Chapter 38 Hairy Bison Balls
hairy bison balls
Lorien
Everything is short, because what is there to say?
I don’t mention the movers or their subsequent lawsuit. I won’t mention the moving company owner targeting me or vandalizing my home. I can’t mention that I have data proving we have a cure, but profits trumped everything so research that would save people was shelved.
And I definitely refuse to say I married the man next door, and I can still feel him between my legs.
“It’s been a whirlwind. I got rear-ended earlier this week and my Accord is totaled.”
“Are you okay?” Mom reaches for me, just as Dad says, “That was a good car. They don’t make them that way anymore. What a shame.”
That’s the most innocuous thing I have to offer them, and Mom’s already worried and Dad’s disgruntled. Not with me. Never with me, but he’s pragmatic to a fault.
“I’m fine. I was sore for a few days, but I’m okay. I’m not looking forward to car shopping, though.”
“How are you getting to work?” Mom asks.
“Rideshare.” That’s not a lie, exactly. I am sharing a ride.
“That could get expensive,” Dad offers. “Do we need to do any shopping or research while you’re here?”
“This weekend is about Strider. I’ve been researching at home. I’ll be okay, but thanks, Dad. It means a lot.”
At home. That truth is an arrow through the heart. Denver is home. My little townhouse is home. Home is where… I change the ending of my errant thought to home is where I can be me.
“Oh, Lorien, Sam’s friend”—she says the word like it tastes bitter—“wants to bake this weekend. I have a new recipe, but I really want to do smaller batches of lots of things. Want to help?”
Yes. “I’d love to. I’m always in for new recipes.”
“This lemon one has potential for sure.”
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Who?” Mom and Dad reply in unison.
“The man Sam brought home. I can’t call him ‘Sam’s friend’ all weekend. And friend or boyfriend?”
Dad releases a sigh that could propel the truck we’re in. “She says partner, but I don’t get it.”
“So not a friend but someone significant.” I say to the windshield.
“We don’t know that,” Mom argues. “We’re just now meeting him. She says they’re living together, but—” She stops abruptly. “Jimmy, do you think they’re living together, as in a couple and not roommates. Did I misread the situation?”
“Do you think?” Dad looks at Mom in the rearview mirror. “No. She wouldn’t.”
She would. She so would. And the last time we spoke, she was quiet until she walked into another room.
Dad turns into the driveway of their home, the one I grew up in. “She wouldn’t bring home a live-in boyfriend for Strider’s birthday. Not our Sam.”
I watch them bounce back and forth as to whether their thirty-eight-year-old daughter brought home someone significant and they assumed he was just a friend.
My guilt for not bringing Liam lessens. What would my parents do with him?
Although my guilt for feeling less guilt has the opposite effect. He’s been my safe haven in the worst moments of my life.
I exit the car, leaving my parents to deliberate their adult daughter’s behavior, and head into the house.
Sam’s partner is William but he goes by Billy. You can’t make this up. The only thing I can find that hers and mine have in common is their given names.
Billy is thin in the extreme, has longish blond hair pulled back in a man bun and has a soul patch on his chin.
He’s wearing denim and a colorful tee and walks barefoot around the house “grounding.” He’s kind and funny, likeable even, if not a bit opinionated.
He comments on lots of things, how my sister takes her tea, which you think he’d know already, the position of the coffee maker in Mom’s kitchen, and the fact that the furniture isn’t feng shui in my parent’s house.
I try to picture Liam’s reactions to Billy and waiver between him giving the smaller man a knuckle sandwich, and him making pithy comments under his breath for only me to hear with every word Billy utters.
I think my husband would want to do the first but probably get more satisfaction from the latter.
I also think Liam would quietly reassure Mom, though she wouldn’t need it, that her coffee maker is in the exact right spot, as is her sofa.
The fact that I think of the man at all, picturing him in my parents’ house does not bode well for my heart at the end of this.
I already know it will be brutal to be in an empty bed with a bare ring finger.
And that’s the least of it all. His presence is huge.
I see Sariah’s point—he’s solid, planted, an unbreachable fortress.
His outside and his inside match in how unwavering he is.
But to the people he lets in, the inside is a safe harbor.
Me: You’d be miserable here. I’d be happy if you were here to provide commentary on the goings-on.
I contemplate changing his name in my phone. No one would question texting with work or colleagues or girlfriends. I’m glad I don’t because his reply is within a minute.
William: Happy to provide orgasms along with commentary, Dr. Anderson.
For a moment, I wish he’d called me Wifey. Something about the huge brut of a man having such a playful name makes me melt.
It takes me longer than I should to realize he’s protecting me. He’s not outing me, though, the O-word is a bit bold in that text if I do say so.
“What has you smiling?” Sam asks, and I lock my phone, sliding it under my thigh, fighting the blush that wants to creep from my navel to burst across my face.
“Nothing,” I reply as everyone moves around the room. All the while, my phone buzzes too close to the spot that buzzed me into oblivion just hours ago.
Liam
While I don’t hate flying, given the opportunity I’d always take my bike. The freedom is unparalleled. The delays are of my own choosing, and the pilot is trustworthy.
But Briggs Barnett needs me and was okay when I pushed him off, but with a weekend off from protection duty, I’m free to do what needs to be done.
And the opportunity, in this case, requires more days in Wyoming than I have to spare with a full-day ride there and another in return.
Besides, Wyoming wind sucks hairy bison balls.
So back to DIA, I went, taking my flight credit from Peoria and exchanging it for one to Jackson Hole.
Jackson is a cool little town, though I much prefer Teton National Park when I’m here. Of course, the last-minute trip means it’s not available. Nor am I really… I’m here to work and then get home.
There’s a driver holding an iPad with Mr. Murphy on it as I leave the secure area. I lift a finger to indicate he can stop looking and follow him wordlessly to the town car.
My phone has had no notifications which is odd enough that I reboot it. Still no response from Lorien.
Wifey: You’d be miserable here. I’d be happy if you were here to provide commentary on the goings-on.
Me: Happy to provide orgasms along with commentary, Dr. Anderson.
Me: Speaking of, can you still feel me in that tight wet pussy?
Me: Are you blushing reading this? Is the heat prickling up those perfect tits that I need to taste again?
There’s no response and that was from before I boarded my flight. Curious.
I lift the phone to my face and dial but get voicemail.
Clearing my throat, I wonder how nosy her family is. “Lorien, this Liam from next door. Can you reach out after work this evening please? Something’s come up that requires your attention.”
The valley is beautiful as we drive and sooner than I’m ready, I’m inside a home and not outside enjoying the fresh air.
“Liam, thanks for coming.” Briggs extends a hand as I enter his new place.
I shake and look around the large room, at the expansive views, and the mid-century modern reno. I let out a whistle. “Another stunner.”
“Another place that needs your expertise.” He spins in a slow circle.
“What are you thinking?”
“Top of the line, soup-to-nuts security. No one gets in and no one gets out without my okay.”
That’s typical. “Can you give me a tour?”
“Sure.” He gestures to a man whose neck is so thick it disappears into his shoulders. The dude’s traps need more stretch and a little less compression. He says nothing, but nods and follows us. It feels less secure and more ominous than I’m accustomed to.
Nevertheless, I need to see the layout of this new McMansion, lay eyes on every window, door, and egress, and know its vulnerabilities. This is common in my line of work. Sure, I can work from the plans, but nearly all plans miss something. And that something can be life and death for my clients.
“Let’s start on the roof,” Briggs offers, and leads the way to the outdoor stairs.
Roof is a bit of a misnomer. Outdoor patio is more accurate.
Aside from the slope on the northern side to allow for snow melt, the rest of what would be a roof is an outdoor deck.
An unencumbered one-hundred-eighty-degree view from west to east, including the valley.
Even the safety railing is open-air and unobtrusive.
“Damn, Briggs. You outdid yourself.”
“It’s a bit much, but the view…” he gestures. Not that it was necessary.
“And the windows?” I toss a thumb over my shoulder. “What are those to?”
He turns and we head inside. “This was a study, but I’m thinking of making it my office.”
“I’d spend my time staring at the view and not at spreadsheets or emails.”
He nods, as if to himself and leads me into the study.
I note the space as I have everything so far, writing in my tablet, reminding myself of how the layout is in comparison to the doors and windows.
I’ll walk these spaces several times, but this initial walk-through is always so I see the space from its weakest points, its vulnerabilities, not from a place of how to strengthen them.
A fireplace sits in the northern wall. The northern wall seems solid. No windows. No doors. Probably more structurally sound as well. The northern side of this house will be covered in ice in the winter months anyway. No use in prettying it up.
“Are there coils in the roof for snowmelt?” I ask.
My friend pulls his chin back. “I’ll have to ask. It’s one of the hazards of buying in July.”
“I’d bet it does. And a heated driveway. That doesn’t matter to me, but the roof might.”
A spiral staircase takes us down from a corner of the room into the third-floor game room.
An expensive pool table has pride of place in the center, but huge sofas and mounted televisions show this room is so much more.
A kitchenette with a full wet bar rounds out the space at the mouth of a dark hall.
There are four bedrooms on this level. All with private bathrooms. Two have Juliette balconies. All have floor-to-ceiling windows. A full walk-in laundry room has two small windows on the side with less view.
It must’ve been some Hollywood type who built this place. The locals aren’t poor by any stretch, but this is loud money in a town where wealth whispers.
Down another floor is the main level I came in on.
The dining room, chef’s kitchen, and butler’s pantry play supporting roles to the high-ceiling living room dominated by a wall of windows that slide open to a walk-out patio.
Partially covered by what’s above, there’s shade in the summer and snow protection in the winter.
But this one extends out almost like an infinity pool until you feel like you’ll topple over the edge and plummet to the valley below.
The parties that could be hosted here would be worthy of Sundance or Cannes. They’d certainly garner the attention of those who want to know what the über wealthy are wearing and how the other half live. Ayla and Christian would fit in. I would never be invited.
The owner’s suite is on this floor which is surprising.
The views are obstructed by stone and metal for the living room views.
And the bathroom has little natural light.
It’s so odd for all this place is to have less for the owner in what should be their retreat.
I keep my opinions to myself, all the while noting that it’s the safest room we’ve seen so far.
“I need to show you the wine cellar as well. And the staff quarters. They’re downstairs.” He begins to walk toward the huge double doors.
“How many garage bays are down there?”
“For automotive? Five? But side-by-side, UTV, snowmobiles and such, another two. There’s also storage for sledding, tubes, snowshoes, skis, furniture, and chemicals for the hot tub.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “Geez, Briggs, could you have picked a place with more entry points?” It’s sarcasm, and he knows it, but damn this is going to be hard. Two and half days won’t touch what it requires.
“I know. But you saw the views?”
The views are spectacular.
“And there’s this.” He doesn’t flourish anything, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that only occurs when he has the upper hand. He pushes what looks like a windowsill, and the wall pulls out. A four-inch steel-framed door moves silently to open into a safe room.
Now that’s a relief.
Leaning in, I write on my tablet:
Twelve by twelve space.
Needs gun safe and emergency lighting.
That’s all I get because No Neck shoves me from behind and the door seals shut.