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Chapter Two

Tahlia

June 4th

T he office hums with the low chatter of end-of-day conversations as I gather the last of my case files and tuck them into my briefcase.

The day has been a whirlwind of motions and client meetings, but the steady rhythm of the work is comforting.

Ben, one of my closest associates, passes by, adjusting his tie as he walks.

He nods at me, a familiar gesture speaking volumes of shared deadlines and courtroom victories.

“Good work today, Tahlia,” he says, offering a tired smile.

I return the gesture.

“You too, Ben. Get some rest.”

When I close my office door, the familiar voice of Joi Alvarez, my best friend and trusted paralegal, rings out from the break room.

She’s leaning against the counter, coffee cup in hand, chatting animatedly with a few of the junior attorneys.

When she spots me, her face lights up.

“Hey, boss lady! Wrapping up for the day?” she asks, her eyes dancing with energy that refuses to dim, even after hours of reviewing contracts and prepping depositions.

I nod, a smile tugging at my lips.

“Yeah, finally. No more late Friday nights at the firm—at least for now.”

Joi’s smile falters for a second as she places her cup down and crosses her arms.

“Speaking of nights… you think your neighbor’s going to be loud again? That’ll make it three nights in a row, and I swear, if it were me, I’d have said something by now.”

I let out a sigh, leaning against the doorframe.

The thought of another evening interrupted by the pounding bass and laughter from next door makes my head ache.

“I don’t know, Joi. I keep hoping it’s just a phase, maybe some out-of-town guests or something. But if tonight’s another party, I might have to say something.”

She raises an eyebrow, her expression serious.

“You should. You can’t keep studying like this, Tahlia. You’ve got the Bar coming up, and you need every ounce of focus.”

“I know,” I admit, feeling the tension in my shoulders.

“I’ll handle it if it comes to that.”

With goodbyes exchanged and promises from Joi to check in tomorrow, I head to the elevator, the chime echoing as the doors close behind me.

The ride down is a rare moment of solitude, the polished chrome walls reflecting a version of me that’s tired but determined.

The warm May air wraps around me, heavy with the faint scent of budding flowers and city life when I step off the elevator.

The drive home through Nashville’s bustling streets is familiar, punctuated by the glow of neon signs and the steady beat of traffic.

I pull into the parking garage of my luxury condo building, the quiet hum of my engine echoing off the concrete walls.

The reserved parking spot waits like a beacon, promising a brief reprieve before the night’s study session.

I park and grab my briefcase, locking the car as my heels click softly on the polished floor.

The garage is dimly lit, with only a few other cars scattered around, their metallic exteriors reflecting the overhead lights.

The doorman opens the door as he always does.

“Evening, Ms. Carter.”

“Hey Mr. Jenkins. You’re here a little late, aren’t you?”

“Heading home after you walk in the building.”

“Safe travels. See you next week.”

He tips his hat.

I press the button for the elevator, my reflection staring back at me from the sleek, mirrored doors.

When it arrives with a quiet ding , I step inside, pressing the button for the 14th floor.

The elevator ride is smooth and silent, the hum almost lulling me into a trance.

As the floor numbers tick up, I think about Joi’s words and the possibility of facing another restless night.

The doors slide open, revealing the pristine hallway lined with elegant light fixtures and plush carpeting.

I make my way to my condo.

The faint bass thumps start before I’ve even opened my door.

Perfect.

Just what I need after a day of legal jargon and coffee tasting like burnt cardboard.

I unlock the door, and step inside.

The familiar scent of home washes over me, mingling with the faint trace of vanilla from my air diffuser.

I head to my room and strip out of my day clothes and into my jammies.

Grab an energy drink from the fridge and post up at the kitchen table, aka my makeshift study area, where stacks of notes and highlighted pages await.

The highlighter squeaks as I drag it across another key passage in my Constitutional Law textbook.

My eyes scan the dense text, searching for the crucial points to commit to memory, notepad, and digital document.

The area is littered with notes, sticky tabs, and highlighter marks on the unpolished wood.

My fingers position over the keyboard, transcribing my thoughts into organized outlines.

I take a sip of the drink, grimacing at the bitter taste.

But I can't stop now. Not when I'm in the zone.

The quiet of Friday evening, now blending into the late night and I’ve not stopped once.

Except to go to the bathroom.

Just a few more pages and I'll have this chapter nailed.

I’m reading another passage and making notes when a high-pitched giggle pierces the silence.

My highlighter pauses mid-stroke. I cock my head, straining to identify the source of the noise. It comes again—a feminine laugh, muffled but unmistakable through the thin condo walls.

"What the fuck," I mutter, brow furrowing.

Another giggle, followed by a deep male chuckle.

My shoulders stiffen as realization dawns. The giggles. The low murmurs. The late hour. It doesn't take a law degree to deduce what's happening over there.

"You've got to be kidding me," I groan, rubbing my forehead.

The woman's voice rises in pitch, punctuated by lower male tones. I grit my teeth, trying to refocus on the textbook in front of me. But the words blur as my concentration shatters.

Tension creeps up my neck as another howl of laughter filters through the wall. Of course there would be a girl over on the one night I need to complete this chapter.

I drum my fingers on the table, fighting a losing battle against distraction. It's not just the noise disrupting my studying. An unwelcome pang of envy twists in my gut.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it out. But I can't unhear it. Can't undo the sudden, intrusive reminder of just how long it's been since I've been touched. Since I've let loose and had fun. Since I've done anything but study, work, sleep, repeat.

I inhale deeply and refocus on the page. I won't let it get to me. I'm bigger than my base desires.

My jaw clenches. Of course someone’s going at it in there—no concern whatsoever for thin walls or common decency. Or how some people are actually trying to do something meaningful with their lives like sleep or study for the biggest exam of their lives.

The carefree sounds next door is an irritating reminder of everything I've been denying myself in pursuit of my dreams.

"Stop it, Tahlia," I mutter, giving myself a mental shake.

I hunch over my textbook, willing the words to make sense. But the mysterious guest lets out another giggle, and I feel my eye twitch in response.

This is ridiculous. I'm never going to get any studying done with the soundtrack of late-night hookup playing in surround sound.

The giggles crescendo into rhythmic thumps and theatrical moans. It's too much. The highlighter drops from my hand, rolling off the table and clattering to the floor. My fingers find my temples, trying to rub away the pounding tension.

I'm only human. As much as I try to deny it, I'm a young woman with needs and desires that won't be silenced. No matter how hard I try to drown them in statute memorization and precedent analysis. The neighbor with no name and his revolving door of women dig up feelings I've tried to bury deep. Longing. Envy. Frustration.

The giggling intensifies, punctuated by a high-pitched squeal that sends a jolt through my body. I grit my teeth, trying to focus on the paragraph I've read three times now.

"Come on, Tahlia," I mutter to myself. "You've dealt with noisy neighbors before. This is nothing."

But it's not nothing.

The woman's voice rises again, breathy and excited. "Oh, god! Right there!"

"Seriously?" I shout, glaring at the wall. "Get a grip, Giggles."

I slam my textbook shut with a frustrated growl. Enough is enough. I can't take this auditory assault anymore.

I need peace and quiet, damn it.

I stomp over to my desk and yank open the drawer, rummaging for my noise-canceling headphones.

My salvation.

But when I pull them out triumphantly, my hope deflates.

The battery is dead.

Of course.

Because the universe clearly has it out for me tonight.

"Unbelievable," I mutter, tossing the useless headphones aside.

"Does she have to be so freaking loud? We get it, he's rocking your world. Congrats."

I try to block out the sounds and refocus on my notes, but it's impossible. Giggles is hitting octaves that could shatter glass. And he is putting in a gold-medal performance. The mental image makes my cheeks burn and my stomach clench with an unsettling mix of embarrassment and... something else I refuse to name.

"This is ridiculous," I gripe to my empty condo. "I shouldn't have to put up with this. I have rights. I'm a tenant in good standing."

I glance at the clock and sigh. It's late. Too late to start a confrontation. And honestly, I'm too drained to deal with it tonight.

“Fuck this, I’m going to bed.” Gathering my blanket, I retreat to my bedroom, hoping for some respite. I burrow under the covers, pressing a pillow over my head to muffle the sounds of ecstasy next door.

Just as I think it can't get worse, a loud thud shakes the wall.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

You've got to be kidding me.

The headboard next door slams against the wall in a telltale rhythm. Building in intensity and speed.

My framed picture of me and my family bounces off and smacks me in my head.

I bolt upright, staring at the fallen frame in disbelief. “Are you fucking serious right now?” I rub my throbbing temple. They just banged my picture off the damn wall.

The headboard slams again, each impact feeling like a personal attack to my sanity and my libido.

I press my hands over my face and bite back a scream of pure exasperation. This can't be happening. How is this my life right now? All I wanted was one quiet night to study. Is that really too much to ask?

Apparently, with the Pleasure Pistol next door, it is.

I flop back against my pillows with a huff. My head throbs where the picture frame clipped me on its way down. Just one more injustice to cap off this night from Hell.

I glare at the ceiling, cursing my neighbor and his Energizer Bunny bedmate.

I surrender to the inevitable, snatching up my blanket and pillow. The living room beckons like a sanctuary when I tiptoe across the cool hardwood floor, my bare feet silent on the planks. I toss my pillow onto the couch and flop down, wrapping myself in my blanket like a disgruntled burrito. The couch welcomes me with its familiar embrace when I settle in, arranging my makeshift bed. The leather cushions creak beneath my weight.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, punching my pillow into submission. "I'm a grown woman, hiding from sex noises like some blushing teenager."

But even here, muffled sounds of passion seep through the walls.

They're fainter now, but still persistent, like an annoying mosquito buzzing just out of reach. It's not like I'm some prude who's offended by the idea of sex.

I just can't remember the last time I had a decent night's sleep, let alone a decent orgasm.

With my job and cramming, there's barely enough time to eat and shower, much less date or get laid. And now, with Pistol Pete’s nightly escapades, even my precious study time is being sabotaged.

I focus on the steady tick-tock of the wall clock, its rhythm a stark contrast to the erratic thumps and giggles next door. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen, a low, constant drone that almost—but not quite—masks the other noises.

I lie here, staring at the ceiling, and my mind wanders. Despite my irritation, there's a part of me that can't help but feel a twinge of envy.

Gradually, the noises from the neighbor’s condo subside. The silence that follows is almost deafening in its suddenness. I feel my muscles start to unclench, the tension ebbing slowly from my body.

My eyelids grow heavy as exhaustion catches up with me. But even as I drift off to sleep, a part of my brain remains alert, already formulating a plan.

"This can't go on," I mumble into my pillow. "If it happens again, we're going to have a little chat about noise pollution and common courtesy."

Finally succumbing to sleep, my last thought is a mental note to brush up on local noise ordinances. After all, if I'm going to confront my inconsiderate neighbor, I might as well do it armed with the full force of the law.