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Chapter Four

Tahlia

June 7th

T he walls vibrate, the bass pounding like it has a personal vendetta against my sleep.

I jolt awake, groggy and pissed.

This is the fourth damn night this week .

It catches me off guard because earlier today was perfect .

The building had been so quiet, almost serene—a rare gift I used to finish a full day of studying and knock out a couple of practice exams.

I’d even treated myself to a cup of tea and a moment of peace at my window, soaking in the stillness.

Now?

That stillness feels like a distant memory, ripped apart by the thump of bass and the obnoxious chaos seeping through the walls.

I lie still, teeth pressing against my Invisalign, silently begging the music to stop.

It doesn’t.

Laughter spills through the thin walls, sharp and obnoxious.

A woman’s giggle follows, high-pitched and exaggerated.

My face heats.

And then, the moaning starts.

Long.

Loud.

Relentless.

I shove my pillow over my ears, but it’s useless.

I glance at the nightstand, the glow of my phone slicing through the darkness.

Squinting, I make out the time: 2:30 a.

m.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, dropping the phone onto the mattress.

My chest tightens with irritation when a new sound joins the mix.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud .

The headboard classic.

I sit up, curling my knees to my chest.

My head falls forward as I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm brewing inside me.

It doesn’t help.

My patience snaps like an overstretched rubber band

“Ugh! That’s it.” The words come out sharp and I fling the blanket aside.

Cold air rushes over my skin, adding to my irritation.

My feet hit the floor with a purpose.

My toes curl against the cool surface when I march to the chair in the corner.

I yank a T-shirt from the pile of clothes waiting to be put away.

Sweatpants with a hole in the knee?

Good enough.

No bra?

Who the fuck cares.

My hair is already wrapped in my satin scarf.

My reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror catches my eye for a moment.

I look disheveled and tired, but I don’t care.

This isn’t about appearances.

This is about survival—or revenge.

At this point, either works.

I storm over to my kitchen counter and grab my keys, shoving them into my pocket.

My pulse thrums in my ears and I hesitate for a split second at the door.

Am I really doing this ?

Another burst of laughter from next door answers my question.

Yes the fuck I am.

The door creaks open, and I wince as it slams shut behind me.

The hallway is dim and quiet, except for the muffled chaos from his condo.

My bare feet slap over the tiles as I march toward the source of my misery.

The sound grows louder with every step, fueling my anger.

“You’ve got this, Tahlia,” I whisper.

My voice is shaky, but I ignore it.

“Channel your inner badass. Be bold.”

The door stands in front of me, smooth and modern, almost daring me to knock.

My hand shoots up before I can back out.

Three knocks cut through the quiet hallway, sharper and louder than I’d meant.

My stomach twists.

Words tumble around in my head, none of them making sense.

What the hell am I even going to say?

The door swings open, and I’m met with a wall of muscle and a towel teetering on the edge of scandal, held up by pure arrogance.

Water slides down his chest, catching the dim hallway light as it drips onto the floor.

His dark hair clings to his forehead, like he’s fresh out of some over-the-top grooming ad.

And the beer in his hand?

Predictable.

His eyes lock onto mine, dark and amused.

His lips curve into a lopsided grin.

“Well, this is a surprise.”

I blink, my prepared speech crumbling like dry leaves.

All my irritation crashes into confusion.

His face is familiar, but I can’t place it.

Not from real life.

Somewhere else.

Social media?

The news?

My thoughts scatter, trying to make the connection.

“Yes?” His voice is deep, smooth.

It should come with a warning label.

“I—” My brain scrambles for words.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” I blurt out.

My tone is sharp, but my words feel weak, like a paper shield.

He leans against the doorframe, his grin widening.

“Late enough for a party, early enough for a nightcap. Care to join?”

Unbelievable.

Recognition finally clicks.

Jake Reynolds.

Tennessee Terrors.

The face splashed all over sports blogs, my friends' Instagram feed, and probably a dozen ads. Of course, this smug, towel-wearing disaster is my neighbor. Because why wouldn’t he be?

“You’re…” I narrow my eyes, irritation surging back. “Oh my God. You’re that pitcher guy.”

“Pitcher?” He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Close. Centerfielder. Tennessee Terrors. But hey, I’m flattered you’re paying attention. Are you a fan?”

My laugh bursts out, sharp and humorless. “Uh, no. I don’t have time to waste on celebrities who think the rules don’t apply to them.”

“Ouch.” He chuckles, low and lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world. “That’s harsh, neighbor. We just met.”

“‘Met’?” I cross my arms tightly over my chest. “No. You’ve been keeping me awake for the past four nights straight. I feel like I’ve met your entire social circle through this wall.”

His grin doesn’t falter. “And yet, you never came over to join the fun.”

“Because I’m not an idiot,” I snap, my hands curling into fists. “I’ve got work to do that doesn’t involve…” I wave vaguely at his towel, “…whatever this is.”

“Work?” He tilts his head, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “That’s what’s got you all wound up? You should try relaxing sometime.”

There’s that word Lauren tossed at me at brunch. My nails dig into my palms. “I’d love to relax,” I bite out. “But it’s hard to do when my neighbor is hosting nightly auditions for America’s Got Moaning Talent.”

His eyebrows shoot up, genuine surprise flickering across his face. But it doesn’t last. The grin returns, wider than before. “Wow, neighbor. Didn’t realize I had such a dedicated audience. Should I start taking requests?”

I can feel the flush crawling up my neck like a betrayal. “Just keep it down. Some of us need to sleep.”

Jake tilts his head again, studying me if I’m an unsolved puzzle. He takes a slow sip of his beer before answering. “You know,” he says, his voice deliberate, “I think I’ve got just the thing to help you sleep. Want to come in and try it out?”

My jaw drops. Is he serious? The audacity. The sheer, fucking audacity. “Thanks,” I say, dripping with sarcasm, “but I’ll pass on your sleep aid . I prefer my remedies without the risk of headlines or STDs.”

His laugh echoes down the hallway, rich and unapologetic, like he’s having way too much fun. “Ouch. You’ve got a sharp tongue, neighbor. I like it.”

“Good for you,” I snap. My arms cross tighter over my chest, my frustration bubbling over. “Listen, Mr. Centerfielder?—”

“Now we’re using titles?” he interrupts, his grin never faltering.

I glare at him, heat prickling across my skin. “I don’t care about your games or your extracurricular activities. But I have real work to do.”

“‘Real work’?” He raises an eyebrow, his expression mocking. “As opposed to my fake job of hitting or catching balls?”

I roll my eyes so hard it feels like I’ve strained a muscle. “Yes, as opposed to your fake job of catching balls and running around a field for millions of dollars. I’m studying for the Bar exam, Reynolds. You know, law? Something that actually matters.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. It isn’t quite respect, but it’s close. “A lawyer, huh?” He nods slowly, the teasing fading for just a second before that infuriating smirk returns. “Explains the attitude. You’re one of those all-work-no-play types. No wonder you’re so uptight.”

“Uptight?” My voice rises, sharp and indignant. “Do you know what’s uptight? Trying to sleep while someone’s headboard is attempting to punch a hole through the wall!”

His grin reappears, a spark of amusement lighting up his eyes. “It’s a sturdy headboard. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It’s not a compliment!” My hands clench into fists again, my nails reclaiming their spot into my palms. “I’ve been listening to your drunken parties, your awful music, and your… extracurricular activities for days. So no, Jake, the headboard comment was not a compliment. I just want peace and quiet for one night.”

He repositions his stance, beer still in hand, the amber liquid sloshing lazily in the bottle. “You know, you could’ve knocked sooner. I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

Heat floods my face, shooting from a simmer to a full boil. “Ugh! Are you always this insufferable? Or is it just a special show for me?”

"Depends," he says, leaning against the doorframe like he owns it. His towel shifts lower, threatening to defy gravity. "Am I entertaining you?"

My gaze betrays me, sliding over him before I can stop myself. Broad shoulders, abs that belong in a fitness catalog, and that damn towel threatening to play peek-a-boo. Of course, he’s attractive. Because the universe loves to mock me. ‘You need to have fun.’ Thanks, sis.

I force out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No, Reynolds. You’re not. You’re exhausting me. I’m running on three hours of sleep. I don’t have time for your jokes.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.” He shrugs and takes another swig, completely unfazed. “I could hook you up with something better. We athletes have access to all kinds of energy boosters.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I say through gritted teeth. “What I really need is for you to stop throwing parties like you’re still in college.”

“Still in college?” He feigns offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’ll have you know I graduated years ago. With honors, too. I’m a very responsible adult.”

“Yeah, nothing says ‘responsible’ like a grown man in a towel hosting ragers on a Sunday night.”

“Sunday’s the new Friday,” he quips.

“Not for the rest of us!” My voice echoes down the hallway, and I wince at how shrill it sounds. “Look, I don’t care who you are or how many MVP awards you’ve won?—”

“Gold Glove, actually,” he interrupts, flashing that cocky grin. “But I appreciate the thought.”

“I. Don’t. Care.” I bite out each word like I’m snapping the legs off a spider. “Just keep it down, or I’ll file a noise complaint. The law doesn’t play favorites.”

He raises his eyebrows, clearly intrigued. “You planning on throwing the book at me, counselor?”

“If it gets me some sleep, then yes,” I snap. “I’ll throw the entire library at you.”

His laugh is loud and genuine, as if I’ve just told the best joke he’s heard all week. “You’ve got fire, neighbor. I like that.”

“Stop liking things about me!” I glare at him, chest heaving, my frustration bubbling over. “This is not a friendly chat. This is a demand. No more parties. No more moaning. No more bass. Got it?”

Jake straightens, his grin finally faltering. For a second, I think I’ve gotten through to him. But he leans closer, his voice dropping. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

My pulse skips a beat, and I curse my traitorous body. Even the hallway feels hotter, like I’ve stepped into a sauna. I groan, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Why do I even bother?”

“Because you secretly like me,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Don’t worry, it happens to everyone. You’re not the first.”

“Like you?” I repeat, incredulous. “Jake, I wouldn’t like you if you were the last man on Earth.”

“Your T-shirt’s telling a different story, neighbor.” He smirks, leaning back into the doorframe. His towel shifts again, and I force my eyes to stay on his face.

I peer down and notice my headlights definitely have their high beam on.

Fuck!

“My body language is saying I’m one second away from slapping that smug look off your face,” I snap.

His grin only widens. “Good thing I’ve got fast reflexes.”

“Jake, I’m ready to go again,” A soft voice summons behind the door.

“Be there in a minute, suga,” he replies smugly.

Before I can respond, the sound of heavy footsteps echoes down the hallway. A gruff voice cuts through the tension. “What in the world is going on here?”

I whip around to see Mr. Hargrove, our building’s superintendent, stomping toward us. His silver hair is wild, his robe tied over flannel pajamas. He looks between Jake and me, his expression a mix of irritation and disbelief.

“Mr. Hargrove,” I stammer, suddenly hyper-aware of how this must look. Me, in ratty sweats, yelling at a half-naked Jake Reynolds at 2:45 a.m. “I was just?—”

“Causing a scene,” Mr. Hargrove finishes, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. “If I get one more noise complaint from this floor, both of you are getting written warnings. Do you hear me?”

“Both of us?” I repeat, my cheeks burning hot. “But I wasn’t?—”

“Don’t argue with me, young lady,” he snaps. He turns to Jake, who’s still lounging in the doorway as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “And you. Keep it down, or I’ll start fining you. I don’t care if you’re the president or a ball player—this is a respectable building, not a nightclub!”

“Noted, Mr. Hargrove,” Jake says, raising his beer in a mock toast. “Scout’s honor.”

“Like you were ever in the scouts,” I snark.

Mr. Hargrove grumbles something and shuffles away, leaving Jake and me alone in the hallway.

His gaze holds mine, daring me to look away.

Jake breaks the silence first. “So, where were we?”

“You have a guest waiting for you and I was leaving,” I bite, spinning on my heel. My bare feet stomp across the tiles as I storm back toward my condo.

Behind me, his laugh rings out, warm and infuriating. “Goodnight, neighbor!” he calls after me, his voice dripping with amusement.

I slam my door shut and lean against it, my heart pounding. My cheeks are still burning from his visual assessment, and my hands are trembling with a mix of frustration and adrenaline. What just happened? How did I go from sleep-deprived to yelling at a celebrity in the span of fifteen minutes?

I glance at the wall separating our condos. His music has stopped and there are no moans, at least for now. The silence feels alien, as if it could break at any moment.

One thing’s for sure: this war with Jake Reynolds is far from over. If he thinks he can charm his way out of being a bad neighbor, he’s got another thing coming.