Free The Neighbors by Ania Ahlborn Page A

her head, offering them a shrug.
    The girls blinked at one another before exhaling a communal groan.
    “Him?”
the blonde asked.
    “Oh God,” the redhead countered. “Spaz-city.”
    “He probably smells like pepperoni,” the first joked.
    “Yeah, his
sausage
does.”
    Another uproar of laughter. Harlow chuckled but didn’t budge.
    “Don’t blame us when you get the clap from that dirty bird,” the golden-haired one chided.
    “He’s a
busboy
,” the redhead reminded her.
    “I’ll catch you later,” Harlow told them.
    “Whatever.” The blonde sighed with a roll of her eyes, genuinely annoyed to be leaving the third Angel behind. “Just don’t get preggo by the Italian Stallion.”
    “Yeah.” The fiery one smirked. “Explain
that
to your pops. ‘But, Daddy, he was a busboy,’” she teased, fluttering her lashes, her hand pressed to her chest.
    “At least he’s got a job,” Harlow said.
    Her friends finally relented, waving their hands dismissively and exiting in a cacophony of chatter. Harlow remained at the now empty table, one long leg crossed over the other, a pair of woven platform shoes lending an extra inch to her long legs.
    His way clear, Red dared to approach her table. Harlow offered him a smile.
    “Hey,” she said. “Sorry about my friends. They’re total airheads, you know.” She shrugged again, excusing the others’ lack of class.
    “You want another Coke?” Red asked, motioning to her near-empty glass. “No charge.”
    “No charge?” Harlow raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, sure, I’ll take another. What are you, the owner or something?”
    “The owner of what? This place?” Red nearly blushed at the suggestion. He’d only be so lucky, owning his own business in a big city.
    “Sure,” she said, reaching for her purse. “Handing out free pop the way you are. You’re either the owner or you’ve got a lot of soda money.”
    “Or I’m just buying a pretty girl a soda,” he said, deciding to take the risk. “Something wrong with that?”
    “I guess not.”
    “I get off my shift in ten minutes,” he confided, sure that if he didn’t make his move he’d never see this stunner again; and then he’d spend the rest of his life wondering
what if
.
    “Do you?” Harlow smiled impishly at his confession, pulling a pack of Lucky Strikes from her bag. “You got a light?”
    Red patted down his pockets, then motioned to the kitchen. “In my jacket...”
    “Forget it,” she muttered around the filter, digging through her purse for matches.
    “Want to grab a drink?” he asked. “After my shift?”
    Harlow gave him a look past her lashes, thick with mascara.
    “Oh, I don’t
drink
,” she told him. “Daddy’s a pastor.”
    “Yeah?” Red asked. “Is that why you’re studying that stuff?” He nodded to her school books, and Harlow rolled her eyes.
    “Yeah,” she said. “Something like that.”
    “You think he’s watching?”
    “He’s always watching.”
    “How’s that?” Red asked, plucking her empty glass off the table.
    “Through God’s eyes, baby.” She winked, lighting her smoke. “I imagine I’m going to be struck down any minute now.”

    The headlights of the TransAm cut through the darkness, casting weird shadows across the face of the house. Drew had nursed the day’s wounds by watching talk shows and reality TV all afternoon when he should have been applying for work at gas stations and truck stops, but the bitter blow of countless nos had temporarily grounded him.
    Mickey dragged himself through the door, and though he’d been gone the entire day, his appearance offered no clue where he had been. There was no uniform to suggest a day of work, no duffel bag or water bottle to suggest time spent at the gym.
    “Hey,” Drew greeted him from the couch.
    Mick offered his roommate a nod of the head, attempted to force a smile, but his expression was unreadable.
    “Where were you?” Drew asked.
    “Out,” Mickey replied.
    “Just out?”