Chapter 8
DAX
Four weeks.
It takes me four weeks for my foolproof plan to hatch.
Ten hours.
It takes me ten goddamn hours to get from Cheyenne to Wendell Blitz’s home in Jackson Hole.
This state shouldn’t be so wide. It’s like someone took a mound of clay and pounded it down with a mallet, creating low valleys and tall mountain peaks, all the while doubling its surface area.
Making my life harder than it already is.
Along the way, I stopped off at Sinks Canyon.
My phone and ID are rushing down the Popo Agie River right now.
The world will think I drowned myself if either is ever found, and that’s exactly what I’m banking on.
I’ve left enough clues and a note behind in my apartment detailing how I can’t go on living without my job, and without my job, I can’t pay rent, which means I’ve had to skip town.
That whatever happens to me next is for the best.
It’s not great writing by any means, but hopefully, it’ll do the trick to keep anyone from coming after me.
I ditched my truck at Sinks Canyon, stole a modest gray sedan from the parking lot, and swapped out the plates on it as soon as I got to the secure location I had marked out on my sprawling paper map, which took up all of the dashboard.
Over the last four grueling weeks, I secured blueprints of the house and uncovered the name, make, and model of the new security system that was installed several months back.
I tried not to think about Reed. I learned everything there is to know about how it works, and I even hacked into the company’s client management database, where I found several open help tickets about glitches in the software that I could easily exploit to gain entry to the house without anyone being alerted. While trying not to think about Reed.
As I worked, I also discovered the purchase of a safe, but there was no make or model listed.
Strangely, there was also no work order to have it installed in the house.
I pored over the blueprints to discern a possible spot for it, but I couldn’t pinpoint just one for certain. Because I was busy thinking about Reed.
I trust that I have the nose of a hound. I’ll be able to find it. I just need the time, space, and privacy I expect there to be way out here.
Major trouble is, as I crest a hill at the edge of Wendell Blitz’s property, coming at it from behind through the rugged terrain, I spot the shape of a person luxuriating in the outdoor hot tub.
A mop of blond hair. Two shoulders like mountains all their own.
Steam billows off the bubbling water, obscuring their face.
My stomach sinks into the soles of my muddy boots. There isn’t supposed to be anybody here.
The place has been vacant for months since the construction finished.
I scrubbed all the way back through the security footage until my eyes were dry from staring at my computer screen.
People came and went sporadically, but the only time anybody stayed here overnight was two days when Wendell and his wife came to ooh and ahh at their new investment and oversee a team of people unpacking the belongings they planned to keep here.
That was two-and-a-half weeks ago, and I’m certain they are somewhere in Zurich right now, gearing up for a big e-commerce convention where Wendell Blitz is giving the keynote about automation—because of course he is. I triple-checked all of this.
Why do they have some big-chested, blond-haired dude sitting in their hot tub? Is he a family member? A lover? A friend? Someone on their payroll?
Whatever the case, he must be watching the house while they’re gone, despite never having a house sitter before, and he’s royally fucked up my plan.
Rage surges through my neurons. Most jobs of this size hit a crossroads. Points where retreat or advance are of the utmost importance. I, of all people, know this to be true, and I’ve learned that my own instincts are the best ones to follow.
While I should be backtracking down the path using the pocket compass I’ve had since I was a kid, I find myself rooted to the spot, not knowing which way to turn. My instincts are failing me at a crucial moment.
If I hadn’t staked so much of my livelihood on this and hadn’t put too much into motion already, I might have no problem turning right back around and pretending this never happened. But that’s just not the case.
I donned my ghillie suit, ditched my stolen car at a Yellowstone wildlife tour center, and made the rest of the trip on foot despite knowing how dangerous it would be to traverse through this area.
Before my life went to shit at the end of my senior year of high school, I was an Eagle Scout with the skills and badges to prove my merit.
Even got some scholarship money to go to college with after graduating.
As if that was going to happen after the incident that turned me into the walking villain I am today.
Still, I know how to pack so that everything I need stays strapped to my back for easy maneuvering and how to camp and survive in the wilderness overnight if need be. I’ve been training for this solo mission my whole life, even before I knew my fate.
I’m sweaty and dragging, but the adrenaline of a risky job to do keeps me from giving in to the fatigue in my muscles. Nothing has rattled me. Until now.
Until this guy appeared in my path like a himbo hurdle I don’t want to have to soar over or knock down.
My hands are tightly packed fists seeking to pummel.
I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I will if I have to.
From my pack, I remove my military-grade binoculars and train them on the hot tub that’s built into the back deck. My breath catches in my throat. I rear back upon first glance, certain my overtired eyes are playing tricks on me.
The man in the viewfinder must be a mirage.
His eyes are closed, and his head is tipped back, exposing the glorious length of his muscular neck with a fetching mole to the left of a prominent Adam’s apple.
I question my own faculties. I rub my eyes and take a third look, a fourth. Willing myself to be wrong.
That’s not…
It can’t be…
Reed.
I nearly lose my balance from the realization. The branches of a nearby tree kick up a loud fuss, and I go stock still. I can feel eyes on me from a distance. The ghillie suit will do its job if I level out my breathing and don’t draw more attention to my exact spot.
Minutes later, when I’m confident I’ve lost Reed’s interest, I move into a patch of thicker brush and check my binoculars again.
If the mole on his neck and his curly blond hair weren’t confirmation enough, the view I get of his smooth, bubble butt as he hauls himself out of the hot tub to towel off is the nail in the already-closing coffin.
You don’t forget an ass like that.
Fuckin’ hell.
Reed Thompson is here. At Wendell Blitz’s new Jackson Hole house.
Standing in the fading sunlight, running a white towel over his Adonis-like limbs in the same way I ran my rough hands over him the night I had him hooked to my headboard, bedecked in a spandex superhero suit as part of the role-play scene we were enacting.
His movements are unhurried, and his thick, cut dick flops against the inside of his muscular thigh. I still remember the taste of beaded precum licked directly from that flared pink head. He tasted better than my favorite whiskey.
I can’t tear my eyes away from him now, both because I can’t believe this is happening on tonight of all nights and because I’m aroused as all hell given the private peep show I’m getting. His lightly tanned skin—a vestige of summer gone—nearly glows in the pre-dusk light.
It’s as if trying not to think about him for four weeks has thrown him in my path exactly where he doesn’t belong.
My dick doesn’t understand that this is not the time nor the place to come out and play. My right hand refuses to behave either. It buries itself between the elastic waistband and the pouch of my briefs, which are straining to contain my rapidly growing erection.
This is exactly why I don’t do repeats. Why I didn’t let him stay the night. Why I blocked his number.
Pretty boys with wide blue eyes and bubble butts make me lose my focus. Maybe even make me lose my mind.
My gloved hand breaches my briefs. The burlap and fake foliage attached to my hands scratch against the sensitive skin of my straining cock, but I can’t resist a tug. Maybe two. The primal pull is too strong, and Reed as the fuel is too great to resist.
Golden hour descends over the property, and Reed hangs his towel and stops to admire the Teton Range bathed in orange and pink.
I salivate over how the sunset paints his slightly glistening skin.
An idea passes over his face. He moves for his phone and sets it up on a nearby chair with the camera timer on.
Playfully, he runs out into the grass—closer to me now, so I have to be quieter—and poses for a series of naked photos. The mountains are at his back, giving me a perfect view of his ass, which makes me leak. The thought of my cock disappearing between those cheeks again has my legs convulsing.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I feel like such a bizarre creep.
But I shouldn’t be here to rob this place either, so it’s not like I’m suddenly Mr. Morals, and I don’t think I’ve ever been harder in my goddamn life.
Memories of the two nights we spent together swirl back up the drain of my subconscious.
He’d told me he was an exhibitionist. That he liked showing off and being watched, whether he knew about the voyeur or not.
It was one of his kinkier confessions amid our boundary conversations.
Sure, it’s a half-assed justification for the way I’m pumping my cock like a piston right now, but I figure, if I get off, I can clear my head and think straight. Figure out a new plan of attack.
Yeah. Sure. Let’s go with that.
I grip the base of my shaft, my length quaking as Reed strikes a final pose with his biceps up and flexed, revealing his neat patches of blond pit hair. He inspects the shots on his phone as he walks inside.
Not yet, pretty boy, I think, Daddy’s almost there.
But he steps inside before I can shoot my load.
Maybe that’s for the best. The absence of his gorgeous body snaps at least a little bit of sense back into me.
I’ve almost dropped the binoculars before a light catches my attention.
Reed appears again, framed by the window of one of the downstairs bathrooms. I adjust the zoom on my lenses, and I could kiss the house’s architect for designing it this way.
The window cuts off near Reed’s waist, but the view of water droplets from an unseen, luxurious showerhead sluicing down Reed’s sculpted chest is enough inspiration to make me start tugging again. Harder and faster this time.
I push my joggers and briefs down to my knees, exposing my needy boner to the wild Wyoming air. My body shivers from the slight autumn breeze that creeps over my unmentionables.
The window glass fogs as the shower steams up. Almost as if Reed knows I’m out here, he cranks the window open to dissipate the cloudiness. What a good little exhibitionist. My cock bounces with appreciation.
I strip off my right glove and slick my hand with spit. Reed is lathered up by the time I look back. Suds dance on the summits of his shoulders. I rut and rut into my fist, imagining it’s his willing ass bent in front of me for the taking. A personal toy to overflow with my seed.
My balls tighten. I take the glove I ripped off and shove it in my mouth to stifle any groans that might escape past the gate of my grinding teeth. I’m right at the brink of release when I remember the golden rule of burglary: leave no trace behind.
Without a suitable alternative, I shoot my unstoppable load into my briefs.
Thick, powerful ropes stain the black fabric within seconds.
I contract over, feeling spent and silly.
I drop the binoculars and spit the glove out of my tense mouth.
I pant for fresh air as my head stops spinning from the intensity.
Who knew I was such a voyeur?
You learn something new every day.
I just wish it hadn’t been today. The day of the biggest heist of my career.
I wipe myself off as best I can, but I know there’s going to be a massive stain to attend to when this is all said and done. At least I can think again.
Somewhat.
Now that I’ve gotten Reed out of my head, it’s time to focus on getting him out of that house.