Hetch (Men OF S.W.A.T #1)(6)

It turns out I was right.

How hot and exceptionally disturbing.

I groan in frustration, knocking my forehead to the cool tile of the shower wall.

Deciding there’s only so much dwelling one can do in a shower, I gingerly turn the faucet off and step out. Too chicken to go back to my room, I dress in my bathrobe and quietly walk out of my bathroom.

I eye the hall to my bedroom with shame. Only an hour ago, the thought of walking to my bed seemed like a simple task, something I wouldn’t think twice about. Now the thought makes me want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Deciding I can’t deal with what happened tonight and sleep in my room, I head toward my living room. My three-seater sofa isn’t the most comfortable piece of furniture, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I fetch a quilted blanket—one my grandmother made me—out of the hallway cupboard and settle on two of my throw pillows. For a second, I think I hear footsteps at my front door, and I freeze midmovement. When nothing comes of it, I flop down on my sofa.

Jesus, what is wrong with me? Hiding in my own apartment.

This is not normal behavior for me. I mean, it’s not like I can’t get a man. It’s just I don’t want one. Not after recently getting out of a messed-up relationship. Sure, no strings attached sex would be nice, as would an orgasm or two that didn't come from a vibrator. I mean, clearly I’m wound up ready to combust if the sound of a man’s muffled voice makes me want to finger myself. But it’s not what I need. I need time to decompress, time to find myself.

Hence this damn Sabbatical.

It wasn’t some fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants decision. Five weeks of living in the same room I grew up in can do a lot to a person. Tristan and I had been seeing each other for three years. I honestly thought he was it for me. I was thinking marriage and maybe kids while he was off f*cking some twenty-year-old *. Not once in my carefully thought-out plans did I expect to be single at thirty again. It’s depressing and somewhat sobering. I mean I could have gone down the party-and-f*ck-everything-with-a-penis road, but honestly, where would it lead me? More alone and feeling sorry for myself when the self-loathing finally kicked in.

Instead, I made a promise. No men and no sex for six months.

The first five weeks were a breeze.

The last two weeks have been hell.

If only apartment nine would get the memo and quit f*cking like a porn star on a reunion show.

“Ugghh.” I scream into my pillow. Every detail of the night plays over in my head, and before I know it, I’ve worked myself up into a mess.

Needing someone to talk me down from my impending freak-out, I reach for the phone and dial my best friend, Payton.

“Hello?” She answers on the third ring.

“I knew you would still be up,” I greet, not caring it’s after midnight.

“Yeah, Arabella is teething.”

Arabella is Payton’s four-year-old daughter. She’s also my niece and goddaughter.

“Again?” I don’t know much about teeth, but it seems like the poor kid is too old for new teeth.

“Ahh, yeah. These ones are her second molars. It’s hell.”

“Ugghh, I bet.” I shudder, not sure how she does the mothering gig most days. That shit is scary.

Payton and I have been friends since high school. Even though we weren’t the best of friends in the beginning—since she was captain of the cheer squad and I was captain of the debate team—we soon got to know each other when she started dating my older brother, Jett.

Jett and Payton, the cliché, high-school sweethearts.

Payton and I grew closer when we left for college, even living in the same dorm. No one, especially me, would have guessed Payton and Jett would have survived high school and college, but they proved us all wrong five years ago when they married. They beat the odds, had the perfect relationship, fell pregnant right after their honeymoon, and nine months later welcomed Miss Arabella.

They had it all.

Until last year when my dipshit brother went and ruined it by cheating on her.

“What are you doing up?” she asks, oblivious to my personal dilemma.

“One word: neighbor.”

“What? Again? Are you kidding me? What’s that, every night this week?” She’s trying not to laugh, but failing miserably. I’ve been filling her in on my neighbor’s activities, even calling her on Sunday to let her listen in on the f*ck-a-thon. “I think it’s time you need to address this, Lib. What about a note?”

“Yeah, I don’t think a note is going to fix this.”

Could it?

“You never know. You could write something like, “Hey, neighbor, I’ve heard you like to f*ck a lot, maybe you can ball gag the next bitch you bring home, so I’m not being woken at one every morning.”

“Umm, no. That’s not happening.” I laugh, knowing Payton isn’t joking. She would have had a note pinned up on apartment nine’s door, signed and dated after the first night here if this were happening to her.

“Why the hell not? Maybe he doesn’t know the walls are stupidly thin.”

“Nope, I’m pretty sure he knows.”

“How do you know?”

“Because something happened,” I offer, still unsure how I even begin to fill her in what happened tonight.

“What? Did you finally meet him? He’s hot, isn’t he? I knew it. No man f*cks the way you described and isn’t attractive. Tell me how hot is he?” Her voice rises with each question.