Whatever, Kay-Kay. Give me my space, because I'm just getting warmed up.
I fluff my collar again (fuck Blondie's opinion on the matter), look around for another piece of unsuspecting muff as I cue up some montage music in my head.
Let's start with the lovely ladies loitering beside the bookcase. Grabbing a beer, I walk over and introduce myself: "Hello, darlings. I just moved into building C and thought I'd introduce myself. I'm Noah. And you are—?"
"On our way out," replies the more vocal of the two with a rolling of her eyes and a motioning for her friend to follow as she walks away.
Meh. Let them go. There's a pretty little filly standing over by the window. I go to her, lean against the wall, and smile knowingly. "Hi. My friends call me Noah, but you can just call me."
She raises an eyebrow, doesn't look at me so much as she looks through me. "Why don't you go help your boyfriend before he hurts himself."
Following her gaze, I glance over my shoulder. Across the way, Kay-Kay is standing outcast style between two card tables, and is trying to use one tortilla chip to scoop another out of his salsa bowl.
Moving on to the gorgeous brunette sizing up salad options at the buffet: "So, Moneypenny," I say, doing my best Sean Connery as I insert myself into her tragically underused personal space, "is there something you'd like to get off your chest?" I nod suggestively at her breasts, but totally as a joke reference to Bond's womanizing ways.
She smiles, reaches into her pocket, pulls out her cell phone.
See? She gets it. "The name's Noah. You can just go ahead and create a new contact called 'studmuffin...'" I trail off, noticing that she's not opening her contacts app, but is, in fact, on Twitter. While I can't read everything she's tweeting, I do spot the words "loser" and "hitting on me."
Lucky Lady Number Six is a quick exchange over by the bathroom entrance:
"Did you just move in?" Number Six asks.
"I sure did, sweets."
"Ugh. Then I'm moving out."
Number Seven is really just me getting a drink thrown in my face.
Eight: another drink in the face.
Nine: a soft taco in the face.
For fuck's sake.
YOU ARE READING
Their property manager is a creep. The plumbing is barely up to code. Their next door neighbors are a very loud horny couple and a bodybuilding painter with bad digestion. The maintenance dude has just turned up dead in what appears to be a freak ba...