10. Multiple Vibe Thefts
multiple vibe thefts
Mirren
My day flies by. I’m up to my eyeballs in conspiracy theories, conspiracy facts, and Reddit threads with all manner of ideas on how one could bolster or destroy a power plant, infect a transformer, or disable a substation.
Gotta love Reddit. People there chat. Good, bad, or seditious, they’re there to one-up the previous poster or to create a thread that becomes the “it” topic.
And when my job is scrolling socials and egging them on, it’s hard to complain.
I’m on my parents’ back dock, soaking up the late Autumn sun, and pointedly avoiding my renter. It didn’t take much. In joggers and running shoes, abs on full display, those dark-rimmed glasses up front, Strider took off at a great pace this morning, fiddling with something on his watch.
And that was it. I shoved my laptop into my purse, grabbed an iced tea from a drive-through, and planted myself in my happy place.
Well, one of them.
Dad checked on me early, but his quick, clipped footsteps tell me he’s returned.
“How’s it going, Scooter?”
I twist to look at him as he drops into an Adirondack chair next to me. “Good. But research is boring.”
“Research is the job.” Graying at the temples, deep grooves radiating from his eyes, my dad’s salt and pepper hair is perfectly placed. Military life suited him, and he’s never quite left some of its confines.
“You’re right.”
“I know.” His smile is charming and casually confident.
The man’s not arrogant, but he’ll never be confused for humble either. He knows what he knows and has no problem making sure those around him are aware. It’s not even annoying. He’s confident where his experience has taught him. He doesn’t pretend where it hasn’t.
Except maybe in the field, but I’ll never know. His days are long since behind him. As far as I know, he hasn’t dabbled since he retired in the late eighties like Mom has. He’s the kind of man who’s content, which is my favorite characteristic about him.
I give him a knowing look. “Doesn’t mean it’s not boring.”
“Would you rather be bored in Pakistan? Saudi? Yemen?”
Surveying Mobile Bay sprawled out before me, Sara Bareilles humming through my mind, I shake my head. “Nah. I’d rather be bored on a laptop right here.”
“That’s what I thought. And not that I mind—I never mind—but something has you twisted up. So tell me what brings you here today?”
Thoughtful question, but one that’s tough to answer. Mom. Strider. Work. Being a chickenshit.
Instead of being truthful, I shrug. “Change of scenery, I guess.”
“Bullshit, but I’ll let you keep your secrets.” I can’t see it, but there’s a smile in his voice from behind me.
Let me? I’m sure he doesn’t even hear the language, but no one has let me do anything since I swore my oath at the recruiting office.
Dear old Uncle Sam doesn’t count—no one is free of him. That old “death and taxes” line is true. That’s when we’re clear of his requirements. Well, mostly. And only if we did everything else required.
“It’s not a secret. This is one of my happy places. Remember when Wiggle scared the crap out of Mom?”
“Johnny should’ve known better. She was so pissed she wanted me to write him out of the will after that stunt.”
“In the literal sense, she wasn’t pissed.” The emphasis on the word can’t be overplayed.
Johnny borrowed Jamie’s scuba gear, planned when Mom would be in one of her frequent spring yoga-on-the-pier sessions, and waited until she was in a beautiful, meditative Malasana.
Her yogi squat was the perfect position to crap her pants when he sprang from the water, holding a fake decapitated head.
Dad’s laughter rolls over me and ripples across the water. “She was so mad. Badass June Jones with shit in her drawers—not from terrorists, but from her son.”
“And you’ve never let her forget it.”
“Nope. Never will. Payback’s a bitch, and she bought that one many times over.”
“That she has.”
“Her response will be epic,” he continues.
“Do you know what it is?” I twist to face him.
“I don’t even know that she does, but you know it’ll be brutal.”
I fake a shiver. “The queen was toppled, but she still reigns.” Mom is a terrible and creative prankster.
The world thinks she’s sweet.
We all know better.
Strider
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Fairhope is idyllic. Maybe it’s the warm sun and the cool breeze. Maybe it’s the escape from the mundane in Peoria.
Then again, it could be because I had the best sex of my life last night.
Mirren is witty, smart, and a temptress in bed. And she knows how to use all of it to bring me to my knees—a place I’d gladly stay.
I haven’t heard back from her, and honestly, I expected to, even after grabbing lunch and hitting the grocery store for dinner tonight. She seems to rise to any challenge. The dare of stealing her vibrator didn’t do what I’d hoped.
I have to say, I never expected to write a note, get dressed, and quietly leave a woman with her purple toy sticking out of my pocket. Chalk that up to a once-in-a-lifetime experience. At least, that’s my hope. I’m not equipped for multiple vibe thefts.
On a deeper level, I can’t imagine wanting another woman’s battery-operated boyfriend. It’s not like I’m starting a collection. If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t want Mirren wanting something besides me… or getting satisfaction from something—or someone—else either.
Setting thoughts of sex toys aside, I chop the peppers and onions and sauté them down with some garlic. Bolognese isn’t sexy, but it’s good, and mine is great. I credit the meat mixture and the red wine. That and browning the tomato paste.
While that’s marrying, I start my Caesar dressing. I’m no baker. I leave that to my mom and sister, Lorien, even if she’s terrible at it. But I can cook, and sauces are my thing. Dressings count.
Garlic infuses the air, and the sizzle of veggies has been replaced with the pop of air bubbles as the sauce reduces. It’s in that moment that I hear the groan.
“What smells so good?” Mirren appears from the hall that leads to the rear of the house.
My brain wants to play it cool; my body has other plans. Long strides take me to her. I look from her eyes to her mouth as my arms wrap low on her back.
My mouth crashes down on hers. Taking. Needing. Owning.
Her moan spurs me on, and I pull her tighter into my body, lifting a hand to her head to take better control of the kiss. She does the same, and something in me ignites. She’s not trying to take over, but Mirren Jones is certainly no wallflower.
One wrong twist and my glasses mash into the bridge of my nose. Oof.
I pull back enough to look down at her, before kissing her forehead. “Hi. Did you have a good day?”
Everything in her body softens as if the spring was allowed not to be coiled so tightly. She nods as her hands slide over my pecs. There’s familiarity—almost knowing—in her touch that’s something only time offers.
“Yeah. Work stuff. Dull, but worth doing.”
“I’d think landlording wouldn’t be…” I cut myself off because I won’t mansplain a thing to this woman. “Well, I don’t know.” I slide back, returning to my place at the island, and scatter the chopped veggies on the salad. “You didn’t mention allergies.”
“No allergies,” she comments, slipping onto a barstool across from me. Looking left and right, her nose scrunches.
“What is it?”
“It’s weird to be a guest in my own home. You there”—she gestures as if I’m unaware of my position between the island and the stove—“and me here.”
“Well, I’m not assuming your property. I wish I could.” Why do I feel shy admitting this? “I drove by this place each time I made a trip here. She’s a stunner. I’m thrilled I got to see inside.”
“You did?”
I bob my head and toss the salad. “Yeah. What you’ve done with the place is incredible.” My eyes take in the modern touches on the historic place. “It works. The character remains while offering people an escape from the realities of historic homes.”
She exhales and drops her eyes to the huge white island. “Yeah. It was a labor of love, but so worth it.”
“If you ever want to sell, hit me up. Not that it would be reasonable for me.” Ever. But I don’t add that. I’d kick myself for not considering it. “Maybe I’ll retire here.”
“It’s a lot of house.”
I hold her gaze and wonder what she’s not saying.
“Well, since it’s not a today you problem or a today me dilemma, I’ll put that part out of my mind. Are you hungry?”
Her eyes hold mine, and I can’t help but wonder if her one-word answer has double meaning. “Starving.”