Chapter 2
unwitting test subject
Lorien
For the record, it’s a pain in the backside to have problems during a move.
The move is trouble enough, even if it was just from my apartment downtown.
The idea the moving company wanted to confiscate my belongings due to “breach of contract” was absurd.
That’s not considering an attempted kidnapping, or worse, by their employees and…
it’s been a heck of a week. A quick call to a social media goddess friend of mine and things got better fast.
It seems my photos, met with additional ones Liam took of the perpetrators and their IDs, along with video of them entering my home with a knife, went a long way in the media and online.
The owners of the moving company were quick to dismiss any breach language and have my things in place prior to the authorities impounding the vehicle.
They asked me to sign a hold-harmless waiver and a non-disclosure agreement, both of which I declined, because screw them.
It’s Friday afternoon. I’ve owned my place for a week, lived here for six days, and haven’t once graced my sound system with the goodness that is Madonna or any other strong woman who followed in her glorious footsteps for that matter.
Liam seemed adamant about his disdain for the Material Girl, and I’m trying to be a good neighbor.
He poked someone’s eye out to save me after all…
Adding the flour mixture, I set the mixer to combine the ingredients, only to be met with a poof of white that settles all over… everything.
Me. My counters. My floors. Everywhere.
No amount of cleaning this kitchen works after I bake. One hundred years from now, whoever buys this house will still be dealing with the residue of my baking attempts.
It doesn’t matter, though, because the tatted neighbor, Liam, is getting baked goods as thanks for saving me.
Last time I’d baked him chocolate chip cookies, and he only said, “That’s unnecessary,” and not a word more as he took them from me.
But he did look me up and down as if he would eat me and not because I was covered in flour.
I’m not prepared for that kind of man—the brave savior who looks like sex and says no more words than are exactly necessary to get across his point. But he’ll have never-ending baked goods for as long as I live here, since move-in day lives in infamy in my heart and on repeat in my head.
An hour later, I knock on his door only to be met with a disembodied voice. “Hello?”
“It’s Lorien.” I raise the plate as if he can see me. “I brought you some banana nut muffins.”
A mechanical whirling meets my ears as he says, “I’m not home, but the door’s unlocked.”
“I— I’ll just leave them on your kitchen counter, okay?”
“’Kay. Thanks.”
I walk into the still-dark townhouse and practically need my phone’s flashlight feature to see. I debate what’s up with this man not opening his blinds as I slip into the kitchen and leave the muffins on the counter.
There in a frame is a photo of the man whose house I’m standing in with his arm around a stunning redhead.
She’s tall, elegant, and smiles at him as if he’s her favorite person on the planet.
A blinding diamond ring on her finger catches the sun and starbursts out with a rainbow of light.
On his other side is a blond man, taller than Liam by an inch or two, holding a woman with long brown hair in a white gown with a bouquet of pink peonies.
The bride and groom don’t seem to notice the other participants, but it’s evident they’re all close.
A hollowness gnaws at my gut and disappointment overwhelms me. Liam is married—obviously so. Of course, he is, and to a stunning woman at that. She looks like she stepped off a runway to stand at his side and I… Well, that doesn’t matter. I don’t want anything to do with a married man.
I’m out the door when the lock whirls back into place. How did he know?
I want to shout at his house, shout in his face, shout that he’s married, and ask why he accepts my baking. What a jerkwad. That woman deserves better than a man who cheats. I flip my middle fingers at his front door and stomp home.
Liam
Lorien is a looker. And she’s pissed, but I have no clue why.
I’m the one stuck eating her attempts at baking.
Last Sunday it was chocolate chip cookies.
The bottoms were burned and the middle was raw, and it’s all the same, because she must’ve mixed up the sugar and the salt or something equally as egregious.
I took a huge bite and was lucky I was close enough to spit out the offending food and rinse my mouth out. They looked good but tasted terrible.
No amount of water fixed the flavor, so I burned my tongue off with super strong mouthwash. I’d say she’s trying to poison me with her terrible cooking, but I watched her make the muffins and nothing indicates she’s trying to kill me.
Don’t judge me. Yes, I watched. The cameras went up quickly and easily when she went to work.
I’m not that much of a creeper—they’re not in her bathroom, bedroom, or closet.
But after watching her shake her perfect, round ass on the front steps, I was intrigued.
Knowing what played out after made me curious and not just a little concerned.
Mostly because she’s right next door, and I don’t need any more eyes on me, much less attention from the wrong sorts of people. And those movers were the wrong sorts of people.
Watching her bake is an experience. She wears more flour than ever ends up in the mixer for one.
I’d think she’d notice since she weighs everything.
Not a cup here or a tablespoon there, but with a zeroed-out scale and exact weights of ingredients…
. Exact weights that end up splattered or in flight.
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, I choose 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.
Durango slides away as I twist the throttle, giving more power to the Harley between my legs. I offer a quick two-fingered wave to the biker I pass, his long beard putting mine to shame, and roll on toward home.
Something about the open road allows my mind to wander and my thoughts to come together in ways nothing else does.
It’s not as if it’s the wind in my hair.
I shave my head and am firmly in the helmet-at-all-times camp.
I can think of exactly once in the last decade I rode without it and I was unsettled the whole time.
And it was only because my teenaged niece was riding bitch.
Any other person in the world and it never would’ve happened—the helmet or the riding bitch for that matter. There’s never anyone on the back of my bike. It’s a thing, so there’s no reason to have a second helmet. Mine stays firmly on my head, keeping my brains where they belong.
I refuel in Gunnison and grab a bite to eat.
My phone has been dinging, but none are the tones that indicate any urgency.
Whoever decided to put a Bluetooth speaker in motorcycle helmets was both a god and a devil.
The convenience cannot be underestimated.
Nor can the intrusion. It’s come in handy more than once, and I keep it just in case.
Just in case has come too often lately and it’s been worth it.
Most times, though, I want the sound of wind whirling around the visor, the roar of the pipes, and nothing else as I ride.
It’s my peace and quiet. It’s Zen in the extreme and an escape from my digital tether.
Checking my notifications, only one thing stands out. The women of rock aimed at my walls has come to include Avril Lavigne and Alanis Morrisette. I’m beginning to wonder if Lorien is, in fact, forty-eight instead of twenty-eight, and if she’s angrier than I knew.
How does she even know these rockers? Her mom must be crazy young or something because it’s the all-wrong generation. Nonetheless, she’s pushing it. It would amuse me except I don’t want it invading my home.
I consider this until I get on the road and let everything go. High, bright blue skies above me, mountains—some perpetually capped in white—tower around me, and a ribbon of highway snaking to the four corners beckons me like Alice down the rabbit hole.
And I’m never strong enough not to go.