Grumpy Boss by Hamel, B. (best non fiction books to read TXT) 📗

around soon.” He stalked off, presumably toward whatever bird he just murdered, and I turned away.

Millie stood there staring at me like the ground just opened up and swallowed me whole.

“We got to get out of here,” she said, shaking her head. “That guy’s insane.”

“Yes, he is,” I said, stopping next to her. I put a hand on her arm. “Seriously, you okay?’

“I’m fine,” she said, chewing her lip, and she looked down at the ground, rubbing the toe of her shoes into the gravel. “Just scared me, is all.”

“Sorry,” I said, holding her gently, before releasing her again. “Come on, I’ll carry the bags inside.”

“Do you think this is for real?” she asked, matching my pace. “I mean, this guy has money, right?”

“Jack did his research,” I said. “It’s for real.”

“But he’s a cattle farmer. I don’t see any cattle.”

I frowned a little, squinting around. She was right—the land was flat and empty as far as I could see.

“He’s got thousands of acres,” I said. “Could be that he keeps the herd somewhere else.”

“Or this is all bullshit,” she said.

“Or that,” I agreed, and faced her again. “But we have no other choice.”

“I know,” she said, rubbing at her face with both hands. “I’m just on edge, from that stupid gun. Freaked me out.”

I took her hands in mind and gently pulled her closer. I hugged her then, tentatively at first, making sure she wasn’t about to knee me in the crotch. She felt good against my chest, and after a moment, she returned the embrace.

We broke apart a moment later, but that touch left something lingering on my skin.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make sure he doesn’t go shooting anymore while we’re here.”

“Good luck with that,” she said.

I hefted the bags up and marched toward the front door with Millie keeping close beside me.

11

Millie

The lodge was a massive structure that stretched back further than I would’ve guessed. The decor was all western: lots of pictures of mountains and livestock mixed with stuffed deer heads mounted above most the doorways. Even the rugs were patterned with tiny cowboys and horses. It was like walking into a Disneyland ride, except nicer.

Byron’s housekeeper was a Ukrainian woman with short cut hair and a rich accent named Alba. “Welcome, welcome,” she said, as she took us to our rooms. “Byron does not get many guests, yes? Not many at all. Very nice to have more people out here.” She was older, in her fifties, but still pretty. She wore jeans with multicolored thread and a button-down shirt with tassels on the elbows.

My room was next door to Rees’s, with a big queen bed, a dresser, an attached bathroom, and an ancient TV in the corner with a round glass screen. I took ten minutes to unpack and got myself settled before Rees appeared and pulled me out into the hallway. “They’re cooking the bird,” he said.

“What?” I asked, looking around like some animals might come charging. A stuffed moose head hung above the door at the end of the hall and its antlers touched the ceiling.

“The bird,” he said. “The one that psycho shot. They’re cleaning it right now.”

I stare at him then shook my head, barely understanding. Where I was from, people didn’t eat wild animals—much less killed their own food. I knew where meat came from, of course. I wasn’t a complete idiot. But the act of murdering an animal and cutting up its carcass into pieces to then cook for sustenance had been divorced for me from the actual act of pulling the trigger and carrying the body.

“For dinner?” I asked, feeling stupid.

He laughed and nodded. “For dinner,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go get a look at this.”

I followed him reluctantly back down the hall, down a staircase, and through another series of halls and rooms, before coming to a large open living room and kitchen area. It was massive, probably the size of the whole back of the house, and the view out the huge back glass sliding doors was incredible: the mountains, looming over the prairie. It was like we were alone in the whole world, and there wasn’t a single soul nearby.

Alba and Byron stood in the kitchen together. The bird was between then, half-plucked.

“Leave it to me, damn it,” Byron said, banging his fist next to the pheasant’s body. “I can clean it, you know that.”

“I know that,” Alba said, sounding patient. “But you do bad job. You rush too much, yes? I prepare bird. Besides, not enough here for all you to eat, yes? I cook more.”

“It’s plenty big,” Byron said, pointing at what must have been a three-pound animal, at best, and definitely wasn’t enough to feed three—even though I didn’t plan on touching it.

“Losing your mind out here,” Alba said, gesturing toward the poor, dead creature. “That small bird. Not enough for three. Enough for you, maybe, for one. But not for three. Let me cook, you go away.”

Byron turned in our direction and spotted us then. He seemed annoyed about it, but stormed over to a cabinet, grabbed a bottle of something brown and three glasses, then stomped toward the back doors. “This way,” he grunted.

Rees glanced at me then followed him. Alba beamed at us like Byron always acted this way.

I got the doors open and we stepped out onto the back deck. Comfortable chairs and a gourmet built-in grill sat on the left, and a small firepit crackled down in the grass, surrounded by more chairs. He walked to it and took a seat, placing the glasses on the stone rim of the pit, and poured quickly, before they got too hot. He handed each of us one. Rees sat across from him, and I sat next to Rees, blinking when the wind shifted and blew smoke in my face.

“So, Rees,” Byron said after slugging back his drink, “you wanna talk about that Italian singer you fucked?”

Rees nearly choked on his whisky and I