Hot New Neighbor (Alphalicious Billionaires 11)

It’s him.

It’s freaking him.

Mr. Mob.

Oh god, he’s come to kill me and finish me off right in my own house. He knows I’m onto him, and he’s going to kill me. Well, the joke is on him since I now have evidence. That is if he didn’t notice the camera and won’t dismantle everything. But the security place has the footage of him standing there, right? It all gets monitored there, so he can’t destroy the evidence. Isn’t that how it works?

I watch him tap his toe impatiently. He has something in his hand. A can of something. Probably mace. Maybe that’s how I’m going to go out—maced and diced.

I shudder violently at the thought, but I can’t let my fears get the best of me. I have to face this. If he’s not out there to kill me right now, then maybe I can still make him believe my innocence. I could act crazier. Prattle on about heatstroke and spiders again.

What I can’t do is leave him standing out there. That would only make everything worse. I’m sure it would. It would make me more paranoid at any rate, and I’m not sure I need that at the moment. I have to find out what he wants.

Famous last thoughts.

That famous last thought itself crosses my mind as I pull open the door.

“H–hi.” I hiccup. It sounds anything but natural. My hand quivers on the doorknob, but I don’t release it in case I need to slam the door in his face.

Mr. Mob, dressed in his signature black t-shirt and jeans and looking like his normal, delicious self, holds up the can. I go to duck on instinct, maybe punch out and try and catch him in the ball bag area to cripple him so I can make a fast getaway, but then I spot a picture of a giant spider on the can. And an ant beside it. And some other creepy looking critter beside that.

“I brought you this,” he explains in his rich, deep tone. He actually has a nice voice. It’s probably the last voice a lot of people have heard, too. I can’t let myself think nice things about him.

“Uh—bug spray?” My voice wavers painfully. It’s far too high-pitched.

“Yes. It’s assured to kill spiders. So it says. You spray the area of your room that is infected, and there you have it. Once and done.”

Once and done? How many people has he “onced” and “doned”?

I reach out with my other hand, which is also trembling, and take the can. “Is this safe to spray on my bed?” Why did I just ask that? Shut the door and be done with this.

“Oh.” He suddenly looks uncertain. It’s strange to see him as anything less than composed. It’s strange how the frown marring his brow doesn’t look at all awful on him. He has the kind of face that is beautiful all the time. Like a resting bitch face, except for him, it’s resting handsome face.

Could I be any more pathetic? This guy is probably a freaking mobster!

“I’m not actually sure.” He studies the can for a second. “You know, it appears pretty toxic. Maybe don’t try it after all.”

“Okay.” I know I should shut the door, but I’m paralyzed. Not just with fear either. Because suddenly, Mr. Mob is smiling a little, and it is dazzling. Like I just got struck with lightning style dazzling or maybe tasered by a mobster style dazzling.

“I also thought I could come in and check your air con for you? You said it wasn’t working.”

Shit! That was a lie! Shit, he can probably feel the cool air rolling out towards him. Shit, shit, freakshit, shitstack, shit.

I’m apparently not good at thinking on the spot. Internal cursing? You bet. Actual thinking? Heck no. It’s so obvious the air is running. He can probably hear the unit buzzing away all the way from his house.

“You know, it actually kicked in,” I lie. “About an hour ago. I don’t know; maybe it’s going on its way out. It’s older.”

“I could still take a look at it for you.”

“Uh—I was kind of in the middle of something, but maybe tomorrow?” WHY? Why would I say that? I guess it’s less painful than blurting out, please leave and don’t kill me. And don’t come back to kill me. Can we just forget about killing me altogether?

“Sure.” Mr. Mob gives me a blank sort of look. I’m probably giving a strange one back. I do my best to rearrange my face into blankness, but it probably just makes me look constipated. “What time?”

“At—er—ah—around six?”

“Sure. I’ll bring my tools just in case something is off. I’m not a plumber or a mechanic, but I am pretty handy.”

I’ll bet you are. Pretty handy at rolling people up in rugs and making them disappear—which makes me realize I haven’t even bothered to check if the rug is still in his yard. What kind of hecking detective am I anyway? Stealing sex toys, getting caught breaking and entering, and now letting the perp right into my house?