Chapter Twenty-Five
Griffin
I pack my things into a suitcase and bring it in my Prius. An hour later I park in front of Sierra’s home and stare at the light coming from the living room windows.
Now that I’m here, I feel like I’m trapped in a Twilight Zone episode.
This must be how some people feel after leaving a dealership with more car than they initially expected. I was planning on “breaking up,” not moving in. But the urgent need to protect Sierra overrode everything.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling. The only other time I made an exception not to get involved in someone else’s drama was that time in New Orleans, but I was in a mask, so no one was going to figure out who I was. In addition, the woman was in trouble, and that guy was just begging to have his ass kicked.
But I wasn’t anonymous yesterday or today, and this drama involves people I know. One of them works at the same college I do.
It’s only for a few weeks.
Nobody twisted my arm. I’ve made sure I can’t be manipulated. I can suck it up for the good cause of keeping Sierra safe.
I get out of the car and grab my small suitcase. There’s no response when I knock on the door—which is strange, because music is coming from the inside, and the lights are on. I knock again, louder this time, but still nothing. Maybe she’s changed her mind about the whole pretend-dating thing.
Stepping back, I glare at the door. My first reaction should be relief that I don’t have to do it. But instead, I’m irritated enough to want to kick the damned door in.
Which should make for a great headline: Enraged Professor Breaks Down Girlfriend’s Door in Domestic Dispute.
It wouldn’t be true, but that’s news for you. Nobody clicks on an article with a truthful headline.
A cool evening breeze brushes over me. I pull out my phone to call, then see a text.
–Sierra: Have to do some chores. I left the door unlocked. Come in when you get here.
Why the hell did she leave the door unlocked?No chore is that urgent!
Shaking my head, I walk inside and make sure to lock the door behind me.
“Sierra?” No answer. The only sound I can hear is the husky vocal from Axelrod’s new album. At least she has good taste in music. It would be a pain to live with somebody who liked musicians I didn’t. I once had the misfortune of going on a date with a woman who absolutely adored Yoko Ono. I had to ditch her within an hour.
“Sierra?” I call out again. No response.
Maybe she’s in the bathroom. Who the hell knows?
I leave the suitcase in the foyer and step inside to have a better look at the house I’m going to be in for the next few weeks. The place is cozy. She’s a CEO, so I assumed she’d have a large, fancy home, if not a mansion. The décor is surprisingly normal—no purple cock clocks or anal plug thermometers. You could actually take pictures of this home and put them up on a real estate site without any issue. Hell, you could host a Bible study here, and nobody would know that Sierra runs a sex toy company.
The furniture is homey, selected for comfort and a welcoming feel. The living room and dining room have lots of wood—hardwood floors and wooden furniture. But instead of wood, all I can smell is a trace of mouth-watering apples.
There aren’t any apples in the living room or dining room. It has to be Sierra—it’s the same scent I smelled on her hair yesterday.
What does she do that her entire home smells like her?It reminds me vaguely of animals marking their territory.
Framed photos on the living room shelves catch my eye. Dad once observed that the photos people choose to display in their homes reveal a lot about them. It wasn’t life advice, more like something I overheard him telling his people while setting up a scene.
He’s probably right, though. He might be a complete asshole, but he’s good at tugging heartstrings, which is what makes his movies do so well.
So I look the photos over, hoping to find something that will alert me to her flaws. They don’t have to be terrible ones. Just bad enough that I won’t feel any weird sexual awareness around her.
People I don’t recognize. Another couple looking happy. Must be Sierra’s parents. The woman and Sierra share a striking resemblance.
Sierra’s dad doesn’t look much like her. Murky brown eyes and a weak chin make him look unfocused and indecisive.
There’s a high school graduation photo with Sierra and somebody who’s probably her grandmother. A college graduation shot that’s the same.