All the while, she talks to herself. Like the whole time. It’s better than any television. It may be crossing a line, but it’s entertaining and not in any way sexual. She narrates the whole process. Things like, “Okay, Lo, you’re adding the vanilla.” Then she says to no one at all, “Vanilla is added.”
Inevitably, at least once per attempt, she wears the flour or egg. I think butter hit her ceiling too. I have no clue how.
Somewhere I heard cooking is art and baking is science. She’s science all right, but these experiments are devolving. And I’m the unwitting test subject.
So why do I unlock the door for her to leave them for me?
Probably because of her ass. It’s thick and round and maybe a bit more than wants to fit in the jeans women wear today. Two generous handfuls with some overflow. Perfection.
I’m supposed to be working. I’m in Durango, holed up in a vacation rental, setting up a friend with security, but all my attention is on the woman who cleans her kitchen while muttering to herself about cheaters. So far, she’s scoured the sink twice, putting in more effort than would be necessary if a raw chicken had exploded there.
That’s when I hear it. Madonna blasting through the speakers. I watch with rapt attention as she shimmies and shakes through her house, occasionally flipping the bird at the shared wall joining our townhomes. “Into the Groove” rings out, and her voice rises with it. She’s not a great singer, but she makes up for it with enthusiasm.
My hand drifts to my phone. With all the discipline I have, Ichoose not to text her. Of course, I have her number. I completed a comprehensive background check on her the day she moved in.
Dr. Lorien Anderson—twenty-eight years old with a Ph.D. in Biochemistry from Washington University. Technically, it’s in Biochemistry, Biophysics, and Structural Biology. Whatever the fuck that means… I took high school biology, did the dissection, and remember exactly two things from the class—the frog and the blonde who puked when we made the first slice.
My neighbor’s first job out of college is at Platt BioPharma in Arvada in their research division. It tracks with why she weighs her baking ingredients and her commentary with the ingredient additions. But how is it her baking could come out so bad when she actually understands the science behind it?
She moved here from St Louis a year and a half ago. She’s had less than a handful of romantic entanglements and only one since she left Missouri. In the it’s-a-small-world realm, I know the guy. Or I know of him.
Her parents are still in Peoria, Illinois living in the house where she grew up.
“Liam?” Briggs Barnett calls from the doorway, stopping me from my walk down research lane.
“Yeah?”
“What do you think?”
“You have vulnerabilities. More than you thought.”
“Where?”
I flip the tablet his way as he takes a seat, switching from the feed I shouldn’t be watching to the one demanding my attention, and point. “The driveway is the worst. You’d think it would have a clear line of sight, but the trees do more harm than expected. The walk-out basement needs to be addressed as well.”
“I’m susceptible.” It’s a statement, not a question, and he scrubs a hand down his chin.
“Yes.”
My friend hums and nods as I stew. “What would you do?”
“Exactly what I’m doing for you. But I wouldn’t have coffee outside on the deck.” My last dig is a pointed attempt to remind him of what’s at stake.
He looks off as if he can see himself this morning, leaning on the waist-high railing surrounding the wooden deck of his second floor. “And if that was non-negotiable?”
“I’d get a different deck.” It’s true and it’s a lie. His place is incredible and worth every penny of the millions he paid for it. But millions don’t insulate you from people who want to do you harm. Billions might. “Or you could go away and come back when things have cooled off.”
He’s a successful entrepreneur and investor. This isn’t his only home, but it’s his home base and where he seems to return when he gets unsettled. His face registers surprise. “Running has never been your style.”
“I’ve never had anything to lose.” I look pointedly at him. “You do.”
I don’t add I’m older now. Nothing left to lose is a concept that’s in my rearview mirror. It has to be.
I’ve seen pain. My sister’s injury, my mom’s illness, my brother left holding the bag for shit that was not his to handle. Their struggles and coming to terms with life’s one-two punches. Love and loss.
On the flipside, their joys are greater than I could’ve imagined. I’ve gained two nieces in the last year, one by marriage and another by birth, and have a nephew arriving imminently. And, aside from my fuckface of a father, I have a family that is whole and happy. There are things worth standing and fighting for and there are things worth protecting…
…even if that looks like running.
