Chapter Three
Brooke
I knew it, I just knew it. I was totally right about Emerson. Seeing him with that fake-tittied bimbo downstairs only confirmed everything I suspected about the type of guy he was. Seriously, no guy who looks like that is ever a solid, down-to-Earth, nice guy. Ever. That's just the way the world works. I called it from the moment I saw him. He's a player. I was sure of that now, and as hot as he was—and God, was he hot—the best thing for me to do was just stay the hell away from him. For a brief moment there, before bimbo Barbie showed up, I actually thought there was a chance I might have jumped to conclusions a little too quickly. I thought there might be something different about him. But I was a fool for thinking that could be the case. Nope. That was just straight up wishful thinking. At least I had proof to confirm my suspicions when Leslie tried to talk me into getting to know him better again. That'll help erase any trace of attraction I may have had for him. Let him have his bimbos. That’s exactly what every player deserves—a woman as fake as they are.
“Hey, Bee, you gonna actually cut those potatoes or just stare at them for another five minutes?”
“Sorry, Les,” I said, snapping out of the thought-trance I'd slipped into. I do that sometimes.
“What were you thinking about? You looked as if you were a million miles away.”
“Oh, nothing much.”
“Not Andrew, I hope.”
“Nope. Not Andrew, I promise.”
“Good.”
I started cutting the potatoes while Leslie got on with preparing the chicken, each of us doing our work in silence. That was until a gaggle of high-pitched, very loud female voices began echoing bouts of raucous laughter up and down the outside corridor of our apartment.
“Damn, sounds like a whole cheerleading squad is busting some moves out there!” exclaimed Leslie. “What the heck is going on?”
“Oh, I think I know. The guys next door are having a party tonight, and those are their 'hoes,' or whatever they call them.”
Leslie busted out laughing. “Their 'hoes,' huh? Really, Brooke?”
I looked at her, my head cocked to the side. “What? I'm not joking, Les! I met one of them half an hour ago when I took the garbage downstairs. She was wearing the shortest cocktail dress I've ever seen. It was practically screaming 'hey everyone, look at my panties!' every time she took a step. That is if she was even wearing panties. And her boobs looked like they were planning a jailbreak from the top of that dress. Not that it would have been much of a jailbreak. Those things were barely covered by an inch of fabric to begin with.”
Leslie lost it. She was laughing so hard she had to sit down in a chair at the kitchen table. “Oh, my god, are you serious?”
Her laughter was infectious. I couldn't help letting out a few giggles myself and grinning from ear to ear, even if I was feeling a bit jealous thinking about Emerson and bimbo Barbie. “I'm completely serious. She looked like she just stepped off the set of a porn film.”
Leslie laughed again. “Damn, so that's what those two players next door to us are into, huh?”
“I guess it is. Are you really surprised, though? I mean, that’s exactly what I imagined Chris would be into.”
She shrugged and shook her head, still laughing. “Well, I guess not.”
Another bout of bawdy laughter echoed outside our door and a high-pitched, exaggerated, “Oh, my God!” boomed down the corridor. We exchanged glances and then both burst out laughing.
“Oh, my God,” repeated Leslie in a mocking high-pitched voice that sounded very much like a stereotypical airhead.
I couldn't help laughing hysterically.
Then we heard Chris's voice booming outside. “Ladies! Welcome to the party palace!”
That’s when we really lost it. We almost fell over laughing at that one. After that, though, the noise died down, as they'd all gone inside the apartment. We could hear a bit of bass coming through the walls from the music, but that was about it. We prepared the rest of our dinner giggling and sporadically blurting out, “Oh, my God!”
***
After dinner, the music ramped up a bit.
“Sounds like things are getting serious over there,” I remarked to Leslie.
“That it does. You wanna go over there and join ‘em?”
I laughed. But part of me wasn’t so sure she might not have meant it. “No thanks! But seriously, the music is getting a bit much, don't you think?”
“Yeah, it is kinda getting on my nerves. Should we go over and ask 'em to turn it down a little?”
A shot of uncomfortable heat coursed through my veins at the thought of seeing Emerson drunk with those half-naked bimbos. Then the thought that he might very well be half-naked, too, took over. I didn't really want to see anything like that at the moment.
“Um, nah. It's Friday night, you know; we should just let them have their fun. Besides, we just moved in. Let’s not be those neighbors on the first night here.”
“Valid point,” she agreed.
“Let's crack open a bottle of wine and watch some TV. We've got a long way to go to catch up to where The Walking Dead is, right? C'mon, I'll get some snacks and we can chill out on the sofa. The sounds of zombies on TV will drown out the sounds of the zombies next door.”
Leslie chuckled. “Sounds like a plan. I'll put the dishes in the dishwasher, and you can get snacks and wine.”
A few minutes later, we settled down on the sofa with a glass of wine each and chips with salsa.
“This really is a comfy sofa! Especially without the plastic wrap,” I teased.
“You know what old people say, they don't make 'em like they used to. Well, that's true for a few things, I think! This sofa being one of 'em.”
“It sure is! Alright, let's get our Walking Dead on.”
We put on the show, settled down on the big, plush sofa and started to enjoy the evening. As we had hoped, the sound of the show managed to drown out the strains of music coming through the walls, and soon we'd all but forgotten about the party going on in the apartment next to ours.
After we'd watched two episodes, Leslie started yawning, and her eyes looked as if they were about to close, with her eyelids hanging heavily.
“I'm tired, real tired,” she sighed. “All the effort of moving, carrying stuff, unpacking, cleaning… I think it's finally gotten to me. I’m gonna head to bed.”
“Aw, but, Les, we've just opened a second bottle of wine! And it's our first night together in our new place. You can't just fade out now!”
“Sorry, Bee, I'm just dead tired. You know I haven't slept much the past few nights, and it’s really catching up to me.”
“Well, who am I gonna watch Game of Thrones with then?”
Leslie rolled her eyes. “C'mon, Brooke, you know I only half-watch that anyway. Most of the time I sleep through it. I’m not crazy about it like you are.”
I knew she was right—she didn't care much for it. She watched it with me kind of like I watched Sons of Anarchy with her. I didn’t much like it, but it was only fair.
“And besides, haven’t you already watched the entire thing twice? I don’t know why you wanna watch it again, seriously.”
“Because it's like—”
“The best show ever, I know, I know. You’ve told me like, a million times!” she laughed as she got up from the sofa. “But really, Brooke, I'm spent for the day. I feel like one of the zombies from The Walking Dead. The combination of wine and exhaustion over the past few days has really knocked me out. I'm off to bed, girl.”
“Alright, alright,” I conceded. “See you in the morning. Sleep well!”
“Will do. You, too, when you eventually make it to bed, Night Owl.”
I watched her trudge off to her room and sighed as she shut the door quietly behind her. Here I was, sitting alone in front of the TV on a Friday night, with a bottle of wine. It all seemed just a little bit sad, suddenly. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t going to be every Friday night. Or is it? A shudder ran down my spine at the thought. I brushed it off as quickly as I could and started up an episode of Game of Thrones.
Leslie was right; I'd already watched it all the way through, twice. But hey, it really was my favorite show. I'm a sucker for a story with unexpected surprises and twists. And boy did this series have them. More than that, it had genuinely interesting and fascinating characters set in a world full of sorcery and magic. I have kind of been a closet geek-girl since I was a little kid, but because fantasy and sci-fi had always been seen as such a teenage boy kind of genre, I'd never had any female friends who were as into it as I was. Well, to be honest, who were into it period. Oddly enough, none of the guys I'd ever dated had been into it, either. Especially Andrew. He pretty much loathed it with a passion. We had never been able to relate at all on that level.
Come to think of it, we didn’t really relate on a lot of levels.
In fact, I felt like I could relate to fictional characters more than I ever could with Andrew. Arya Stark, for example—a headstrong, quick-witted girl who valued intelligence and independence far more than the conventional “girly” things, like beauty and dresses. That was me. I didn’t need to get all dolled up to feel like I could impress a man. I wanted more than a physical connection. Arya was also thrust into a totally different world in which she was moved around from place to place and had to rely on her own determination and grit to survive. She never got the chance to have any close friends because they were removed from her life by forces beyond her control. I could relate. I could totally relate.
I got comfy on the sofa and pressed play. At that moment, I heard noise outside in the hall. I paused the show so that I could hear what was going on a bit more clearly.
It was Emerson and Chris, of course, and their bevy of bimbos. They were all laughing raucously and talking in loud, boisterous voices. Clearly, they were all wasted. Probably heading out to continue partying at a club somewhere. I shook my head, although a little bit of… something I couldn’t quite explain… twisted inside me at the thought of those girls pawing at Emerson's hard, muscular body and grinding against him on the dance floor--
Stop it, Brooke! I took a deep swig of wine and resumed playing the show. Game of Thrones would keep me company and entertain my mind in a far more effective manner than any brainless muscle-head. Let them go out and get wasted. Whatever.
I leaned back and let myself get whisked off into a different universe.
That is until I fell asleep.
I'm not sure how late it was when I woke up, but it must have been some time in the early hours of the morning. I felt a little disoriented, a shock of sudden panic hit me waking up in a completely unfamiliar place. It took a few seconds before I remembered I was in my own place, my new apartment.
I turned off the TV, heaved myself off the sofa, and stumbled to my bathroom, still feeling the effects from all the wine I'd drank. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and got undressed. Then I slipped into bed, snuggling up to my sheets and pillow, the only familiar things in this new room.
And that’s when I heard it.
Bumping. Vigorous, regular, rhythmic bumping. It was coming from the room next to mine. Something was being knocked against the wall, with quite a fair amount of force. I listened for a second until I heard yet another sound on top of it.
“Oh, my God. Oh. My. God.”
It was the bimbo I'd met by the dumpster. I recognized that shrill, annoying voice. She was moaning and gasping. It was muffled by the wall, but there was no doubt that it was her voice. I also heard a guy's voice grunting and groaning with both effort and pleasure.
Awesome. They're having sex. Right next to me. Emerson and that damn slut.
I was too tired to deal with it. I didn't want to even picture the slightest hint of what was happening on the other side of the wall. I got up, got Tylenol PM out of my medicine drawer, and washed it down with the last of the wine. I then plugged my headphones into my iPhone, put on some Adele, and let her voice drown out the sounds of… whatever was going on next door. Soon, I drifted off into a deep sleep, oblivious to what was happening on the other side of the wall.