2. Hunter
CHAPTER 2
hunter
I let the driver get my bags out of the trunk and set them on the bottom step of my new Alaskan property. I'd had to get an actual taxi, which was after having to take a ferry from the airport to the city itself. I haven't taken a cab in years—I've either been driven by my personal driver or by a hired driver. In a worst-case scenario, I get an Uber Black.
This guy is, as far as I can tell, about as Alaskan as a human can get: as wide as he is tall, with long gray hair in a ponytail and a beard down to his chest, wearing a red flannel shirt and a ball cap so dirty and battered it’s a miracle it's still intact. If he were to wash it, it would disintegrate. The cab itself was a twenty- or thirty-year-old minivan that smelled of grease, fish, and chewing tobacco. The rear bench was full of tackle boxes, fishing rods, bright orange life jackets, and a rattling assortment of other fishing…stuff. On the seat beside me on the second-row bench was a large mason jar full of dirt, in which wriggled dozens of fat worms.
"Here ya go, Fancy-Pants," the driver grumbled. He took a look at the house and property, managing to look impressed and derisive at the same time. "Wondered who bought this eyesore."
I followed his gaze—he was not wrong. It was…well, it was certainly something. A lot of words came to mind as I looked at my new home away from home: eyesore, monstrosity, tasteless exercise in excess.
Look, I'm worth almost a billion dollars—that's just my own personal fortune, earned under my own power, with no more than a half-million-dollar seed fund from my father the day I graduated high school. If you factor in the trust fund established by my grandparents, not to mention my cut of what I’ll get when my parents pass, I’m worth well over a billion. So, I know how to spend money. I’m intimately familiar with excess. I have properties in New York, Colorado, Florida, Switzerland, and the Caribbean. All of them are ostentatious and excessive. I have cars at every property. Full wardrobes, watches, belts, ties, shoes, everything. I only pack the necessities I need to feel at home—toiletries, my phone and chargers, laptop, and my favorite loungewear and jeans and such.
Point is, I know excess.
This?
This place takes the concept of ostentatious excess, bends it over what I imagine will be the gold-flecked marble counter, and fucks it into next week.
In the ass.
Without lube.
I hate it.
It's not modern, and it probably fits the whole “rich guy buys a house in Alaska” aesthetic, but good fucking god, is it ugly.
With its two stories of log and stone and glass, it’s probably been featured on the cover of some magazine or other. I could see right through the glass front door to the backyard, which was more stone—probably travertine. Probably has an elaborate outdoor kitchen that’s never been used. Probably a built-in hot tub that could fit the whole Jets offensive line. The master suite probably features trayed ceilings, a walk-in closet I could get lost in, and at least six balconies picked to have all the best views—which are, admittedly, awe-inspiring.
It's just…soulless.
It's a museum, not a home.
I glanced at the cab driver. "Thanks for the ride." I handed him a hundred-dollar bill. "Keep it."
"Mighty generous of ya, Fancy-Pants." He hobbled back to the van and was gone in a cloud of blue exhaust, leaving me alone with my new house.
I unlocked the lockbox, retrieved the key, let myself in, and gave myself a tour. It was exactly what I expected in every way.
I peeked into the garage to check out what kind of wheels Elara had procured for me. Here, at least, I'm pleasantly surprised: a Ford F-150 Raptor, not new, in black, with tasteful mods to make navigating Alaskan roads more palatable. Or something. I wouldn't know.
Tour done, I called Elara, who answered on the second ring. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hawkins. Is everything to your satisfaction?"
I reminded myself that she followed my instructions to the T, and the fact that I absolutely hate this house is not her fault.
"I hope you didn’t pay more than a couple million for this eyesore of a house,” I growled, only partially successful in my attempt to be nicer to her.
She was silent for a moment. “Um...you didn’t specify a price range, sir. Is it…is there something wrong with the property?"
I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose, biting back half a dozen asshole replies. "No, there's nothing wrong with it. It's just ugly."
“You said not modern, sir. That property is the most expensive one in the entire region. It was custom-built and cost over…"I heard paper rustling. "Three million dollars to construct. It was for sale for over four years. You paid two-point-five for it."
I bit my tongue until I tasted copper. "You were merely following instructions, Elara, and you’re brand new, so I cannot very well expect you to know the intricacies of how I approach business matters. Therefore, I shall give you some tips. I may be extraordinarily wealthy, but I do not believe in purchasing the most expensive of anything simply because I have a lot of money. Personally speaking, if I deem something to be valuable to me, cost is no object. But in business, we must be smart. It is not smart to own the most expensive home in a region. It would have been better if you’d found something tasteful that’s near the upper end but not the apex. This place is…well, it’s overdone in every way. It has no soul. You couldn’t have known that because I didn’t ask you to vette the properties in person. But once I'm done with this Alaskan project, we need to figure out what to do with this place, because quite frankly, Elara, I fucking hate it."
I heard her gulp. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Not your fault. Consider it a learning experience. Never pay top dollar for a property. Never. No exceptions. Always drive a hard bargain. If the seller won’t budge, they’re not motivated, and you’re wasting your time. We do not negotiate with terrorists, which in this case means unmotivated sellers. If this place was for sale for that long, you should have been able to get it for much, much cheaper than you did.” I forced my tone to soften. “I’m putting you in charge of dealing with this property on the back end of this whole process. Recoup my investment one way or another. I don’t want to know the details; just get my money back out of this tasteless monstrosity. Rent it, lease it, sell it, renovate it, use it for corporate motivational retreats, I don't give a fuck what or how. Understood?"
"Yes sir. Again, I'm sorry. I should have asked more questions."
"An excellent takeaway, Elara—always ask more questions. I'll never fault you for getting as much information as possible before pulling the trigger on something, especially when it comes to spending money. That’s how you get rich, and that’s how you stay wealthy."
"I have a question, sir."
"Ask away.”
"What's the difference between rich and wealthy?"
"Ah, an excellent question. Rich is quick. Some lucky schmuck who develops an app at the right time and sells it for seven figures is rich. Someone who makes seven figures and turns into enough wealth that their great-grandchildren will never have to work a day in their lives… that’s wealth."
"But if those great-grandchildren never have to work, won’t the wealth stop accruing?"
I chuckled. "Now we're entering philosophical territory, Elara. Yes. Which is why I personally, if I were to ever have children of my own, would not simply pass untold millions on to them. There would likely be a stipulation that you have to make your own first million before you get more than a certain percentage of my money—meaning, I'd provide seed funding, but if you blow that on trivial shit, you don't get more. If you make a million, I'll match you million for million for a certain period of time after that. I don't know. I'm not sure I even want children, so I'm not sure why we're even talking about this."
"My father is rich. Not wealthy, but rich. He made some good investments and got promoted at the right time.” She paused, sighing. “He paid for my education and provided a nice place to live and a fairly generous stipend to live on while I was an intern, but he’s not paying my way beyond that. I have to make my own way. That’s why this job is so important to me, sir. I have a trust fund, but I can’t touch it until I’m thirty and have at least a quarter million in total assets. And that’s not whichever comes first—I have to satisfy both stipulations."
"Seems to me like your father is a smart man who has your best interests at heart, then. You’re motivated to succeed. If I were you, I’d hang up and call him and thank him,” I said. “Now, I have to unpack and get to work. While I’m gone, unless I give you an assignment, you answer to Harriet. You’re doing fine, Elara. If you pay attention, listen to me and Harriet, and keep honing those instincts of yours, you'll be just fine. Goodbye for now, Elara."
"Goodbye, sir."
Funny how I have zero interest in the girl, sexually. Once upon a time, she'd already be back in the hiring pool because I'd have fucked her and gotten bored. I'd never have seen the potential in her as an employee and a human.
In fact, when was the last time I had sex? A month ago? That British lingerie model. What was her name? Fuschia? Something idiotic like that. Sweet girl, truly. Not the sharpest crayon in the toolbox, but sweet and eager. Mouth like a goddamn Hoover vacuum and naturally perky tits, but outside of sex, there was zero connection. The pillow talk was about as interesting as watching paint dry. She wanted to talk about shoots and give me all the gossip about which models were banging who, and who has anorexia and who's on the coke diet, and who gives a fuck? The only good thing was I didn't have to contribute to the conversation because she never shut the fuck up.
I may have been a bit cruel about kicking her out. The words "vapid cum-receptacle" may have been used. There were tears and imprecations. I felt bad immediately and sent her a BMW 4 Series convertible with an apology note. She sold the car, the note, and the story. Whatever.
I guess now that I'm thirty, my interest in empty sex has begun to wane. I have money. I have all the trappings of success. I love my work. I'm just…not happy. I am successful. Satisfied.
Mostly.
Sort of.
I have goals, still. I'd like to get into the aerospace field. Rocketry, perhaps. Work with someone like Valentine Roth or Xavier Badd—who, rumor has it, is part-owner of the very establishments I'm attempting to buy—Badd’s Bar the rest of the closet is stuffed with the usual suits, slacks, ties, and button-downs as curated by Sofie, my stylist. I change out of my Brooks Brothers suit and into a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt with a forest green flannel, and a pair of Timberlands, with my favorite ballcap—a faded, battered thing I've owned since I was sixteen. That hat has seen every phase of life. I've worn it everywhere—yachting in the Mediterranean, mountain climbing in Nepal, backpacking in Thailand. Everything else I own is new, except that hat.
It was the last thing my grandfather gave me before he died. It was once red with tan mesh around the back, but now the red has faded to near pink, and the logo has long since faded into obscurity—an oil and gas company my grandfather invested in or something. The brim is perfectly curved to frame my face, the rim is torn and tattered, the band is sweatstained, and I wouldn’t trade it for my fortune doubled or even trebled.
I intentionally haven't shaved all week, so my stubble has grown into almost a beard, which I hope disguises my rather recognizable jawline. Or, at least, that's what the gossip rags liked to write about—Hunter Hawkins and his rugged jawline.
I slipped a pair of mirrored aviators on my face and headed for the garage, feeling rather excited about driving myself for the first time in years. Despite the millions of dollars in cars I own around the world, I rarely get the opportunity to drive myself anywhere. Usually, I'm accompanied everywhere by drivers and bodyguards and PAs and secretaries and PR and who the fuck knows who else. True solitude? A rare blessing.
I got into the truck and started the motor—it caught with a loud snarl, and I backed out. I input the original Badd's Bar and Grille into my phone's GPS and headed that way.
I saw the appeal.
The original Badd's had the feel of a comfortable, simple local watering hole. The floors were worn and smooth and aged, the tables scratched and battered but sturdy, the lighting low, the TVs playing sports clips, and the decor rustic without being chintzy or Cracker Barrel-y. The bartender was a beautiful blonde woman in her mid-to-late forties—dark blond hair, brown eyes, and a killer figure. She moved behind the bar with the ease and grace you only get from decades of experience. The servers were all young women, attractive but professional, dressed in black jeans and a black polo with the bar logo on the left breast. The clientele was a mix of obvious locals and just as obvious tourists, and the two did not mingle. Despite being barely four in the afternoon, it was hopping, with only a single spot open at the bar, and that was at the very end near the service bar.
I took that spot and slid my sunglasses up onto the brim of my hat, keeping the brim tugged low and my head ducked.
"Hey there," a friendly female voice said. "What can I get you? All Alaskan Brewing Company drafts are half off until five, and everything on this menu—" she slid a small square of paper toward me, "is also half off until five."
I perused the menu—chicken tenders, burgers, chili, cheese fries, and some sort of salad with everything on it but the kitchen sink. "How's the chili?" I asked.
"Made in-house fresh every day, and nine-time winner of the Ketchikan chili cook-off,” she answers, with a friendly but not flirty grin.
"Bowl of that and the stout," I said, smiling back without exactly making eye contact. "Thanks."
She nodded, rang up the order, and then pulled my beer. She set it on a napkin in front of me. "So. What brings you into town? You're not on a cruise. Business?"
I frowned at her. "How do you know I'm not a local?"
She just snorted. "Okay, buddy."
I sipped the stout and nodded in approval. "Good beer. Fine then—how do you know I'm not on a cruise?"
She glanced pointedly at a cluster of middle-aged men and women; they were all dressed in pastels and beach attire, with loafers and no socks for the men and strappy wedge-heeled sandals for the women.
I couldn't look any further from belonging to that crowd if I tried. "Ah. Point taken."
She laughed. "Also, if you are on a cruise, either you're a weirdo who goes on cruises by yourself, or you misplaced your wife. She shopping or something?"
I held up both hands. "You got me. Not on a cruise, and no wife. Here on business, sort of."
"Sort of?"
I shrugged. "Prospective business."
She nodded. "Well, welcome to Alaska. If you value your hearing and your privacy, I'd be out of here by six."
"Why?" I asked. "What happens at six?"
She pointed over her shoulder with a jerked thumb at a poster taped to the wall by the service bar: "Myles and Lexi LIVE in an intimate concert, ONE NIGHT ONLY!"
It was only then that I noticed the stage in the back corner, set up with a pair of mics and stools and minimal audio equipment.
"Myles and Lexi?" I asked.
She frowned at me. "Myles and Lexi North? Grammy- and CMA-winning recording artists? Husband and wife duo?"
I nodded as if that meant something to me. "Ohhhh, right. Them."
She rolled her eyes. "You must live under a rock, dude. Jesus."
"Something like that, yeah." Now that she mentioned it, though, I did seem to remember Good Morning America recording some show or other outside my building back in New York with this particular pair. The crowd was insane. “So, if they’re so famous, why are they doing some acoustic set here , of all places?"
"Because they're family," she answered. "Lexi's mom is married to the uncle of the people who own this bar. And that same uncle also happens to be my father-in-law."
"You're one of the Badds, then?" I asked.
She nodded, grinning. "Guilty as charged." She extended her hand to me, and I shook it. "Kitty Badd."
"Hawk."
She frowned at me. "Just Hawk?"
I shrugged. "Just Hawk." I eyed her, putting two and two together. "Heard about another place your family owns. Badd Kitty. That have any connection to you?"
Her grin widened. "My husband may have named it after me, yes."
"So you're the Badd Kitty, huh?"
She shrugged. "Guilty as charged again." The printer spat out a ticket; she grabbed it and began pouring. "Your chili should be up in a minute."
I spent the next half hour or so observing. I'm not a restauranter, so I don't know the details involved in running a place like this, but I do know quality, efficiency, and taste, and this place has all three. I observed the food as it arrived at each table, and every plate looked appetizing, if not downright mouthwatering. It was simple, classic bar fare but done extraordinarily well. Every table seemed thrilled to receive their food, and I observed no impatience, no complaints, only high spirits. The staff seemed comfortable with each other, and in between tasks, the waitresses—sorry, servers —huddled together and laughed and showed each other things on their phones, but as soon as there was work to be done, they got to it. Kitty, behind the bar, watched everything that happened with an expert, watchful eye. When one waitress got saddled with more tables than she could handle, Kitty came out from behind the bar to alleviate her load and keep things running. All in all, Badd’s Bar it’s going to be the terms.
I paid my tab with cash, leaving a healthy tip, and headed out on foot to explore the area before popping into Badd Kitty to assess the situation there.
This is an interesting place, that's for sure. Tourists swarmed the sidewalks, pouring in and out of shops and stores and bars in groups and gaggles. I ducked between them, head down, praying I didn't get recognized. So far, so good. Perhaps I was even overestimating my own fame. That'd be nice, in a hubris-popping sort of way.
I slowly made my way toward Badd Kitty. Inside, it had a totally different atmosphere from the other place. Here, it was more of a frat party. The TVs played clips of people doing extreme athlete things—snowboarding off mountains, skateboard tricks, skydiving, parkour, BMX, all sorts of unlikely feats of athleticism and daring, along with more comical offerings along the lines of America's Funniest Home Videos. The music was modern pop and hip-hop, loud, unedited, and relentless. The crowd was younger, mostly singles and people trying to stop being single—for the night at least. The servers were male and female here, and all attractive and dressed in casual blue jeans and plain crew-neck T-shirts with the bar logo large and centered.
The food caters to the crowd and atmosphere, all finger food, snacks, and appetizers served in paper baskets lined with wax paper. The drinks seemed to be mostly mixers and bottled beer—which lined up with the happy hour specials listed on plastic A-frame holders on each table.
Once again, the only spot open was a stool at the bar at the far end, near the kitchen entrance. A young man with long black hair and a scraggly goatee worked at a frantic pace at the service bar, pouring, shaking, and mixing with freakish speed and efficiency, each hand doing something different simultaneously. The bartender had her back to me, facing the opposite end of the long bar as she popped the top off of beer bottles and accepted a card from the douchebag on the other side.
I say “douchebag” because he was leaning against the bar with a skeezy, smarmy grin that said he thought he was god's gift to womankind, wearing a tight pink collar-popped polo and white slacks, hair permed and coiffed in that idiotic broccoli thing. I want to punch him in the face on principle. The bartender seemed to agree, if her body language was any indication: she was careful to allow no part of his hand to touch hers as she handed him the bottles and took his card. He said something to her, grinning a stupid, irritating, shit-eating grin. She rolled her eyes at him and turned away without a word in response to whatever he said.
He leaned over the bar, grabbing her wrist.
Oh, fuck no.
I left my stool and marched that way, intending to eviscerate the poor little fuck. It turned out my evisceration services were unneeded, however—before I got two steps, the bartender broke his hold on her wrist, reversing it so she had his hand bent backward, elbow turned inside out and his shoulder twisted, with his douchey face pressed into the bar.
Within seconds, all activity in the bar stopped, even the music. Two huge men with brown hair and dark eyes hovered nearby, eyes spitting fury, their mammoth muscles bulging as they only just barely restrained themselves from interfering.
"Listen closely, you slimy little cock-gobllin." The bartender's voice was a low, vicious hiss, which I was just barely close enough to hear. "You are not hot. You are not sexy. You are not cool." She twisted harder, and he screamed like a little bitch, but she only increased the pressure until he shut the fuck up. "You are a loser. You are desperate. You are pathetic. I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last living creature on earth, and there weren't any goats. You understand?"
"Aaaahhhh—-gah, ahhh, gahhh, ahhh!" He couldn't manage any real words, not with his face smashed into the bar.
"I'm gonna give you a refresher on how this works, okay, SparkleFarts? I take your request. I give you your drinks. I'm a professional, so I smile at you. I'm a woman, which means I have tits. Thanks for noticing. Get a good look and move on like an adult. Give me your money. Go back to your fucktard friends, and that’s it. I’m not flirting with you. I don’t want you. I don’t like you. I’m not going back to your cabin with you. I’m not giving you my number. I’m not giving you my socials. That's how this works. You don't put your hands on me or any waitress, bartender, barista, or anyone, anywhere, ever, unless they clearly and specifically give you verbal consent. Are you following along so far?"
"Yes. Yes. Ow. Yes!” his voice was small and pained.
"Good." She picked up one of the bottles of beer he'd set down in order to grab her; she upended it over him, dumping the entire contents into his ear. "Now. Fuck off. Take your friends and get the fuck out of my bar. Leave all the one-star reviews you want. I don’t give a fuck. If I see you again, I’ll really hurt you. Got it, SparkleFarts?"
“Got it. Got it."
She released him, shoving him hard enough that he went sprawling. "Now fuck all the way off."
He rose, beer-drenched, red-faced with shame and rage, and scurried out, not waiting for his friends.
One of them, a young woman wearing a skirt so short her ass cheeks played peekaboo, tottered on four-inch heels to the bar. "I don't have to leave, do I? I don't even like Paul. He gives me the creeps."
The bartender eyed her. "Behave like an adult, and sure, you can stay. Act like that, and you'll get the same treatment."
The girl tittered a ditzy laugh. "I'll be a good girl, I promise."
The bartender gave her a puzzled, disgusted frown. "Cool. You need a drink?"
The girl sucked her drink down with a loud, slurping crackle. "Sure, thanks!"
"Vodka Redbull?"
"Ohmygod, you're so good! How'd you know?"
An eye roll. “Because I poured it for you five minutes ago, princess."
I suppressed a snicker as I returned to my seat. I waited another couple of minutes before she made her way to my end of the bar.
Finally getting my first real look at her, I discovered a heretofore unknown anomaly: my jaw dropped open, literally, and my palms went clammy, and my words dried up faster than a mirage in the desert.
Fuck me.
She was the single sexiest creature I'd ever seen in my life. I couldn't have stopped staring at her if I had a gun to my head. I didn't even try to look away, and the thought that she might recognize me never even entered my brain.
A touch above medium height, her hair was a dark red, the color of the richest, darkest Burgundy wine. Wavy to the point of almost being curly, it was an explosion of loose spirals around her shoulders and down her chest, the tips trailing just above her tits. Which were, simply put, fucking epic.
The plain, heather-gray, V-neck T-shirt bore the logo of the bar, but the sheer size of her cleavage left the logo wildly distorted. There was only a hint of decolletage above the V of the shirt, so it's not like she had it all hanging out. They were just that fucking big. I gave myself a man moment to appreciate them, and then, with the fate of the young douchebag firmly in mind, I ripped my gaze away and met her eyes.
Vividly dark blue, wide and deep and fierce, glinting with intelligence, sparkling and amused. The rest of her was hidden below the level of the bar, but I had no doubt the rest of her curves were just as epic as her cleavage.
"You gonna order a drink or just ogle me?" She planted her palms on the bar opposite me, giving me an I-dare-you grin. Friendly, so far, but one that could turn deadly in a heartbeat.
This one was all fire.
She was young—not much over twenty—but her gaze and energy was all woman, someone who's packed a lot of life into a few short years.
I slid a hundred out of my pocket and slapped it on the bar. "Both."
She snagged a test marker from beside the register and swiped it across the bill. "Let me guess… top-shelf Manhattan?"
"Not a bad guess, but no. Your best scotch, neat."
"Best is subjective. Most expensive? Best reviewed? Most awards?" She raked me with her eyes, subjecting me to every bit as much of an ogling as I’d given her.
The smirk on her plump red lips was amused, playful, teasing. Her lips glistened scarlet, contrasting with her creamy skin.
She was daring me to make the wrong choice. And there was a wrong one, make no mistake about that. If I got this right, the possibilities were endless. If I got it wrong, the game was over before it could begin.
"The best according to you. Amaze me."
"Amaze you, huh?" She nibbled on her lower lip, letting her eyes flick over my face, a flutter of recognition sparking and then dissolving there. "Good answer."
She turned away, facing the shelves stacked to the ceiling with an infinite variety of scotches, whiskeys, bourbons, and ryes. She lifted on her toes, reaching for something on the very top shelf—just out of reach.
And my god, her ass. There must be a god, because an ass that perfect can only be an act of artistic creation by a higher power.
I openly ogled her as she danced on her tiptoes for a moment and then sank to her heels with a huff.
"Motherfucker. Zeke!" The long-haired bartender hurried over, and she pointed at the bottle she wanted.
He grabbed it, handed it to her, and left for the other end of the bar without a word—which said a lot about how much they must work together.
She grabbed a rocks glass from a stack below the bar, tossed it airborne, flipping end over end, and then poured two generous fingers. "Get a good enough look at my ass, or should I turn around again?"
"It's a start," I said, not quite smirking, daring her to decide if I'm playing along or if I'm really this much of an asshole. "But if you were to turn around and bend over…"
“Yeah, you wish." She slid the rocks glass to me. "Try that."
I picked up the glass, swirled, and sniffed. I didn't recognize the label. I swirled again and took a test sip—my eyes went wide. "Damn. That's impressively good. What is it?"
She shoved the bottle toward me. "Fuck me if I can pronounce it. Some obscure scotch Uncle Rome swears is the best in the world. He and Aunt Kitty went on a month-long tour of Scotland and Ireland, and he came back raving about that stuff."
Uncle Rome, is it? Roman Badd—owner and founder, with his two brothers, of this place. Cousins of the eight brothers who own the original Badd’s, making this girl the daughter of one of those eight brothers.
A family affair, indeed. Her aunt, who owns this place with her husband, is bartending at Badd's while this foul-mouthed, fire-haired siren with an attitude bartends here.
I took another sip. "Not sure if it's the best in the world, but it's damn good. Very damn good."
Her eyes fixed on my lips as I took a nice long drink, swallowed, and licked my lips. Her pupils flared as her eyes darted back to mine, and she realized I’d caught her staring.
"See something you like?" I murmur, giving her the grin that an obsessed novelist, in her steamy fanfic, once described as "arrogant, panty-melting, and infuriating."
Her eyes blazed as she yanked the hundred-dollar bill off the bar, held it in front of my face in both hands, crumpled it together, and snapped it apart. “Yeah, I do."
She turned away, shoved the bill into the tip jar, and scurried off to pour more drinks.
I caught her looking my way as I sipped my scotch—which, in fact, may be the best I’ve ever had.
I don't mind her looking.
Because I'm staring just as much.
This could be fun.
Dangerous, but fun.