by Brisa Starr
I turn to my bag and dig out some clothes. I find my black yoga shorts, my favorite because they have a big enough pocket to hold my phone, and I prefer music in my ears whenever possible. I add a faded and worn, black Misfits T-shirt. I don’t even like the Misfits, but I loved the over-washed softness of the shirt when I found it in a thrift store back in Portland. And, I admit, I like how the creepy skull logo turns a few heads.
Time to do my house-sitting duties. First things first, I head to the enormous kitchen and fill the two pitchers with ice water, like Jenna showed me yesterday. While they’re filling, I look around and decide I’ll teach my classes later at the wood dining table off the side of the open kitchen. It’s gorgeous and looks like reclaimed wood, inlaid with rivers of tiny turquoise pebbles streaming throughout. I’ll have the north-facing windows to look out where the desert expands forever upward into the mountains, feeling like I’m at the edge of civilization.
With one pitcher of ice water in each hand, I’m ready to tackl–… er, greet – the chickens. Everything else I need to take care of them is in the giant coop off the back patio.
It’s amazing what Jenna’s had built out here. I step outside the back door, and the vibrant, mosaic-tiled patio is fenced in from the ground up to the roof. The cats and dogs can come and go as they please, using the doggie-door to an enclosed area that’s safe from coyotes, bobcats, or even cougars. Shit, when she said cougars yesterday – and not the kind that sit in bars – freakin’ mountain lions – I damn near peed my shorts. I don’t think I’ll venture too far. I’m a daredevil, and I love nature, but I draw the line at 200-pound predators equipped with enough claws and fangs to remind a 120-pound human just exactly who’s top of the food chain.
Off to the right of this enclosed area is the sidewalk to the chicken coop, which is only a few steps away. Off to the left leads to another door in the fenced-in area to an open patio, complete with furniture for enjoying the view and meals.
I stop and look inside the chicken coop. The chickens are scratching around in the dirt. I open the door to the coop and step inside, shutting it quickly behind me so nobody escapes. The enclosure is a cramped, chicken-wired, fenced-in area with stacked wooden boxes, where the hens can roost and lay their eggs in privacy.
I look at the chickens, a bit unnerved to see their piercing, bulging eyes watching me, judging me, or at least warily suspicious. “Hey girls,” I say in my sweetest, Cinderella-feeding-chickens voice. “You met me yesterday, but in case you forgot, I’m Alyson. I’ll be taking care of you for a couple of months, and I’m excited to eat all the delicious eggs you’ll lay for me.”
No response. They stay huddled in a corner, still nervously looking at me. Clearly, I must earn their trust. I chew on the inside of my mouth for a moment, wondering if they understand anything I’m saying. They seemed to follow what Jenna was saying, but maybe Jenna is a chicken-whisperer. What were all their names again?
I shake my head. “Well, are you girls thirsty?” I walk over to the two shallow plates laying on the ground, and I pour one pitcher of ice water into each one. The chickens run over, eager to get a drink, and knowing food is coming next. Yeah, they know the routine. One of them plops down in the middle of the plate of ice water, enjoying an ice bath. I guess I’ve earned their trust now.
“OK, time to feed you girls.” I walk over to the metal bin holding the food, and I open it, reaching for the giant scoop.
“Dang, it’s hot in here,” I say to no one, and get a scoop of their food. I scatter the corn and sunflower seed chicken feed around the ground, and I step too close to the chicken who is sitting in the ice bath. She freaks out and attempts flight. In an enclosed chicken coop. She flaps her wings like crazy, banging into the rafters, dust and feathers flying everywhere, and scaring the shit out of me, too. She lands on the ground, and I accidentally spill the entire scoop of chicken feed on top of her. She continues squawking and flapping, and everything blows up in a tremendous storm of dust, dirt, straw, and food all over me.
I cough, inhaling chicken shit and dust, as the chickens go crazy, running around, flapping their wings and squawking.
“Crap! Shit! Son of a bitch!” I yell, as I cover my eyes and try to make sense of what’s happening. The chickens, afraid of my loud, harsh language, scurry to the other side of the coop. So they do understand me!
As the cloud of dust, feathers, grain, and chicken shit settles around me, and all over me, I narrow my eyes at them and point a finger, gritting my teeth. “Not cool, girls! Not friggin’ cool.”
I grab the empty water pitchers and step out of the chicken coop, stomping my feet on the path back to the house, hoping to shake off the dust. Which only helps a little, so I take off my shoes and T-shirt, shaking my hair at the same time. I don’t want to bring all this shit and chicken detritus inside.
I yank open the door to the house, pissed at my total chicken fail, and step inside.
He’s there.
I startle him, and he turns toward me. His mouth drops open, about to say something, and he abruptly closes it when he sees my cheeks blush the color of cranberries.
I narrow my eyes at him and say, “You’re supposed to knock.”
“I did,” he says coolly. “You didn’t answer. I figured you were out with the animals.”
His deep, dark blue eyes take in the site of me from top to bottom, and I blush even more, knowing I have chicken shit, food, and feathers splattered all over me and I must look a hot mess. Aaaand… that’s when I remember I’m only wearing my bra and shorts. I drop the empty pitchers and quickly cover my chest, but one of the pitchers hits my bare foot. “Ouch!” I scream. I hop on my good foot, “Shoot!” My skin reddens even darker, which I didn’t think was possible. My eyes are enormous and my mouth hangs open. “Oh my god,” I mutter, hopping from the room, his dark laughter following me.
I slam the bedroom door shut and stand against the back of it, panting, my arms still crossed over my chest. I can’t believe he just saw me in my bra! Oh, my god!
How embarrassing!
Wait… what?
Yes! Embarrassing.
Though, when I think about how his eyes, the color of blue flame, roved over me, I don’t feel embarrassed. No, I feel… something different. I’m not sure what.
Still. Chicken shit and bra?
Oh well, chalk one up for the memory book. I step into the shower and stand under the water, thinking about how, in spite of being embarrassed, when our eyes connected, I damn near dragged him to the shower with me. Now I know what I was feeling.
Adron, that’s his name.
After my lonely shower, I grab another pair of my yoga shorts and a dark-blue tank top this time. I’m thinking tank tops and I will become best friends in this nutty heat. I blow dry my hair and reapply my makeup, adding mascara this time.
I walk back into the kitchen, and my heart skips a beat.
He’s still here.
His back is to me as he makes himself an espresso. He doesn’t hear me come in over the sound of the coffee beans grinding, and I study his half-naked body and the tattoo on his lean, sexy, muscled back. It’s so… intricate, beautiful, and scary at the same time. I also notice his narrow waist, cargo shorts hanging loosely on his hips. The band of his underwear peeks out from the top. I swallow, and my mouth opens. I wonder how his skin would taste if I licked under his waistband.
He hears me and turns around, looking at me, still amused. He smiles, and I blush from my calves to the roots of my hair. Does he know what I was just thinking?
I clear my throat. And my head with a minuscule shake. “Shall I expect you for coffee every morning?” I ask as I refill my cup from the pot I made earlier, determined to get past the chicken coop catastrophe. I walk to the custom, double-door refrigerator and take out the cream. I pour an overly generous amount into my coffee cup and take a sip. He’s watching me, and he winces.
“Mmm. Yummy,” I belligerently answer his expression.
; “No.”
“No, what?” I raise my eyebrows. “No yummy, or no, you won’t be gracing me with your presence here every morning?”
“I won’t be coming here,” he replies flatly and looks away.
Disappointment settles in my stomach... he won’t be my eye candy every morning? I mean, who needs coffee with that body staring back at me. He’s tall and lean, sinewy, and so friggin’ sexy. His chest looks hard as brick, and I like his hair, too. Onyx black, short on the sides and some height on top. I wouldn’t mind running my hands through it.
Then there are his eyes… those eyes. Mysterious as an unopened gift. They almost scare me – they’re so intense and dark blue, like a still lake at night. And yet breathtakingly beautiful. I don’t even know what to make of him. Yet.
And I think the feeling of intrigue is mutual. I hope, more like it. Hard to say, with his lack of attention at the moment, but there’s a robust charge in the air crackling around us. Or, maybe it’s just the immensely dry air of the desert.
“And...” he continues without looking at me, “no ‘yummy’ to destroying good coffee with all that cream.”
Annoyance thrums in my veins at his patronizing comment. “Too bad,” I say, and he looks back at me, his eyebrows arched. I continue, “You’re pretty hot, and I don’t mind looking at you.”
He lets a slight puff of air out of his nose, definitely amused this time. I was hoping to shock him though; it’s one of my finer qualities. Speaking my mind, no filter, no thick bullshit to wade through. With me, what you see is what you get, but I can’t say that’s the case with him.
He doesn’t bite at my boldness. Damn. What was I expecting, though? He’s probably used to women flirting with him. Heck, throwing themselves at him. I sigh inwardly.
“You’re from Ohio.” It’s not a question. “Long way from home, aren’t you?”
“Home is where the heart is, and all that crap,” I say, steadily gazing at him over my extra creamy coffee. I take a deeper look at his chest this time, since I don’t know when I’ll see it again. I memorize the lines, the light patch of inky hair in the middle, not too little, not too much. His dense pecs beckon my tongue.
He’s still not saying much, which is getting more annoying than mysterious at this point, so I ask, “What do you do?”
He waits a moment before answering, “Nothing I don’t want.”
I snort, having instantly figured him out. “Oh, you’re one of those,” I say and dismiss him with a flick of my hand. Game over.
“One of what?”
“Privileged assholes,” I say. Yeah, I saw the car you drive. I delight at the flicker of fire that lights behind his eyes.
Hmmm… I touched a nerve.
He ignores my response and asks, “How long have you been house-sitting?”
“About two years. Everything I own is in my car,” I say proudly. “I guess you could say I don’t have a home.”
“Homeless then,” he challenges and turns toward the sink to wash his tiny espresso cup.
“Maybe,” I answer and continue, “After I graduated, I sold everything except for what I could fit in my car to travel around the country. I’m not tied down to anywhere, or anyone. I can work from anywhere on my laptop, and with not paying rent, I can pay off my college debt. It’s a pretty sweet life of freedom.”
When I tell people this, they usually look at me like I’m a silly girl who doesn’t know any better, or they criticize my choices. He just stands there though, looking sexy as fuck, and I sense a twinge of envy, or maybe it’s admiration, in his face.
But then he replies, “Sounds lonely.”
Guess I was wrong.
I don’t reply. I think I like him, in my own masochistic sort of way. Like, I should know better than to pursue this princely darkness tempting me from across the kitchen, but I can’t help myself. He scares me a little, but I’m drawn to him. I want to know more.
Then, I wonder if a two-month fling is still just a fling if it’s two months. That sounds more like a short relationship to me, and that’s not what I’m looking for. Ever. Could I keep it cool and detached for a couple of months though? Just have fun? He looks like a dark horse, the black sheep, a cool cat, the loner of the family, if I had to guess. All that sexy, bad-boy shit. So maybe I’d be safe with him, and he’d like something without silly strings attached.
I bite the inside of my mouth and narrow my eyes at him, thinking more. He’s watching me, too... light still dances in his eyes, though I get the feeling he’s holding back, maybe trying to deny it, because the muscles in his jaw keep tensing. Yes, he’s definitely holding something back.
Ha. I believe he’s entertained by me.
Another moment passes and the wordless space gets to me first. I’ve met my stubborn match, it seems. I break the silence. “I’m in search of hot sauce.”
He raises his eyebrow.
“Any tips where I can get some? I figured with this being the great Southwest, there must be hot sauce everywhere.”
“Hot sauce?”
“Yes, hot sauce.” I can say few words, too, dude.
“I’m sure there are tourist shops in town with it,” he replies evenly. Was that a dig?
“I love hot sauce so much, I’d put it in my damn coffee if I could,” I challenge.
He winces, and I see I’ve offended his fancy espresso drinking tastes again. She shoots, she scores.
He turns to leave, shaking his head, but I see a slight smile twitch his mouth. He doesn’t even bother to say goodbye.
Rude.
Hot.
Forgiven.
It’s late afternoon by the time I pull up to the local butcher. It’s a small shop, but it has a fancy display case with artistic signs sticking out of the fresh cuts of meat offered. Nobody’s in here, and I don’t see the butcher. I wonder where he is.
“Hello?” I call out, but no one answers.
A moment later, a woman comes banging out of the walk-in refrigerator, her arms wrapped around what looks like half of the rib cage of a cow.
She sees me and says, “Oh! Hey there, hon. What can I do for you?” She heaves the heavy carcass onto the giant wood butcher table in the center of the store. “Whoowee! That will be some good meat!”
She focuses her attention on me again and smiles, waiting for me to answer her question.
“Hi. I’m here for Jenna’s p-”
She cuts me off, “Jenna’s pet food. You must be the house-sitter.”
“Yes,” I say, showing my surprise.
“Not much happens in this town without everybody knowin’ about it. Besides, Jenna called ahead of time, said you’d be by to pick it up.” She smiles and continues, bubbly, “I’m Sammy. I’m the butcher.”
“You’re the butcher?” I ask, and my eyebrows shoot up. “A woman?”
“You betcha! A damn good one, too. Daddy taught me everything I know.”
“Cool! A chick butcher, that’s totally rad!” I grin. She looks so young, too. Impressive.
“Thanks,” she says knowingly and walks to the cooler next to her. She has bright, sky-blue eyes, and her party smile shows perfect pearly whites. Her long blond hair, tied in a loose ponytail, hangs halfway down her back, out of the Rag & Bone baseball hat she’s wearing. She’s curvy, and her jeans fit snug like they should. I’m a bit envious. She looks like a pin-up girl, full up of moxie and sass.
I like her immediately.
She grabs three plastic containers filled with raw meat and carries them over to the counter, handing them to me. “So, how ya like Arizona?”
I study the labels on the pet food and see they’re all kinds of raw organ meat and muscle meat. Gross. I look up at her and reply, “Well, I just got here yesterday, but I’ll tell you, it’s hot as hell.”
Sammy guffaws and hangs her head back. Then she looks me right in my eyes and says, “Oh, honey! You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
Fear and shock must’ve hit my face, because she laughs even
harder, and she says, “Put it this way. Come July, you’ll want to tear your clothes off and run around naked like a screamin’ banshee. And I know Jenna doesn’t have a pool, so let me just say I am sorry in advance.”
I silently thank the air-conditioning god for the second time today.
She continues, “You need anything else today?”
I spy a variety of hot sauces on display next to a collection of spice rubs and mustards for the meat. “I’ll take these,” I say and hand her five different bottles of hot sauce, each one a grade higher in heat than the one before.
She looks at me a bit skeptically. “You sure? Those last two are mighty hot.”
“I was actually on a hunt for hot sauce today. I’m addicted to it. My mom put hot sauce on everything when she was pregnant with me, and I came out of the womb demanding it. The hotter the better!”
“Alrighty then. I can’t wait to hear what you think about these. They’re local. A friend of mine makes them,” she says as she walks to the register. “Will that do ya then? Adron didn’t send you with his order for steaks?”
My brows knit together briefly, and I reply, “No, he didn’t say anything about steaks.” Surprised she brought him up, I venture, “In fact, he doesn’t say much at all.”
“Adron’s a man of few words indeed.” She snickers and winks at me. “But who needs words with a face and body like that? Mmmmm!” she says, smacking her lips.
I step closer and lean in, wanting to pump her for more information. “What’s his story, anyway?”
“Not a lot to tell, actually, ‘cept that he’s been comin’ to Jenna’s house every summer since he was a little tyke.” She leans on her elbow over the counter between us and pauses a moment before adding, “He’s a few years older than me, but having grown up here myself, I saw him every summer. His parents never came with him, and he doesn’t have any siblings. That man is as hot as the Arizona August sun, but you already know that,” she says, slyly.
She walks back to the butcher table and, with a giant meat cleaver, starts hacking apart the rib cage into ribeye steaks. “Here, let me give you his steaks anyway, since I’m sure he’s gonna want them. It’s pretty much all he eats.”
