Easy to Hate: Neighbors Series #1 Read online

  Copyright © 2022 Hannah Blowers

  www.hannahblowers.com

  All rights reserved.

  Easy to Hate

  Neighbors, 1

  Published by: Hannah Blowers

  Cover Design: Hannah Blowers

  Cover Photography: Vasyl

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address [email protected].

  This book contains mature themes not appropriate for readers under the age of 18. For more content information and trigger warnings, please visit https://hannahblowers.com/my-books.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PREVIEW OF HARD TO HANDLE

  SUBSCRIBE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Brady

  There are strange noises coming from the unit next door.

  Laughter maybe?

  Yes, definitely laughter.

  Cackles, to be exact.

  And shouting. Lots and lots of shouting.

  From one—make that two loud females.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  I like to consider myself a fairly simple man who doesn’t need much to be happy. A few things such as fishing, an ice-cold beer and having a few moments of blissful peace and quiet usually do the trick. Even the sound the aluminum makes whenever I crack open the pull tab of beer is music to my ears.

  After sweating my ass off from all the unpacking, I finally have time to relax. I just moved in today but couldn’t stand the idea of tripping over boxes or searching through them every time I needed to use something. So I kept unpacking until every single item in those boxes had a home.

  Now I can sit back in my patio chair, prop my feet up on the plastic stool and breathe in the pleasantly cool evening air, while enjoying a refreshing, ice-cold beer and blissful peace and quiet. Or at least I could before my air of tranquil serenity was so rudely disturbed by my cackling neighbors.

  They can at least close their balcony doors so the entire building doesn’t have to hear them. I’m already in a piss-poor mood, and the two laughing hyenas aren’t helping. In fact, my mood is worse now than it was while I was unpacking.

  They, however, sound like they’re having a grand old time. Doing what exactly, I’m not sure. It sounds like one of them needed a break from studying and the other is encouraging her to get drunk and let loose.

  Which means they’re college students.

  Just fucking perfect.

  This is exactly why I moved off campus, even though it means paying rent and enduring a much longer commute to work.

  It’s just my luck to get stuck living next to two loud teenagers or early twenty-something-year-olds. I have nothing against college students—I was one myself once, albeit older than most of the other undergrads in my classes—but I’m around college students all the time, considering I’m an instructor. I learned quickly I didn’t need to live next to them, too.

  Young adults, my ass. More like impudent children.

  I feel like the property management should’ve included that minor detail in the apartment listing. Or that they don’t require everyone to follow their uniform policies.

  A peaceful, friendly community? What a joke.

  They’ll definitely be hearing from me about their false advertising.

  “Dude, I’m sorry to tell you this, Harp, but your boyfriend’s a fucking loser! Even Elisa said so!”

  “He’s just misunderstood!”

  “Misunderstood?! Bryce is such a creep!”

  “Is not!”

  I take a swig of my beer through gritted teeth, wishing I had a TV right now. It won’t be here until tomorrow, which is very unfortunate and inconvenient at the moment because I need a distraction from reality. Listening to my neighbors’ conversation makes me furious and sad, considering it reminds me of the conversations I’ve had with my brother. I kept trying to tell Owen his girlfriend, Naomi, was no good for him, but he wouldn’t listen. I bet this Bryce guy isn’t married, though.

  Or maybe he is. I really don’t know.

  I need something to take my mind off the overwhelming urge to hop on a plane, fly to Michigan and kick my brother’s ass for being the fucking moron he is. And let me tell you, the urge is very powerful right now.

  Owen told me the woman he’s seeing is married. They’ve been dating for six months, and she was lying to him the entire time. I already didn’t like her very much to begin with because she was a controlling bitch—I’m the only one who’s allowed to be a controlling bitch to my brother—and because ever since he started seeing her, I haven’t been able to hang out with him very much. Whenever we made plans, he canceled because Naomi wanted to spend time with him. And he was my best friend. Now he tells me he’s staying with her, even though she’s still with her husband.

  What the actual fuck?

  He’s so brainwashed, I couldn’t talk a lick of sense into that goddamn head of his. Now he wants me to be okay with them staying together while she’s still with her husband?

  “Okay, listen, if you’re going to talk shit about my boyfriend, we’re going to need more wine.”

  “Agreed.”

  The sweet silence that follows is soon shattered by, “Son of a fucking bitch!” a litany of more curses and, “We need a new corkscrew!”

  “But we’re too drunk to drive anywhere!”

  Damn.

  If only I had a corkscrew so they could drink more wine, get drunker and become even louder and more annoying than they already are.

  That’s not a bad idea, actually. If they’re anything like the college students I used to live with, the quicker they get drunk, the quicker they’ll be ready to go to bed. Which means, the quicker I’ll finally have my peace and quiet.

  I contemplate driving down to the corner store, but what would I even say if I showed up at their door with a corkscrew they didn’t ask for? Oh, hi, I was eavesdropping on your conversation and took it upon myself to go to the store and buy you this corkscrew so you could both drink yourselves into an alcohol-induced coma?

  Nope, I definitely can’t say that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Audrey

  “Son of a fucking bitch!”

  When I rush into the kitchen to see why my roommate is cussing up a storm, I’m expectin
g the counter and floor to be covered in wine and shattered glass, even though I didn’t hear any glass break, but Harper’s just holding the corkscrew and staring at the top of the bottle. I’m not sure why, though. The scene before me appears to be normal.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, my brows furrowed in confusion.

  “We need a new corkscrew!” Harper grabs the wine and points the lip of the bottle at me. That’s when I see the worm of the corkscrew jammed inside the cork. And the rest of the corkscrew is not attached.

  Which is very unfortunate.

  She’s been studying her ass off, except for the interruptions from her asshat of a boyfriend who she had a hell of a time getting rid of earlier. She had to push him out the door—okay, not literally, since she walked with him to the piece-of-shit penis-extension he drives. Notice, I didn’t say owns. Because it’s not even his car. His daddy’s a big fancy lawyer who bought it for him so he'd move out and live on his own like a big kid. The douchebag doesn’t even deserve a douchey car...or my roommate. But alas, he always gets what he wants, no matter how douchey he is.

  After Harper clocked a few hours of uninterrupted studying, I may have suggested she take a well-deserved break to indulge in some wine. One bottle quickly turned into three. Or rather, it would’ve if not for the end of the corkscrew breaking inside the cork.

  “But we're too drunk to drive anywhere!” I point out, considering how tipsy we both are.

  “Hold on.” She picks up her phone from the counter.

  I cock my brow. “You do realize Amazon Prime takes two days to ship, right?”

  “Yeah, I know, Aud. I’m not tha-aat drunk.” After looking at something on her phone for a minute, she dashes from the kitchen, returns with one of her tennis shoes and sets the phone down to pick up the wine bottle. She places the bottom of the bottle inside the shoe, goes to an empty section of the kitchen wall and raises the wine-shoe rig above her head, ready to strike the wall with the heel of her shoe.

  I rush over and put my hand around Harper’s wrist, attempting to stop her. “Wait, what are you doing?”

  “This will push out the cork.”

  “But won’t the wine spill all over?”

  “Not if I can get the cork out just a little bit and then pull it out the rest of the way myself.” She hits the shoe against the wall a few times, but the cork doesn’t budge.

  “Why don’t we see if any of the neighbors have a corkscrew?” I suggest. “This method doesn’t seem to be working.”

  She sighs and drops her arms. “Who do you think would have one?”

  “What about Tori? She’s a bartender and a wine drinker, so chances are she’ll have one.”

  Harper shakes her head. “She’s working tonight. And there’s no way I’m trying Mister Grumpy Pants across the hall. It always seems like he’ll snap at any moment. Plus, once his dog starts yapping, she never shuts up. What about the new guy who just moved in next door?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. What if he’s an ax murderer?”

  “I saw him earlier when he was moving in. He seems harmless enough and is kind of cute, actually,” she says matter-of-factly, as if his good looks are a reason to trust him.

  Quite the opposite, if you ask me. “Yeah, well, so was Ted Bundy. And I’d like to stay alive with my head intact, thank you very much.” I haven’t seen the new neighbor yet, but I don’t think going over to a stranger’s place while we’re both a little tipsy is the best idea, for several reasons.

  She flicks her hand. “Well, you don’t have to go. I will.” She grabs her keys, removes her pepper spray from the attached chain and throws her keys back on the counter before heading toward the door.

  “Harp, wait…”

  Ignoring my plea, she slips into her Crocs. “I’ll be fine. I got my handy dandy pepper spray,” she says, holding it up. Before I can talk any sense into her, she’s already dashing out the door and hollering over her shoulder, “If I’m not back in five minutes, call 9-1-1!”

  I sigh and close the door, pressing my ear against it so I can listen for Harper’s screams or any signs of a struggle.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brady

  When I head inside from the balcony, there’s a knock on the front door. I walk over and scratch my head, wondering who it could be. I just moved into this apartment today, so I don’t know any of my neighbors yet.

  I open the door to a woman with big green eyes and shoulder length, strawberry blonde hair. She’s easy on the eyes, but I have a feeling she’s one of the laughing hyenas next door. She’s not as young as I thought she’d be, and appears to be around my brother’s age.

  When I give her a once-over, I notice the pepper spray she’s trying to hide in her fist and wince at the sight of it. She doesn’t even have the safety lock on.

  I offer a tight-lipped smile. “Hello.”

  “Hi, I’m your next-door neighbor,” she mumbles, her words slurred together. She’s a little tipsy and has to lean against the doorframe for support.

  “How can I help you, next-door neighbor?” I ask, my eyes shifting away from the pepper spray. The sight of it brings back too many painful memories. Memories I’d rather keep locked away.

  “I was wondering if you had a corkscrew my roommate and I could borrow?”

  On the balcony, I wanted to strangle the two neighbors who were interrupting my quiet time, but now I feel very protective. She’s obviously drunk yet stumbling over to a neighbor she doesn’t even know. I mean, I like to consider myself an overall decent human being, or as people have called me before, “one of the good guys,” but this woman doesn’t know that. She knows nothing about me, yet she’s over here asking to borrow a corkscrew. And yes, she’s carrying a weapon, but I doubt she knows how to use it properly, and with how tipsy she is, I doubt she’d even be fast enough to use it.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  Her smile fades, but she looks determined, so I’m hoping she doesn’t go knocking on all her neighbors’ doors asking for a corkscrew.

  “I could buy you one,” I offer, trying to sound as polite as possible. Which is difficult, considering how irritated I am.

  Her eyes widen in surprise. “Really? You’d do that?” she asks dubiously, as though she’s surprised I would offer to do such a thing.

  I hold up my index finger and give her a stern look. “On one condition.”

  She nods excitedly. “Of course. Anything.”

  I’m so glad I’m a nice guy, because this woman seems far too trusting, and I’m afraid of what would’ve happened if I were anything less than a decent human being. “I’ll get you a corkscrew if you return to your apartment and keep the noise down for the rest of the night. And maybe close your balcony doors so the entire building can’t overhear your childish conversations.”

  I’m thinking this is a very reasonable request. I’m willing to leave the comfort of my apartment to hop in my car and go to the corner store to buy a corkscrew for two women I don’t know, and all they have to do is put a cap on the noise. But the scowl on her face tells me she disagrees.

  “Um, first of all,” she raises her index finger, “ruu-uuuuuuude!” She raises another finger. “Second, my roommate and I aren’t childish. We’re having a stressful day and were finally able to relax and drink some wine when our corkscrew broke. But that’s okay, we’ll figure out how to get the cork out ourselves!” She turns on her heels and starts toward her apartment, but spins around again and gets in my space, jabbing a finger at my chest. “And third, we weren’t being that loud!”

  I clench my jaw as she storms away and disappears inside her apartment, slamming the door behind her. I throw mine shut, huffing in frustration.

  Why couldn’t my neighbors be sweet old ladies?

  So much for having a relaxing evening.

  I’m heading back to my balcony when there’s another knock on the door.

  “Son of a bitch,” I curse under my breath as I march ov
er and yank it open. “What, now?” I snap when I see her standing at my door again.

  “I need to borrow a dress shoe.”

  I furrow my brows, growing more agitated. “A what?”

  She sighs as though I’m the one inconveniencing her. “A dress shoe,” she says impatiently. “Surely you’ve been to a wedding or funeral. You must have one.”

  “I do, but why do you—”

  Before I get the chance to answer, she shoves past me and heads toward my bedroom.

  I follow her in there and cross my arms over my chest in the doorway as I watch her rifle through my closet.

  “Wow, your closet is super organized,” she comments as she looks around, easily finding one of my brown dress shoes and grabbing it off the shoe rack.

  “What in the ever-loving hell are you doing?”

  She steps out of the closet and holds up the shoe, answering curtly, “I told you, I need to borrow a dress shoe.”

  Seriously?!

  The audacity of this woman waltzing into my apartment and taking one of my shoes! I scratch my head, trying to remember at what point I told her she could borrow one, but she didn’t even let me ask her why she needed it. She was too busy breaking into my apartment. “That’s funny, because I never said you could borrow one.”

  I’m still standing in the bedroom doorway, and when she tries to get through, I reach for my shoe, but she steps back and aims her pepper spray at me. Instinctively ducking out of the line of fire, I lunge forward, grabbing the pepper spray from her hand and twisting the safety lock.

  “Wait! Please don’t kill me! My roommate’s calling 9-1-1 if I’m not back in two minutes!” she cries, shielding herself with her hands.

  Sighing in exasperation, I extend the pepper spray to her. “I’m not trying to murder you. I’m trying to get my shoe back.”

  She slowly drops her arms and narrows her eyes as she snatches the spray from my hand. “Then why did you take my weapon?”

  I scoff. “It was a reflex so I didn’t get sprayed in the face. And I wasn’t trying to attack you. Do you know how many times I’ve been pepper-sprayed in the face?”