In to Her

I crouch in front of the stove for a few minutes, letting it warm me up, then stand up, flash my light around the room, and take it in.

It’s a cozy place, that’s for sure. Small. Just one big open room with a kitchen on the far end and a makeshift dining area. But the ceilings have impressive wood beams. Not simple beams either, but trusses. Specifically, hammer beam trusses.

I’m impressed with myself for knowing this, but Damon built a house several years back and used this design. And this one isn’t even angular—like his was—but arched.

Custom, I decide.

And then I remember that they fought over this exact design element in the new house just before she took off.

Looks like she got her way after all.

The floors are wide-planked pine and look old and worn. There’s a large sheepskin rug that covers almost the entire living area and once I take a closer look, I decide the couch is very pale yellow velvet.

Oh, man. If Damon saw this he’d lose his mind. This whole time she’s been gone he’s made a big deal about how she left with no money. How she was broke, living in some hovel. How she was probably starving. Probably waitressing to make ends meet because she had no skills or education. Hell, she never even finished high school.

He wasn’t that far off. She’s a bartender, not a waitress. And she owns this place, so not starving. But she is most definitely not living in a hovel and she is decidedly not broke.

The kitchen is modern and looks brand new. Dark soapstone countertops, rustic pine cabinets that climb too far up the wall to be practical, large stainless-steel farm sink, and matching appliances.

Oh, he’d be livid if he saw this.

Maybe I should burn the place down when I leave? So he never has to see it?

I turn back to the living area and look at her. Glori. Yvette. Whatever she’s called.

“Yvette?” I say.

No response. Not even a mumble or a slight change in position. She’s out.

So I wander back down the hallway to the bedroom. There’s only one and it’s massive. Almost as big as the entire living area.

In it is an equally massive canopy bed. I pan my flashlight over the top to get a better look because—fuck me—that shit has to be custom too. This is not the cheap white-frame canopy of a little girl’s bedroom. It’s got the same matching wood as the trusses in the living room. And the ceiling treatment continues in here, but they’re not trusses, just long, thick beams that span the width of the room.

There’s fabric hanging from the bed frame. And I can’t help myself, I reach out and touch it. Because it’s the same soft, pale yellow velvet as the couch. And there’s another room-sized sheepskin rug underfoot.

Jesus. This whole place is custom.

Oh, yeah. Damon cannot see this.

This apartment is not just cozy and quaint. It’s fucking luxurious.

Where did she get this kind of money? I mean, OK. I could maybe see her scraping enough cash together to buy the bar. It’s not quite a dive, but on the outside it looks like any other hundred-year-old rectangle building you see on the side of a secluded mountain highway.

So maybe—I dunno—she stole the money somehow? Maybe from Damon and he didn’t know it? I could come to terms with that.

But none of it makes much sense.

We’ve watched the bar long enough to know she does a good business on the weekends. But it opens late and closes early Monday through Wednesday because the place is mostly dead. There’s no way four days of ski tourists a week can fund these kind of improvements. And how does she make money in the summer when the lifts are closed? There just cannot be that many people traveling along the highway through Wolf Creek Pass to fund this type of lifestyle.

“You have secrets,” I say out loud. “And I want to know what they are.”

Not that I’d ever tell Damon. And not because I want to spare his feelings and make him feel good. I give no fucks about Damon. He’s a means to an end just like every other person I’ve ever met in my life.

I just like to know shit.

So I walk over to the bedside table—rustic pine, just like the floors—and pull open the top drawer. And what do I immediately find but a whole slew of sex toys?

Bright pink vibrator. Longer, thicker teal-green one too. A clit pump—which makes me smile because I’ve never actually used one but have always wanted to. Maybe Yvette will wake up and I’ll get my chance? There’s also anal beads… who is putting those inside her? And—I have to stop and laugh—a bottle of deep throat-numbing spray and an oral sex essentials kit.