legs go on forever, and her black hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail high on her head. The ratty University of Michigan sweatshirt bags around her waist, a couple sizes too big for her. She’s probably the housekeeper or nanny for some rich, professional family. Although I haven’t seen any kids around, so perhaps not. Still, the owner of a house like these in this neighborhood wouldn’t look like that, would she? And hanging her own laundry on the line, no less…

  She bends over to place the basket on the ground, and I get a glimpse of her profile. Cute and comfortable. Now that’s what I’m talking about. That’s the type of woman I would want in my life if I wanted any one at all. Taking off my glasses, I buff them with my shirttail while we watch her methodically hanging shirts, pants, and skirts. Hold on. She’s not pulling any underwear out of the basket. I push the frames onto the bridge of my nose. I am such a pervert. In a minute she’ll notice us staring and call us out for being peeping toms. I should probably turn away instead of consider plausible explanations for the lack of delicates on her line.

  “Wonder if your neighbor’s single.” Garrett leans over the wooden railing, trying to get a better view. “You could introduce yourself. Perhaps suggest Lazy Sundays or, even better, Naked Sundays. She looks like she has about as much interest in putting in an effort to meet people as you do.”

  “Wouldn’t matter if she were single. I’m not interested in dating anyone, especially someone I live next door to.” I spread my feet and rest my elbows on the tigerwood beside him, my almost-forgotten beer between my hands. There’s something about her hourglass figure and graceful movements. “She reminds me of someone. One of those actresses Mom likes to watch.”

  “Liz Taylor,” Garrett says. “That’s who. I don’t know how many times Mom made us watch Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I swear you’ll never catch me watching another one of those old movies.”

  “Whatever you say.” I take a swig of my beer, making sure to mumble into the bottle, “We all know you had a crush on Greta Garbo.”

  “And you had a thing for Liz,” he parries my blow with his own. “Just another reason you should get to know your new neighbor.”

  The cute girl next door finishes hanging her wash and turns to head back in the house. Maybe it isn’t that she has that classic beauty that reminds me of a bygone era after all, though I have to admit she does look like Liz. No, the reason she looks familiar is because she’s the chick from the bar last night.

  Chloe.

  I roll my gaze to the sky and huff. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “What?” Garrett asks, preoccupied with my snobby new neighbor.

  “I didn’t tell you earlier, but I met someone last night.”

  “You met someone?” Why does he have to say it slowly and deliberately like he’s having a hard time fathoming that I can meet new people if I want to?

  I can see the instant Chloe recognizes me. The steel in her spine as she jerks upright, her face pinched. I bet she’s trying to murder me with her gaze again. The washing basket lands sideways on the ground as she marches toward us, her arms crossed against her chest.

  I breathe in through my nose, holding it for a second before expelling it through my mouth.

  “Her.”

  Garrett’s eyebrows couldn’t get any higher. The almost comical look of surprise on his face would be enough to make me laugh, if the woman glaring up at us didn’t shock it right off him.

  “You.”

  She’s shooting daggers at me, her
tits rising and falling noticeably despite their ample covering. A nice set I might have imagined getting my mouth on before she tried to humiliate me in front of her friends last night. “You…”

  “Asshole?” Garrett offers, trying to help her out.

  “Yes. We could use that word to describe your friend.”

  “He’s my brother, Garrett.” I bite my lip and smile at her. She’s fierce when she’s angry. Wonder if she gets this passionate about other areas of her life. I get a vivid image of her riding my cock, her head thrown back, those tits bouncing. Damn, if it doesn’t make me half hard. Jesus.

  “He’s your brother?” Her voice goes up several octaves as she addresses Garrett. “Did he tell you what he did to me last night?”

  Oh shit. Now Garrett’s going to think I slept with her.

  “Did you enjoy your cowboy?” I ask.

  Garrett’s expression is somewhere between a choked pigeon and a cat’s ass.

  “I was mortified,” she snaps, and her cheeks go the same shade of red they were while the action had been taking place. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

  Is the heat in her face all anger, or did she get a little hot and bothered like I did? “I thought you needed something to help loosen you up.”

  “Who on earth needs a stripper to loosen them up?” She purses her lips, her eyes overbright. “It was clear that I was there for a business function.”

  “You bought her a stripper?” Garrett chuckles. He’s saying little, but clearly our conversation amuses him. “Why?”

  “Later,” I mutter.

  She’s so riled up I have the urge to march down to the property line where she’s holding her ground and kiss that puckered mouth. A stupid idea. The stripper didn’t make her laugh; she’s hardly going to melt in my arms.

  “Come on, sweetheart.” I’ve never called anyone sweetheart and don’t plan to start now, but I know it’ll get to her. “You started it. You’re the one who decided to try to humiliate me for not being the kind of schmuck to live up to your ridiculous standards. You don’t even know me, but I know your type. I’ve got your number.”