The Twilight Twenty-Five
thetwilight25 dot com
Pen Name: bebeginja
Word Count: 496
Photo prompts can be found here:
thetwilight25 dot com/round-eight/prompts
I have new neighbors, and they're driving me insane.
Not only do their cars take up most of the parking on our narrow residential street, but they've got people constantly coming and going, resulting in that damn motion detecting light above their garage to flash steadily throughout the night. Right through my bedroom window.
How many people do they have living there, anyway?
Tonight, it's their music again. The incessant pounding, the starting and stopping . . . I can't handle it. I toss and turn, trying to muffle the noise with my pillow for nearly an hour before I decide I've had enough. I throw my comforter back, slip my feet into a pair of flip flops, and stomp through my yard to the driveway next door. The motion light signals my arrival like an alarm.
If these assholes make me bruise my knuckles banging on this door, there will be hell to pay.
Just as I raise my fist to beat on the door again, it swings open, and I freeze with one fist in the air and another on my hip.
He's tall, mid-twenties, with killer green eyes and a day's worth of stubble. Tatted biceps peek out beneath a threadbare white t-shirt. One hand rests up on the door jam, a guitar is slung across his body, and a guitar pick is gripped between his lips. His hair is a perfect mess, long on top and buzzed close on the sides.
All of the rage that fueled my trip over here has dissipated, and I'm suddenly aware that I am standing at my neighbor's door in my baby doll sleep tank and boy shorts.
Why am I here again?
"Hi," I say, sticking out my hand. "I'm Isabella Swan. I live next door."
My neighbor looks down at my hand, then to my chest, my neck, my mouth, and finally meets my eyes. One side of his mouth rises into the sexiest crooked smile. He removes the pick from his mouth and opens the door wider. He smacks his palm into mine and lifts our hands in an exaggerated, slow motion hand shake.
Christ, he's a Brit.
His accent and the deep rasp of his voice, combined with the rough of his long, slender fingers, render me speechless. I stand stunned, with wide eyes and an open mouth.
Peering around him, I can see that the garage has been made into a make shift studio of some sort, complete with a sound system and mock stage.
"You have a band?" I ask, although it's obvious.
"Yeah, you wanna come in? We practice most nights. I hope it doesn't disturb you."
"Oh, no! Not at all." Lying doesn't usually come so easily to me.
Ignoring the fact that just fifteen minutes ago I wanted to murder someone, and forgetting that I'm still in my sleep clothes, I follow him.
And I'm certain this won't be the last time I do.