Dirty
Neighbor
The Dirty Suburbs #1
By
Cassie-Ann L. Miller
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release
Date: September 28, 2016
Synopsis
Keeland
Masters...Growing up, he was the boy next door, my brother’s best friend, the
guy who asked me to the prom...and then stood me up. He just vanished into thin
air.
Now that he’s back in town, he wants to come over to play. And I’m not talking hopscotch. But he’s hurt me once, so I’m sticking to my side of the fence no matter how good he looks pushing that lawnmower in all his tanned, toned shirtless glory.
Dirty Neighbor is book one in the "Dirty Suburbs", a series of stand-alone romantic comedies set in small town Illinois.
Now that he’s back in town, he wants to come over to play. And I’m not talking hopscotch. But he’s hurt me once, so I’m sticking to my side of the fence no matter how good he looks pushing that lawnmower in all his tanned, toned shirtless glory.
Dirty Neighbor is book one in the "Dirty Suburbs", a series of stand-alone romantic comedies set in small town Illinois.
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Excerpt
Keeland
I veer off of
the I-96 and guide my Harley onto the off-ramp. I grin to myself as I glance up
at the huge, green highway sign looming above the road.
Welcome to Reyfield, Illinois.
I never thought
I’d ever feel so damn happy to see that sign again but after all I’ve been
through over the past three years, I just want something simple and familiar. I
want to be in a place where I don’t feel antsy, like I’ve got to keep looking
over my shoulder.
Reyfield is it.
It’s almost like coming home…
Almost.
I’m well aware
that the Masters’ left a lot of destruction in our wake the last time we were
in this town; unpaid bills, unsaid goodbyes and at least one very broken heart.
Maybe it’s time
to pay old debts, heal old wounds and make amends as best I can. Maybe it’s
time for a fresh start.
It’s a chilly
night. Fall is creeping its way into town. I breeze through the streets and
everything feels familiar. It all gives me a little thrill in the pit of my
stomach. The gothic architecture of the Presbyterian church…The washed-out “Go
Tigers!” banner hanging outside of our old high school…The field where we
played football…The burger joint we used to go to for lunch when the school
cafeteria’s offerings resembled road kill topped with warm dog food...
I take a left
off of Clifford Boulevard and pull onto Hyatt Street. The corner store is right
where I left it. I cut my engine in the parking lot and stroll through the
front door. I give a quick nod to the middle-aged woman sitting behind the cash
register and make my way down the narrow, brightly-lit aisles.
Man, it feels
good to just walk down the aisles of a freakin’ convenience store. When you’ve
been locked away for as long as I have, you learn to appreciate the simple
things.
I stand in front
of the chip display for a moment, trying to decide between vinegar and
barbecue. “Fuck it…” I’m having both. And how about a bag of jalapeƱo-cheddar,
too? I’m making up for lost time, after all.
I grab a case of
beer — the cheap kind that we used to buy with our fake ids when we were
teenagers. I’m feeling awfully nostalgic tonight. Then, I grab more
chocolate-covered pretzel sticks than any self-respecting 27-year-old man ever
should.
When I get to
the condom aisle, I pick up eight three-packs of XL Magnums.
Yes, that might
seem overly ambitious but I haven't had sex in three freakin’ years and
whoever I take home with me tonight is in for a hell of a good time. The ladies
don’t call me Master Kee for nothing. My main priority tonight is to drain the
tank into the first acceptable-looking broad that comes my way and to be
honest, ‘acceptable-looking’ is pretty much open for interpretation at this
point.
Because I’m
horny enough to fuck my way through the Reyfield phonebook.
I drop my
goodies onto the counter and the cashier eyes me with an arched eyebrow and a
subtle grin. “Exciting night planned?” she asks, tipping her chin towards the
condoms. The innuendo in her voice is undeniable.
I give her a
second glance. Is she Ms. Acceptable
for tonight? Nah, she’s probably older than my mother and she smells
like she’s been marinating in cigarette smoke and cheap perfume all day. My
definition of “acceptable” may be loose, but not that loose.
I nod politely
as I glimpse at the number glowing on the screen of the cash register and pull
a $100 bill out of my wallet. She drags her long fingernails along my palm as
she deposits the change into my hand.
Did my cock just
twitch?
Down, buddy. Down.
“Have a good
night, Big Boy,” she purrs as I give her a quick salute and duck out the door.
I store my
goodies in my backpack and jump onto my bike. When I rev it, the poor thing
lets out a choked straining sound. I’ll look into it first thing in the
morning, but for now, I’m on mission to get laid.
ASAP.
Samantha
“Breathe
in...hold hold hold...breathe out...Breathe in...hold hold hold...breathe
out...Breathe in...hold hold hold...breathe out…”
I take long deep
breaths, doing my best to synchronize my rhythm to the sound of Isla’s voice
pouring into my ears. The cool morning breeze blowing over my face and the sun
smiling down on my skin make it that much easier.
This is one of
the few things that I absolutely adore about being back in Reyfield. It’s a
quiet, serene town. Except for the occasional ruckus caused by the young
children playing on the street and the yapping of the over-talkative Yorkshire
terrier a few doors down, the place is a sanctuary. A slice of suburban
perfection. The ideal place for soul-searching and self-reflection.
But Reyfield is
just too slow-paced for me. Take Thornbush Lane, for example. The cul-de-sac is charming,
for lack of a better word – the kind of place you’d go to raise a family or
grow old, I guess. A cast of interesting characters occupy the lane. Nancy and
Delores, the gray-haired duo who’ve appointed themselves as the two-woman
neighborhood watch, the eccentric mailman who delivers my mail to the wrong
house half the time, meddlesome neighbors who drop by unannounced when you
least expect them. That all adds to the cozy feel of the place. But for an
ambitious 25-year-old like me, Reyfield is nothing but a dead end.
Growing up, I
couldn’t wait to get out of the suburbs. And that’s what I did as soon as I
could. I moved 15 miles south, to Chicago for college and then took a job in
the city. Everything was going relatively well until four months ago when I
suddenly got laid off. Now, here I am, unemployed, single, broke and for the
past six weeks, living in my parents’ house again.
Ugh.
Thank god mom
and dad are staying in Florida with grams till next spring so at least I have
the house to myself. I did not work my ass off for my certified internal
auditor designation only to end up living with my parents forevermore.
Basically, I need to find a new job stat so that I can move back to the city as
soon as possible.
Anyway, Isla
swore up and down that meditation would help with my job search. She says that
I’m ‘scattered’ and that’s why I haven’t been able to find a new position since
I got laid off. Her new meditation recording is supposed to help me find my
‘center’ and ‘recalibrate’ in order to attract a suitable employment opportunity.
Her words, not
mine.
For weeks, I
resisted. The old Sammie thought that Isla was delusional and maybe even
slightly off her rocker. The new Sammie is so hopeless and desperate and sick
of being unemployed that I’m pretty much willing to try anything to get a damn
job. Sending out resumes, compulsively checking job-listing websites and
waiting impatiently for the postman to show up with my mail every morning has
proven to be an ineffective strategy.
So, it was time
to try something new.
I’ve been using
this meditation track for a few days now and if nothing else, it’s relaxing and
distracts me from the ticker tape of worry, doubt and anxiety constantly
running through my mind.
I shift my foot
slightly, determined to ignore the itch prickling at my heel. I'm going to
meditate the fuck out of it. Forget
you, stupid itch. It's time to turn ‘inwards’ because my money’s low and I need
a miracle right about now. I focus solely on my breathing.
Eventually, time
and space slip away. I think I’m in that space that Isla’s always talking
about. ‘The nothingness’ is what she calls it. I feel content. Satiated. That
tiny, niggling voice in the back of my head gnawing at me to get off my butt
and go search through the local classified ads again? I smother that bitch
under pillows of bliss.
“Breathe in…hold
hold hold…breathe out…”
Putata-putata-putata
What the fuck is that?
Putata-putata-putata
Is that a motorcycle? Who the hell on
Thornbush Lane has a motorcycle?
I squeeze my
eyes shut and try to channel my inner yogi in a futile attempt to drown out the
hiccup-hiccup of the engine as it sputters to death nearby. It seems like the
harder I try to ignore it, the louder it gets.
I grudgingly
yank out my earbuds and ease out of my cross-legged position on my oversized
cushion on the back patio. I peer around the side of the house and notice a
shiny black Harley Davidson lying on its side in the driveway just as a tall,
shirtless figure slinks across the front lawn next door.
What the fuck? Nobody’s supposed to be over
there.
As far as I
know, dad tried to get that place rented for months before he finally gave up
in defeat at the end of July. Illinois’s economy is bad and nobody wants to pay
a premium to rent that crumbling, two-story colonial with its unkempt lawn and
weather-beaten clapboards. Still, my stubborn father refuses to lower the
rental. He’d rather the house sit vacant. I guess he can afford to be picky
about his tenants. He doesn’t have a mortgage to pay on it since he inherited
the house when his uncle Kramer died back when I was a kid.
I bring my
attention back to the very bold intruder next door. I can’t see his face
because the tall hedges now hide him from view. I should probably call the
police but I decide to check it out myself. I grab a weapon – the rake leaning
against the side of the house – as I inch cautiously towards the front yard.
I trek across
the driveway separating the two houses, passing the beastly motorcycle and an
open toolbox on the way. I stomp through the overgrown lawn and up the stairs
to the front porch. The door is wide open and for some reason that puts me at
ease. A burglar would probably be more discreet than that, right?
The knot in my
stomach loosens a bit. This is
probably all some huge misunderstanding.
I stick my head
into the doorway without stepping inside, just as a precaution. “Hello?”
A shadowy figure
approaches, moving down the long, dimly-lit hallway that leads from the kitchen
to the front door. Sunrays slice through the kitchen curtains, illuminating him
from behind and revealing his silhouette bit by bit.
And what a sexy
silhouette it is.
My eyes climb
his frame in slow motion.
His large,
sturdy feet.
His long,
muscular legs and the gray basketball shorts hanging low on his hips.
Well, damn…
The delicious V
punctuating his washboard abs.
The colorful,
intricate tattoos ornamenting his strong chest and those brawny arms.
Oh, wow…
His square, stubbly
chin.
Those full lips
slowly spreading into a wide smile.
My god — I can’t breathe…
Blue eyes, as
pale and electric as a flash of lightening.
He shoves his
large hand through his messy blond hair. “Hey…”
My heart stops
cold in my chest and a shiver runs through my body. The rake slips from my
fingers and lands at my feet with a metallic clang. I choke out his name.
“Keeland…?”
Meet
the Author
Contemporary
romance author of the Esquire Girls Series and the Esquire HEAT Series
available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.
Author Links
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