Page 1 of Fired Up (Alphas Forever 2)

Layla

Oh. My. God. My upstairs neighbor is driving me insane. No, seriously, this time I might actually go crazy.

It's ten minutes after midnight and all I want to do is sleep. But I can't, because Mr. Restless in the apartment directly above me is pacing around like a madman. It's the ninth night in a row that he's done it, and the ninth night that it's kept me awake.

What the hell is wrong with this guy?

Here’s what makes the whole thing extra annoying: my best friend, Carrie, used to live in that apartment. For four years, it was the best setup ever. We hung out constantly; we were always inviting each other over to eat dinner; we even did our laundry at the same time. But then things got serious between Carrie and her boyfriend, and she decided to move in with him. Across town. Like, way across town. Not that I blame her. If I had a boyfriend like Carrie's, and he asked me to move in with him, you bet your ass I would say yes.

Still, it sucks not having Carrie around anymore. I have no shame in admitting that I'm lonely. Who wouldn't be sad to have their best friend move away? I’ve been dealing with it, though, as best as I can. I even told myself that maybe whoever moved into her old apartment would become my new friend.

What wishful thinking that was.

I pull my bed covers up over my face—and my ears. But all that does is barely muffle the sounds coming from above. I can't believe how loud my neighbor’s footsteps are. It sounds like he's got concrete-soled boots on. That, or he is one massive dude. I haven't met him yet—and the first impression he's made hasn't exactly made me want to—but I can't help imagine a seven foot tall hulk of a man living upstairs.

I guess that's part of the reason why I haven't done anything about it yet. As annoyed as I am, I'm also intimidated. Who knows what this guy is like? What if he has…you know, issues? My complaint won't exactly be anonymous if I talk to our building manager. And the last thing I need is an upstairs neighbor with an anger management problem who hates me.

Tonight, though, I can't take it any longer. I've been lying in bed for an hour and a half, unable to sleep, and it's not going to get any better. And tonight, of all nights, I need to get some sleep. I have a big presentation to give at work tomorrow morning. I've been preparing for it like crazy, and it's really important that I get it right—I have to pitch our company’s services to potential new client. It's the first time I've been asked to give a presentation like this, and it's my chance to prove myself. If I do well, I could actually gain the respect of my impossible-to-please boss. If I screw it up...well, I don't even want to think about that.

Basically, I can't screw it up. And to not screw it up, I need a decent night’s sleep.

I groan and throw off the bed covers. I get out of bed. My bare feet sink into the plush rug on my bedroom floor. I don't feel like getting dressed, but I know I probably shouldn't storm upstairs in what I'm wearing, either, so I yank a zip-up hoodie from my closet and throw it on over my camisole.

On my way out the door, I take two seconds to check my reflection in the mirror, just to make sure I don't look like a total crazy person. My hair is a bit unkempt from all the tossing and turning in bed, but it's nothing that running my fingers through it a few times doesn't fix.

As I head down the hallway and step into the elevator, I think about how glad I’ll be when I don't have to deal with stuff like this. I mean, I guess I could always have annoying neighbors. But in a cramped apartment building, everything is made worse. I dream of the day that I live in a house—and, okay, the fantasy also includes a husband and kids. At twenty-three, getting married and starting a family is often on my mind. Especially when it seems like everyone my age is starting to do exactly that. When Carrie moved in with her boyfriend, she told me she was 99% sure that a proposal wasn’t too far behind.

On the elevator ride up, I allow myself to slip into my fantasy—I need to think of something pleasant to keep this anger of mine in check. As irritated as I am, I want to be level-headed when I confront my inconsiderate neighbor. So, as silly as it might sound, as I ride up to the fourth floor, I imagine what my future husband might look like. He's tall, swarthy, and handsome, of course. He looks like he could be a celebrity, but he's totally down to earth. And he'll look even hotter when he's caring for our kids—in my fantasy, we have two little ones, plus one more on the way.

I reach my neighbor’s door and return to reality. I can hear him clomping around in there, pacing around his apartment like it's his job. I look at the peephole straight on and steel myself. I clench my hand into a fist and knock on the door.

As soon as I rap on the door, his footsteps stop. After a few seconds of silence, they start up again, growing louder this time as he approaches the door. I fold my arms across my chest and watch as the door opens. I ready myself to tell him off.

When the door opens and I see him, though, my resolve wavers. This is my new neighbor? This is the guy driving me nuts? He looks like he stepped out of a high-end fashion catalog. He looks...well, disturbingly like the imaginary husband that I fantasize about.

Luckily, his good looks only briefly disarm me. My anger quickly resurfaces. Just because he's hot, that doesn't mean he can act like an asshole. I'm not one of those girls who lets guys get away with that.

“Can you keep it down?” I say. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

He frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Your stomping,” I say.

“My stomping?”

“Yes. Your loud, obnoxious stomping.”

For a few seconds, we just stare at each other. I stare up at him, waiting for an apology, and he stares down at me, looking confused and indignant. As if I was the one doing laps around my apartment, not him.

And then, to my amazement, he mumbles, “I have to go,” and shuts the door in my face.

Is this guy for real?

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