Page 92 of Bad Boy Neighbor

“Yeah!”

I hang up without a goodbye. Still dressed in the clothes I wore to dinner, I grab my wallet and run straight to the bar. Tank Stream Bar is only a short walk from my apartment. It’s hidden in an alley away from the main streets through the cobblestones. It’s also known as a meat market.

The Aussie men will eat her up in there.

This Byron has it coming to him.

Thankfully, an old mate, Manuel, is working the door. He knows me from my clubbing days, letting me in even though I cut the small talk to a bare minimum.

Inside, it’s crowded but typical of a Saturday night. The crowd is of mixed ages with couples together, some in groups, a bunch of girls giggling at the bar with their extremely short dresses and over-the-top heels. The single guys are easy to spot—they hover near the hot women.

Music plays loudly, drowning out the sea of voices from the tight crowd.

I spot her immediately. Gabriella leans on the bar, her copper curls lying over one shoulder of her black dress. There’s a man beside her, he looks familiar, but I can’t figure out from where. He’s definitely not the older man she was with the other night in the hotel lobby.

She motions for the bartender, a young bloke, who serves her in a flash. As she leans in whispering in his ear, his eyes drop momentarily to her low-cut neckline.

Pulling back with a sway in her stance, I know well enough she’s drunk.

What the fuck is this woman thinking?

The man beside her latches onto her arm, pulling her onto the small area where others are dancing. His hand wraps carelessly around her waist.

Yeah, I’ve fucking seen enough.

I burst through the crowd, swerving in and out without a single apology. This is a déjà-fucking-vu moment. The first night I met Gabriella, I was doing the exact same thing.

“Get off her, mate,” I seethe.

Gabriella’s mouth slackens, her hands dropping to her sides as she distances herself from this fucker. “God, you’re such a stalker. How did you know I was here?”

“Never mind. Let’s go.” I latch onto her arm, ignoring her only slight struggle.

“No, Oliver. We are not doing this again.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. The second you texted me, you left me with no choice.”

“I’m not your girlfriend. I’m your nothing because technically we never dated,” she slurs with a satisfied smirk.

There are so many things I can say to her right now, but all I want to do is get her out of this place. I could have sworn her arm relaxed within my tight grip, or perhaps it’s her nonverbal stare which tells me otherwise.

“Gabriella,” the fucker calls. “You can’t leave me here?”

The guy looks pissed. Serves him fucking right. Who does he think he is touching my woman.

“Sorry, Byron.”

Outside, in the cool night air, the pale face haunts me. With possibly only seconds to spare, I push her down the alley.

“Ow,” she yells, almost stumbling to the ground. “Why the hell did you push me?”

“You’re gonna hurl.”

“I’m not going to hurl.” She straightens her posture, letting out a drawn-out breath. “It’s just spinning.”

After giving her a moment to breathe in fresh air, I grab her hand again, dragging her to the main street. The walk is not far, but somehow, I need to get her to my apartment.

Walking in the Quay with an intoxicated woman is now officially my least favorite thing to do. The amount of times we stop is ridiculous. Gabriella has the need to stop and stare at everything, have almost three near-vomiting incidents, and still continues to wave hello to everyone who walks past and calls them mate.

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