Page 73 of Neighbor from Hell
-don’t leave me this way-
I’m slumped in my office chair, my tongue numb with the taste the smoky tang of the old Caribbean cask Scotch whiskey. The late afternoon sun filters through the arched windows, and it is beautiful, but I don’t appreciate it. I can’t. I feel nothing but burning anger. It’s been simmering in my chest for days, and despite doing my hardest to shift It and forget about her because she really doesn’t deserve even a sliver of attention from me, the rage has refused to relent.
My fingers drum a restless rhythm on the desk’s edge as her words—“Were you responsible for this fire?”—sear through me.
She cried that I betrayed her, but I’m the one who feels betrayed, and it’s a wound that I wonder if it will ever heal.
How could she think I’d do that, risk her life, my life, for a fucking piece of land? After I ran into the flames for her, after Iheld her in the hospital, my heart pounding with fear and relief. After all of that, she dares to see me as a monster?
It hurts, God, it hurts, a raw, aching pain that twists my insides.
I know she’s in town, holed up with Annabel in some cramped apartment near the market, and part of me—buried deep under the fury—aches to check on her, to know if she’s okay. If she’s sleeping, eating, surviving. If she needs money?
But I’ve stayed away, ignored the urge to call, to drive to her, because I’m too angry, too wounded by her distrust, by her ugly accusation that I could stoop so low. She knows me not at all.
I take another sip of the amber liquid.
Truth is, she’s messing me up, unraveling me from the inside, stealing my focus, and my control. I have come to hate this power she has over me, and I am determined to rip her from my chest. It is my fault. I allowed her to burrow so deep. I gave her this much access to my heart. It is the height of foolishness, and I cannot believe it myself that I have fallen so hard for a mere woman. They are always trouble. I should have known better.
I feel mocked. The scotch tempts me, calls out to me again, its burn promising numbness, and I reach for it and down it all in one go.
There is a knock on the door, and my plan is to ignore it. The staff know better than to bother me when I'm here, which is why I'm pretty sure the knock is a mistake. Whoever it is will come to their senses and walk away. But it comes again, and I look up, my gaze lethal. I swear to myself right then that whoever it is, is going to get fired.
To my surprise, the door swings open without my permission.
“For fuck’s sake-” I start, but the rest of the curse dies on my tongue when I see that it’s my mother, her silver hair sweptelegantly, her navy coat crisp. Her presence is a surprise that douses my rage like cold water. She’s not supposed to be here, not for another month.
“Why are you back so early?” I ask moodily.
Her smile is bright and radiant and frankly too much for me to handle right now. I watch warily as she glides in and settles into the leather chair across my desk. Her posture is regal, and her eyes carry an expression of invincibility.
“I heard murmurings of a fire and a girl.”
I sigh and catch her eyes sweep to the empty tumbler of scotch on my table.
“So the girl has turned out to be more trouble than her grandmother?” She sounds amused, which irritates me further.
“There’s been no trouble,” I counter. “The cottage burnt down. No fault of ours, and it’s bloody annoying because they still can’t find the reason why.”
Her eyebrows arch. “And the girl?”
“Gone,” I reply sourly. “Her home has burned down so she had to find somewhere else to stay.”
My mother's eyes are filled with mischief and laughter. “But I was under the impression she stayed here during the renovation works to her cottage.”
My mother’s good humor irks me. I don't want her to play the matchmaker. She thinks Lauren is like the daughters of her friends, society girls. I wish she would take her interfering ways and be gone. I want the solitude to nurse my wounds, but she doesn’t move. Her eyes hold mine relentlessly.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asks.
My voice rises, raw with pain. “Why should I do something about it? I don’t care. She’s living with a friend in the village. She accused me of burning her house down. Can you believe that? What does she think I am?”
Her eyes widen dramatically, but I still get the impression she finds the sorry situation funny. I lose the ability to remain silent.
“The nerve of her. I risked my life to save her. I ran into that fire for her and that ungrateful little—” I stop, my throat tight. Admitting it out loud has made the betrayal cut deeper.
My mother’s face softens, and a small smile curves her lips. “You really like her, don’t you?” Her voice is gentle, knowing, and I freeze, my breath catching because it’s more than that, so much more, and I can’t hide it, not from her.
“Like her? I hate her guts,” I mutter, but the lie hurts so much that I have to say the truth, at least once.
