Page 4 of Pro Gamer's Aim

At least they've stopped bothering me about the fucking mutt she's got next door.

I shoot back a quick affirmative, before scrolling through the other notifications cluttering my phone. Most are the usual bullshit I can easily swipe out of my life, including a few contacts from reporters—my retirement is still a popular headline—but a text from my assistant has me groaning.

Miriam:

Sir, you have to answer your phone sometimes. Since I’m sure you’re not going to listen to the voicemails, HypeGaming wanted to discuss some changes to the contract before signing tomorrow. I’ve e-mailed the relevant documents. Call me ASAP.

Fuck. Considering that it is now two in the afternoon, I would lay bets that I won't be home before midnight—and that is without the easygoing dinner I just put on my calendar.

Absolutely fucking nowhere on my list of ways to end my fucking day from hell is saving my new neighbor from a murderer.

But here I am, with a hammer in hand by her back door, trying to peer through her curtains—impossible, by the way—and answering the questions given to me by the dispatcher.

“Sir, units are on the way,” the woman on the other line assures me.

“Why are you trying to kill me?” I can hear my neighbor screaming. “Stop it! Stop! STOP!”

“They better fucking hurry!” I snap. “He’s about to kill her!”

The dispatcher never once breaks her calm. “Sir, what is happening? Can you hear him? Any gunshots?”

“No, but she’s screaming—”

“I didn’t do anything to you! How long have you been stalking me for? Are you playing with me right now?!”

Energy crackles through my body, and I double my efforts to try to look around or through her curtains. She has double sliding glass doors, identical to my side of the duplex, but hers are covered in what seems like sheer curtains that apparently give a lot more privacy than I thought they would.

“Ow! Stop slicing me, you fucking psychopath!”

“I’m going in,” I bark into my phone before shoving it into my back pocket. With one hand holding a hammer and the other shoving a center punch into the glass, shattering it in half a second, I charge into her home with a roar, praying the shock will keep the man from shooting me.

Only, as I charge through her kitchen and into her living room, my brain begins to catch up with my eyes. And my ears.

Screaming woman? Check.

Murderous psychopath? … Not so check.

In fact, the woman I’m saving is staring at me, pointing at me, like I’m somehow the monster in this situation. Screaming. Not bleeding. Not dead. Not even in distress—okay, well, clearly in distress. But not the kind I’m thinking of.

And she isn’t screaming with words, like she’s been doing before. No, now this is just screaming. Sounds. High-pitched, painful-to-my-ears sounds.

I lower the hammer and look around, my eye catching the TV high up on her wall. A familiar avatar dances in a jovial fashion on the screen, with “You placed #5” splashed across the screen, followed by the text, “Eliminated by RedRumFieval007.”

I realize at some point all sound has ceased. I jerk my head back to the woman standing on the couch, my eyes drawn to the hot pink controller held at her side. Her other hand is jerking from me to the back door as she processes the scene in front of her. Fair. I am, too.

What a way to meet the new neighbor. I realize then that she is short—real short, like can she see over her steering wheel short—with dark hair dyed blue at the ends and wide brown eyes hidden behind oversized, thick-framed glasses. She is young, way too young, wearing a faded sweatshirt with the logo of a local tech college and—is she even wearing pants? Hell, I don’t think she is. Kids these days don’t always wear shorts that actually show, though, so who knows?

"Are you okay?" I ask her, at the same time a scrabbling sound makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. A russet-colored thing scampers over and lifts its leg, pissing on my shoe.

Fuck.

Don't kick the fucking dog, Asher.

That’s when my new, young, possibly half-nude neighbor finally finds her voice. “Who the fuck are you?” she yells, right before throwing the controller right at my face.

Because I’m in the middle of trying to keep a rusty mop from pissing all over my leg, one might consider forgiving me for not catching a hot pink controller before it slams into my nose. I swear in ways I should, under other circumstances, definitely not be doing in front of a young and impressionable woman before yanking the phone out of my back pocket, remembering that 911 is on the line.

“Sorry to take up your time,” I drawl into the phone, watching the girl’s eyes narrow. “There is no intruder. My neighbor is apparently a little too excited while playing a video game. I don’t think any officers will be needed on scene after all.”

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