Page 3 of Bad Boy Neighbor

The voices, disguised as whispers, travel through the thin walls and into the small guest bedroom.

“Explain to me again how you know Oliver,” Lana asks.

There’s a pause, followed by a clang, causing Seb to grunt out a string of profanities.

“We played for the same club just in different divisions.”

“What does that even mean… divisions?” I can hear the confusion in Lana’s tone. “So, he’s your friend?”

“We’re soccer acquaintances,” Seb corrects her. “Mutha-fucking-hell, did you see the size of that thing?”

“Can you tone down the language? Honestly, you know Ace is a sponge. The other day I caught him saying ‘bugger’ when his toy truck wouldn’t close. He’s only two. We can’t have him learning bad words so early and especially the Aussie slang you’re so fond of.”

There are more shuffling and random noises which I’d rather ignore but find it almost impossible given the proximity to where they are located in the house.

I hate staying in other people’s homes. Invasion of someone’s personal space makes me uncomfortable—sharing the same shower, using the same bathroom, tiptoeing around the kitchen at night when you need some water, or God forbid, something to eat.

It’s not like I can’t afford to stay somewhere else. Money is not the issue. I could have rented my own place or even crashed at one of the hotels in LA with housekeeping and room service at my beck and call. This wasn’t my preference.

Seb insisted I stay until the media back home settles down. I was their target, and yet they are still to grow bored of me. All I wanted was to be alone. Seb was quick to warn me that isolation is a devil in disguise. No good would come of me being holed up in some fancy hotel with my phone and the internet in my idle hands.

I am stuck between a rock and a hard place. This is the only place I could run to, at least the only place which welcomed me with open arms, or so I thought.

“So, he’s your friend, acquaintance, whatever, and not some ax-wielding murderer?”

“You forgot serial killer,” Seb reminds her, jokingly. “Specializes in hitchhikers and annoying wives.”

“You’re not being serious, Sebastian.”

“And you’re being uptight, princess.”

There’s silence between them, and part of me feels guilty for even causing this argument. I’ve known Seb for years. He’s as laid back as you can get, yet Lana is different. She is nice, greeted me politely, and not once in the last day has said anything to make me feel unwelcome. I’ll admit I was shocked Seb had settled down, especially with an American chick. But Lana is hot, and I can easily see why they are together.

Seb likes to prod.

Lana gives it back two-fold.

“Look, if anyone knows what it’s like to end your career early, it’s me,” Seb sympathizes, his tone soft though serious. “Give the guy a break, okay? He’s doing it tough, and he needs to lay low while the media backs the hell off. He can’t be alone right now.”

Lana’s sigh is loud enough to break the walls.

“Fine. Two weeks like you promised. Okay? We have a kid now, plus Bubbles. Just make sure he doesn’t bring back any hussies.”

Seb doesn’t hold back, his laugh barreling through the house until their voices fade and they’ve left the room.

I continue to stare at the ceiling. It’s white, uninteresting, and a blank canvas for my thoughts. It’s dull compared to the rest of the room. Seb is into that whole recycled junk art thing. I’m not sure what is hanging on the wall—some scrap piece of metal bent into something artistic. Whatever the hell it is, it looks good against the pale gray walls. It’s obvious the artwork is the extent of Seb’s decorating abilities. The double bed is piled with a million pillows ranging from velour to something plucked from a peacock, and it screams Lana. Why women feel the need to scatter cushions all over a bed is beyond me.

But bed cushions are the least of my problems.

This is all shades of fucked-up.

My life, that is.

I’m Oliver-fucking-Madden, twenty-six, and Australia’s highest-paid soccer star.

Well—past fucking tense.

The nightmare replays in my mind. It’s taunted me every which way I turn. The red light, the green light, my foot on the accelerator, my brand-new Ducati mangled against a large gum tree.

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