Page 5 of Three Wickedly Bad Neighbors and a Very Grumpy Girl (Three Guys and a Girl Volume 2, #8)

? Chapter Five

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A very

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W hat in the world? I’ve just met three of the most arrogant, obnoxious, egotistical male specimens of my life, all at once.

I say that after being in their company for less than ten minutes.

I finally get Mr. Williams and Aunt Maggie tucked into their respective beds in their respective houses, and the music is back up again.

Ugh! Insufferable.

Did they really think I was gullible enough to believe they owned the house? The sheer arrogance. Their guests—more like their fellow bandits—might believe them, but I know a scoundrel when I see one, and I saw three.

I glare out the window and curse them again. I’m never going to get any shut-eye. I’d have to be dead to sleep with all this noise. And if I don’t, I’m going to look like a raccoon on my first day. Ugh.

I should call the cops. But that’s what they’re expecting, and for some warped reason, I don’t want them to think I’m a cop-out. No, now is not the time for puns. Yes, I want to prove to a gym bro, a lascivious chef, and a Rubik's Cube psychopath that I can handle them on my own.

But maybe the party will fizzle out on its own if I wait a bit. Ten minutes later, the music seems louder, and the voices are more boisterous, as if they’re goading me, mocking me.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I can fix this. But how?

I nearly jump out of my skin when a bolt of lightning flashes across the sky, followed by a crack of thunder before a summer storm lashes the earth. Well, that was unexpected. I check the weather every day, and there was no sign of rain. But, oh. This is good. This is excellent.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

I race to the window and see everyone scrambling inside. They’re probably just going to wait out the rain in silence and then call cabs, or be picked up, or have designated non-drinking drivers get their friends home. The party is a bust. Thank...

Except no. The party is still going on, but inside the house now. With the sliding doors wide open, I can still hear the blaring music, which seems louder—if that’s even possible.

I’m never going to get any sleep. They said they were going to party all night, and now I believe them.

I get into my bed anyway and cover my face with my pillow before I throw it aside, stifling my pent-up scream.

But then I sit up straight as a full-fledged plan takes hold of me.

Oh, it’s so diabolical I’m wondering if I should question my mental health. But tough times call for rough measures.

I rummage through my closet and find the skimpiest dress I own. Okay, it’s a shift dress that reaches above my knees, is sleeveless, and has a lowish neckline. It’ll just have to do. Besides, I’ll be showing just enough skin to pull off my plan.

I slip into the dress, then rummage through my miscellaneous drawer and pull out the edible paint kit I got at a bachelorette party for one of my co-workers at the dry-cleaning company.

Twenty minutes later, I admire my handiwork in the mirror. This looks better than I expected.

Next, I apply some makeup and ruffle my hair, so it hangs down my back in big, loose waves. I slip on a pair of red stilettos, then carefully shrug into a big, loose-fitting polyester coat. I give myself a once-over in the mirror. Perfect.

What am I doing? I picked a fight with a couple of vagabonds having a party on private property; that’s what I’m doing.

I really should call the cops and be done with it. But no, I don’t want them to think I’m weak.

“Why? Avery?” I ask aloud. Why does it matter what three strange men—handsome criminals, to be sure—think of me? Why do I care? I don’t freaking know, but I’m ready to go to war with them anyway.

I snatch my umbrella from the cabinet, and I’m just about to leave when I remember something. I rush back to my bedroom, retrieve a white box from my closet, and then I’m back outside, clutching the box and sprinting next door, my umbrella keeping me completely dry.

Gosh, there seem to be more people now. My heart quivers for no known reason as I seek out my three nemeses. The thought of seeing them again does something strange to my body. It’s adrenaline, of course it is. I’m right in enemy territory, so it’s expected.

But I come across supermodel one—I call her supermodel one now because all the girls are supermodels as well.

“You’re back. And oh wow, you look amazing,” she says. No, I don’t. She’s being kind, but I’ll take it.

“Here you go,” I say, handing her the box I’ve been carrying. “It’s Vintage went out of business last year, but I have two pairs, and I think we’re about the same size.” She’s very tall, and I’m not by any stretch of anyone’s imagination, but her feet are as small as mine.

“You’re giving me a pair of vintage slippers? Oh my god.” She leans down and hugs me. “That is the girliest girl’s girl thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you, babe.”

I offer her a smile. She can think of it as a small consolation prize for what I’m about to do next.

I turn around and slam straight into a wall made up of three bodies. At least they’re all three wearing shirts now. How nice for me. I can’t think; the music is so loud, and their presence just flusters me more.

“You’re back?” Porter asks, leaning toward me so I can hear him.

“Yes,” I say, then clear my throat. I was perfectly fine before, but now I’m dying from the heat in this coat.

“I decided to take you up on your offer and loosen up a bit, as you put it,” I say loud enough for them to hear me.

“Pity about the weather, though. But it’s nice having everyone inside, so close together. It’s cozier, wouldn’t you say?”

They frown at me. Really hard.