by Rye Hart
“Still building cabinets?” David asks me.
“You betcha, I am,” I say. “Need some custom work done? I can give you a hell of a deal.”
David laughs. “Maybe on my vacation home,” he says. “The wife wants to redo the kitchen.”
“Well, you know who to call.”
David is silent for a long time before asking the question everyone asks me – the one he hasn't gotten around to asking until now. Frankly, I'm surprised it's taken him this long.
“Why, Jack?” he asks. “Why don't you retire and just take it easy?”
“I am taking it easy,” I say, leaning back in my Italian leather chair and staring out at the beautiful landscape before me. “Woodworking is what I enjoy. It's not a job, it's a hobby for me; something I actually enjoy doing. A man's gotta do something to keep busy.”
David is like an old friend. Almost, anyway. He is still a lawyer – and my lawyer at that. He'll always put my best interests over a personal relationship. He's a good man, and the closest thing I have to a friend.
“You need to date more, Jack,” he laughs. “You need a good woman in your life.”
“Nah, I'm doing everyone a favor by staying out of the dating pool, trust me.”
“My wife has this friend – ”
“You like your wife's friend?” I interrupt. “She's a good girl? A nice girl?”
“Of course,” he says. “I wouldn't suggest making an introduction otherwise.”
“Then take it from me – keep her far away from me.”
David sighs on the other end of the line. “Don't you get lonely up there in your sanctuary?”
How can I explain that yes, it does get lonely, but, that it's for the best for everybody? Sometimes I miss the companionship that comes from having someone in your life. Finding that someone, however, when you're somebody like me, isn't easy. It's not something a lawyer like David would understand. Hell, it's not something I'm sure anybody would understand.
David's always had it easy though. He grew up with a lawyer dad and got into his first choice of Ivy League schools right off the bat. After that, he went straight into law school. He was always going to make something of himself, there was no doubt about it in anyone's eyes. He was going to be somebody and do important things.
So, when he married a beautiful blonde who came from a wealthy family as well, nobody batted an eye. It just seemed like the natural order of things and most people thought they were the perfect couple. Made for each other. Not everyone is so lucky though – something David doesn't quite grasp.
“After spending years in the desert, fearing anyone I come across might have a bomb strapped to their back, I prefer being alone, honestly,” I say.
It's a trust issue, yes. Not just from my years in the Marines, but also my experience with women. They might not come with actual explosives strapped to their backs, but every single relationship I've been in has seemed like a ticking time bomb. There is always an expiration date on any relationship I've found myself in. Usually, when that end comes, it's never clean. It's messy and it's destructive, leaving nothing but smoldering wreckage, a mound of emotional baggage, and a bunch of DVDs and shirts that don't belong to you.
“Eleanor is going to be disappointed,” David says. “She really wanted you to meet Cassie.”
“Tell Eleanor that I appreciate the gesture, but Cassie deserves better.”
“Better than a man wealthy enough to buy his own small country?” David asks with a laugh.
I cringe at the words. It's not like I wanted to make millions. I never set out to have that kind of money. I have other priorities in my life. I won't deny that my father did extremely well for himself. After years of his company struggling to make ends meet, of literally robbing Peter to pay Paul just to keep the lights on, it eventually paid off and he made his fortune. Because of that, I'm set up for the rest of my days. I just happen to be the lucky beneficiary of all my dad's blood, sweat, and tears. I'll never complain and will remain eternally grateful to my father for allowing me to live the life I want to live. I'm just a lucky schmuck though, that's all.
“I'm a grumpy, crotchety prick, David,” I say. “No amount in the money can make up for that.”
“You keep saying you're such a bad guy, but I've seen nothing to prove that claim.”
“Good. I prefer to keep it that way.”
Gunner is still looking at me with his wide puppy-dog eyes, brown and pure, begging for me to take him outside. I hurry up and end the call before David continues to pester me about meeting his wife's friend.
“Alright, send the papers my way and I'll sign them,” I say. “I'm ready to be free from my dad's legacy.”
“It's your legacy too, Jack.”
“Nah, I inherited at the right time, made a few lucky guesses, and that's all,” I say, scratching my beard. “Now it's time for me to do my own thing.”
I hang up the phone, and as soon as I stand up, Gunner rushes my legs. His entire body is wiggling along with his tail, and he whines just under his breath. He's impatient, but too well-trained to make a huge spectacle of himself.
“Alright, alright,” I laugh, stroking the giant, chocolate brown dog. “I get the picture.”
I was never a dog person until Gunner showed up on my front porch. No matter how many flyers I put up, no one claimed the guy. When he’d turned up, he’d looked like he'd been on the streets for a while. There wasn't enough meat on his bones and he walked with a limp which we later discovered was a broken foot.
After giving him a thorough exam, the vet said he'd probably been outside for at least a few weeks. No collar. No microchip. The shelter was overcrowded, and they took one look at the mutt and broke it down to me – the chances were good, in a small town like this, no one would claim him. Somebody had probably just dumped him to be rid of the responsibility. The vet told me that he'd probably be euthanized once his hold ran out at the shelter.
I took him home that evening, and he's been my buddy ever since. Saved me a few times too. When I felt down and out, ready to just give up on everything, Gunner would rest his head on my lap and look up at me, as if he was intuiting my thoughts. Those chocolate brown puppy dog eyes are often the only reason I get out of bed. He depends on me, needs me, and I can't let him down.
He follows me out the office, his tail thumping against the cabinets in the kitchen. I open the back door, and Gunner rushes outside into the snow drifts that are almost as tall as he is, kicking up white powder as he runs. If the cold bothers him, it doesn't show. Doesn't bother me much either. I stay on the back porch and stare out at the forest beyond the yard, enjoying the silence and the solitude of my house. It's nothing but open land for as far as the eye can see.
There's not even a fence, but Gunner has no intention of running off into the woods. Not after what he lived through before I found him. He stays nearby, always glancing back to make sure I'm still on the porch watching him. I guess because of what he endured before he came to me, he's a little paranoid and wants to keep me in sight at all times. The snow is too deep to play ball with him, but there is one thing I know he likes. I walk down the back steps and wade out into the snow, bending down to make a snowball with two hands. Gunner sees what I'm doing and rushes toward me, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, a wide doggy-grin on his face.
Picking up the snowball, I toss it toward him and he leaps from the ground, into the air, and his jaws close around the icy ball. It explodes in a hail of icy chunks and Gunner lands on his feet with snow covering his muzzle and a smile on his face. His eyes are begging me for more, his enthusiasm making me laugh.
I'm not even sure what I did with my free time before he came into my life. David was right about one thing – it did get lonely up here. For the most part, I prefer it that way. Loneliness and isolation are safe. It's familiar for me. There aren't many people I enjoy spending time with, and even fewer that I trust. No one here in the small town of Redstone knows a thing about me.
Which is good. I intend to keep it that way.
Gunner eventually gets tired of the snowballs and finds something of interest to sniff. Small tracks dot the snow all around where he's sniffing. Some kind of small animal, obviously. Gunner continues following them until he gets too close to the iced over mountain road, which in a roundabout way, takes you into Aspen. Eventually. It’s a town I stay far away from for obvious reasons – tourists.
I whistle, and Gunner's ears perk up immediately. He turns and looks at me, a question in his deep brown eyes, Ahh, do I have to go inside now?
“I know, buddy,” I say with a sigh. “I have more calls to make, more work to do. But soon, I'll be free to enjoy my days with you and we can play outside as long as you want.”
Gunner, being the good boy that he is, comes running toward me as happy as a clam. He gets it. He gets me. We're a good team, Gunner and I, and it's incredibly fortuitous that this big lump of fur and wiggles came into my life when he did. It might have saved my life.
He leads the way up the stairs, shaking himself off on the porch. I open the back door and he scampers inside, his nails clicking on the hardwood floors as he goes over to his favorite spot in front of the fireplace and plops down with a long sigh. The fire is going strong, the warmth filling the house, and for that, I'm grateful.
In fact, I'm grateful for everything I have, even if it doesn't seem like it. The living room that stretches out before me is filled with nice things. A stone fireplace keeps the house warm, surrounded by brown leather sofas, and an overstuffed chair that I made the mistake of having an interior designer pick out for me. The chair doesn't feel like me, not really, and it's not overly comfortable to sit in, but it looks nice. So, I guess that's something.
A large flat panel television hangs on the wall that's hardly ever used. In fact, I hardly ever sit in the living room. It's a room I usually just pass through on my way out of the house. I spend most of my time in my office, bedroom, kitchen, or bathroom. The rest of the large cabin goes mostly unused, including the loft up above the living area that serves as a library. It's full of more books than I can ever read in my lifetime. I hope once I'm finally finished with my dad's company though, I can at least put a sizeable dent in the collection.
I walk through the living room, passing it by as usual, and head for the kitchen. This room gets used a lot. Given how small of a town Redstone is, getting delivery is next to impossible, so I cook most of my own meals, as well as Gunner's. Large and spacious with stainless steel appliances and slate countertops, it's the one room I had a say in. A dining room separates the living area from the kitchen – yet another space that goes largely unused. It's an elegant room though, dominated by an eight-person dining table made entirely of locally sourced wood.
Given that I'm not into hosting dinner parties though, I usually eat at the breakfast nook situated in the corner of the kitchen. My laptop is a permanent fixture there as it's one of the few places, outside of my office, that I do my work, mostly because of the view. The nook has bench seating against a bay window, and in the distance, you can see the snowcapped mountains that the tourists flock to on their skiing holidays.
Personally, I prefer seeing them from this distance. The mountains are majestic though – rugged and natural, rising above the earth and dusted with snow almost year-round. Summer is beautiful in this little slice of Colorado too though, when the trees are green, and everything comes alive once more. As beautiful as it is though, winter will always be my favorite season. I had more than enough summer in the dessert.
I sit down with a cup of coffee and open my laptop. I delete a bunch of useless e-mails, and scroll through, only stopping on those for local woodworking jobs.
Checking the clock, I see that I have a few minutes to go until my next call. This one handling the day to day operations of the business until the business is finally sold off. One more week, maybe two, and then I'd be free to do what I loved instead of dealing with this daily rigmarole.
Then, maybe, I can finally, truly relax.
CHAPTER THREE
SYDNEY
“Can you tell me where we're going now?” I ask, once we’ve boarded the private jet.
A woman brings me a glass of champagne, which she hands to me along with a napkin. I didn't ask for any champagne and am not particularly in the mood for a drink right now. I put the glass in the cup holder on the arm of the leather seat. Peter takes his glass and sips it, a devious smile on his face as he glances at me from over the rim.
“Do you like skiing, Sydney?” he asks me.
His question brings back memories from high school. A ski trip to Aspen. Sure, there are others, but this one brings back a lot of memories for me that I push away. Memories I don't particularly want to think about.
I shrug. “Yeah, I guess so,” I say. “We're not – ”
My eyes are wide and my stomach churns as I realize I hadn't packed any winter clothing. It hadn't even occurred to me that we might actually be going somewhere other than some expensive tropical paradise because that's usually Peter's idea of a good time. Skiing is more my thing, or rather, was my thing. “Your mom told me about your love of skiing,” Peter says, taking another sip of his champagne. “Said you used to go a few times a year with them. My dad owns a house outside of Aspen, so I figured, why not do something I know you love for a change?”
“I didn't bring anything to wear,” I admit. “Not for winter weather.”
His gray eyes glimmer a bit, and I know there's a flirtatious comment swirling around in his brain that he's dying to give voice to. He holds his tongue though, and for that, I give him some credit.
“We'll pick up whatever you need at the shops,” he says, waving his hand.
A reminder that to him, money is not an issue. Not that money is an issue for me either, but Peter likes to flaunt the fact in everything he does – right down to the Rolex on his wrist he makes sure I see.
Unlike my family, his family is fairly new money. Not that it matters to my folks. Money is money is money. I come from a long line of doctors and surgeons who've all done quite well for themselves. I've never wanted for anything in my life and can admit that I've had a very privileged upbringing.
Peter, on the other hand, is only the second person in his family to have success in business. Well, really, his dad was the successful one. Peter was just earning off of what his father started. Not that I had any doubt he'd be anything less that successful – Peter was a man who took his career, and his potential earnings, very seriously. If there's one thing he's laser-focused on, it's making money.
Allie was right when she said any woman would love to be with a man like Peter. He's six-foot-five, and built like a linebacker from his years of playing college football, still thick through the chest and shoulders –. He still works out every single day, without fail, and follows a strict high-protein diet. His figure is important to him, and it shows. He wears suits that are tailored to his shape, and show off his tight, fit body. Peter can be a bit of a peacock.
His face is just as hard as his body – all angles and sharp edges. High cheekbones that are almost a bit too structured to look real – but they are. It's a family trait as I've seen from old photographs. His entire family are as beautiful as statues, chiseled to perfection, most all of them having nearly jet-black hair and gray eyes that look as if they can see right through you.
I stare out the window of the jet, looking down at the world beneath us. While I grew up with money, my family doesn't own private jets or go on expensive vacations on nothing more than a whim. It all feels so different to me; so alien.
At first, I'll admit, it was exciting. Now, it feels almost irresponsible. Maybe I'm just biased about that since I have my father's work ethic. There's a time for fun, that time though, is structured. It's scheduled. You don't just drop everything to travel to some foreign land because you feel like it.
Peter, on the other hand, lectures me often about lightening up. He constantly tells m
e to relax and live a little. I'm trying. It's why I'm here on this jet with him now. It's why I keep doing whatever he has in mind for us, because deep down, on some level, I can admit that maybe he's right. Hell, I know he's right. I do need to live a little. This is certainly living, I think, as I look around at the jet. The leather seats we're in, sitting across from each other, are in a group of four. Each side can be folded down into a bed, and yes, when we took off the last time, I was exhausted from applying to med school and I totally took advantage of it. There's a mini bar on one side, fully stocked and flat panel televisions in case you get bored. It blows my mind, to this day, that this is how some people travel. It blows my mind even more to know that this is how I travel now, apparently.
I sip my champagne and stare down at mountains below us. I can't tell if we're still in California or not, but if I want to know, I can pull up all the information I could ever want on one of the televisions, I'm sure. Anything is an option when you have enough money.
“Did your mother talk to you about UCLA?” Peter asks.
I look over at him and blink. “What about it?” I ask.
A sly smile spreads across his face. Setting his glass down, he steeples his fingers and makes me wait for his answer. It's as if he enjoys watching me squirm. Finally, when he speaks up, I can hear the note of pride in his voice.
“My father knows a guy on the admissions board, and he's put in a good word for you,” he says. “You should be hearing from them soon.”
“Thank you,” I say, blushing as I look down at my hands. “You really didn't have to do that.”
“I know,” he says, continuing to smile at me, as if he expects me to fall to the ground and suck his cock as a way to say thanks or something. “I figure you could use all the help you can get. UCLA is a top tier medical school, I'm told.”
“It's a good one,” I say.
I grit my teeth at the comment about needing all the help I can get though. As if I'm not good enough or smart enough to get into a top tier school like UCLA without somebody putting in a good word for me. It irritates me because I work hard and am damn good at what I do. Hearing him speak about putting in good words for me with the admissions boards just strikes me as completely condescending. “It's in my top ten or twenty, for sure,” I say, carefully trying to keep my tone neutral. “Stanford is still my top choice, but UCLA wouldn't be a bad fallback school.”
