Chapter 3: Overly Active Neighbors
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Hard, rapid knocking at the door — the kind of frequency that told you exactly how angry the person on the other side was.
Andrew looked around the room, picked up the overturned picture frame from the floor, gave it a cursory wipe with his sleeve, and set it somewhere visible on the table. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes for a good ten seconds to manufacture some redness, then jogged to the bathroom, ran his shirt under the tap, and came back to the door holding his guitar.
"My dad just died. My dad just died. My dad just died."
He repeated it under his breath like a mantra, getting into character. Then he opened the door with his most devastated expression. "I'm so sorry—"
He never got the rest of it out.
A pair of lips — warm, wine-scented, and aggressively red — landed on his before he could say another word, and then the full weight of a tall woman pushed him straight off his feet and onto the floor.
The kiss lasted a good while. When it finally ended, the woman straddling his chest tossed her hair back to reveal a stunning face. She smelled like she'd had a head start on the evening, but the kind of beautiful that made that seem beside the point. She reached down and tugged open his collar.
"Hey, handsome." Her voice was low and unhurried. "I know your dad just passed. That's not why I'm here." She tilted her head. "But you woke me up. So you owe me."
She leaned back down.
"The door—" Andrew managed to get out between breaths. "The door's still open—"
The woman didn't look back. She swung one long bronze leg sideways, hooked her foot around the edge of the door, and kicked it shut with a thump that probably echoed up to the fourth floor.
Then she went back to what she was doing, hands moving with a lot more confidence than Andrew currently had.
"What—" He shifted under her. "What's your name?"
"Do you need to run a background check before we do this?"
"I just don't want to call you the wrong thing later," Andrew said, slightly short of breath.
She pulled her shirt over her head one-handed and started on his with the other. "Bonnie."
"Bonnie." Something clicked in Andrew's brain. "Wait." He blinked. "Aren't you Eddie's girlfriend? From 203?"
Bonnie stopped.
"Go to hell," she said flatly. "Don't tell me we're stopping because of that jerk."
"No, no, it's not that." The fog in Andrew's head cleared fast. "It's just — Eddie sells, and I really don't want that kind of heat landing on me."
It was already past six. At this rate, he wasn't making it to the bar tonight at all.
Bonnie sat back and looked at him. She had to admit — and she did, objectively, in that moment — that this kid was genuinely good-looking. Exactly her type. But apparently a little jumpy.
"What kind of dealer do you think Eddie is?" She let out a short, dismissive laugh and poked him once in the chest with one finger. "Listen up, kid. I'm the one in that business. He's just a guy I'm staying with. You weren't this cautious last night when you grabbed my arm in the hallway."
Andrew shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I have somewhere to be tonight. I really can't do this right now. And you're still technically living under his roof, so—"
"He's dead," Bonnie said simply. "Overdose, three days ago. I'm taking my daughter down to stay with family in a couple days. Does that settle it?"
Andrew went still. "Wait. You have a daughter?"
Bonnie didn't retreat. She leaned forward again. "She's next door. I just picked her up from school. I finally lay down for a nap, and you woke me up. You're responsible for this."
"Your kid is right next door." Andrew put a hand on Bonnie's shoulder and gently held her back. "Right now. Next door."
He wasn't going to pretend he was some kind of saint. A casual encounter didn't particularly trouble his conscience, and sleeping with someone else's girlfriend hadn't exactly kept him up at night in the past. But there were two rules he'd always kept: it couldn't get in the way of something important, and it couldn't happen with a child sitting twenty feet away on the other side of a thin wall.
"And?" Bonnie raised an eyebrow.
"And." Andrew met her eyes steadily. Now that the adrenaline had dropped, he could see her more clearly — she was probably mid-twenties, not much older than him. Blonde hair, healthy tan, confident in a way that came from having learned to be. But her eyes weren't really doing what her body was doing. There was something unsteady in them. Something that looked a lot like fear she was covering over.
"You have a kid," he said again, quietly this time.
Bonnie held his gaze for a long moment. Then she exhaled and sat back. She stood up slowly, deliberately brushed against him as she found her footing, trying one more time.
Andrew kept his expression neutral.
In the back of his head, a voice — his own voice, if he was honest — was calling him every kind of fool.
"What?" Bonnie gave him a slow smile, running her tongue across her lower lip. "Regretting it already? Don't worry, handsome. I'm not going anywhere. I'll still be here. I'm not putting my shirt back on right now, but if you want I could use my—"
"Nope." Andrew was already on his feet, pulling his waistband up. Her hands had gotten pretty far. "I really have to go."
He glanced at the clock. 6:40.
His stomach dropped. He had to be at the bar by seven.
He did a fast scan in the bathroom mirror — no marks on his face or neck, thank God — tore off a length of toilet paper and scrubbed his lips clean, splashed cold water on his face, came back out, grabbed the guitar, and started working the case zipper while walking toward the door.
The whole time, Bonnie stood leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, watching him in silence.
"After you." Andrew held the door open and gestured with his free hand.
Something had shifted in her expression. The performance had mostly dropped away. She watched him for a beat longer — something unreadable going on behind those eyes — then laughed softly, almost to herself, and walked out the door with more dignity than the situation probably called for.
Andrew exhaled.
He got his shoes on, grabbed his keys, killed the lights, and headed out. He was locking the deadbolt when the back of his neck prickled — the distinct, specific sensation of being stared at. He turned.
Nothing in the hallway.
"Hey, mister." A small voice floated up from beside him.
Andrew looked down.
A little girl stood at the edge of the hall, looking up at him with wide, serious eyes. She was maybe seven or eight, with Bonnie's coloring and an expression of pure, calm assessment. She was, genuinely, the most beautiful child Andrew had ever seen in his life.
"Did you sleep with my mom?"
Andrew's mouth opened.
"Strictly speaking, we, uh—" He caught himself halfway through the sentence, stared at those guileless eyes, and reconsidered. "Is your mom Bonnie?"
"Christie!" The door to 203 swung open and Bonnie leaned out, freshly washed face, yawning. "Come back inside and get your shoes on. We're going to get dinner in a little bit."
Christie looked up at Andrew for one more long, thoughtful moment, then turned and padded back to her mother without a word.
"Sorry about that," Bonnie said quietly over Christie's head. The sharpness was completely gone from her voice. She almost looked shy.
"Don't worry about it." Andrew gave a small nod and headed for the stairs.
He was halfway down to the first landing when he heard her say it, low enough that he almost missed it.
"Thank you."
He didn't stop walking. But he heard it.
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