Liam balked at that. Not only were his notes in shorthand only he could decipher, but he doubted Miss Dreadlocks and Multiple Piercings had the educational background to understand complex biology—and then Liam said as much to her.
Wrong thing to say.
Evidently Stirling had a master’s degree in biology.
And how did he respond to that? Tell her that he was excited to work with someone he wouldn’t have to explain things to fifteen times?
No. He’d said, “Well, it’s not quite on par with my doctorate in microbiology from MIT, is it?”
Stirling wasn’t the only one shocked by his reply. Liam cringed even now when he remembered what a condescending dick he’d been.
So their working relationship had started out antagonistically.
Every time he opened his mouth to speak to her, some alien took control of his brain.
He’d earned the Dr. Dickhead name. As well as Arrogant Asshole. One time he’d overheard her call him Liam the Lab Loser… That one stung. He’d lived with that attitude from his sophomore year in high school until he’d graduated from college. So what if he preferred to be in the lab, studying micro-organisms and deciphering covalent bonds. That was a more productive use of his time than bonding with juvenile frat boys. He’d gone to college to learn, not to party, not to hook up with a different girl every weekend—not that that had ever been an issue. Hot co-eds didn’t hang around in the lab, and even if they had, a geek like him wasn’t on their radar.
By the time he’d earned his doctorate, he’d gained confidence, not only in his work but in himself. He’d achieved every goal he’d set for himself in that tiny two-bedroom apartment he’d shared with Gramma. She’d lived to see him graduate from college, but she’d passed on the next year. Liam still missed her. When things went to hell in California, his first thought was: I want to go home.
And here he was. Back in Denver. With a great job, a killer apartment, money in the bank…and the high point of every workday the last ten months was when he and Stirling crossed paths. The zany woman had executed some killer pranks. He’d had a hard time staying aloof—but that was part of their game.
Last week she’d double-pranked him. The fake message with the crude name had been funny on its own. But she’d padlocked his lunch box. When he’d finally picked the lock, he’d discovered she’d replaced his lunch with vagina-shaped suckers.
Classic.
He removed his glasses and set them on the countertop. His vision had gone blurry from staring through a microscope all day. He rubbed his eyes—as if that would help—and scrubbed his palms on his face. In the last few days his stubble had grown to that itchy stage. No matter how late he left tonight, he had to stop at the store and buy some razors.
As he contemplated packing it in early for once, his cell phone buzzed. He fished it out of the front pocket of his lab coat and squinted at the caller ID: MACON GRADSKY. He poked the answer call icon. “Hello, Macon. What’s up?”
“Not my stocks, that’s for damn sure.”
Liam chuckled. “I doubt that. You’re too savvy to be on the downward slide for long. And I’m too savvy to know you didn’t call me to shoot the shit.”
“One of these days I’ll shock the hell out of you and do just that. I may even give you one of those bro hugs.”
“Dude. Anything but that. So what’s going on?”
He paused. “It occurred to me we haven’t had an official meeting this month. I’ve been putting out other fires and need to catch up as to where we are. So clear the conference room of objects that could be used as weapons, because Stirling will be at the meeting.”
“Great. Looking forward to it.”
Macon snorted. “You can’t lie for shit, Argent.”
He did smile at that.
“I have an idea. Bring some product samples to the meeting. You and my sister both need to mellow out.”
Liam slipped his phone back in his pocket and shoved his glasses on his face. So much for his plan to skip out early.
* * * *
Stirling was already in the conference room when Liam strolled in.
Naturallly she’d selected the seat at the head of the table.
She glanced up at him. For just a moment, she looked at him without pretense.
He liked seeing her without her defenses up. So he smiled at her. “Hey.”
Her pale blue eyes narrowed.
And…they were back to being adversaries—not even friendly adversaries—where they’d been stuck for the entirety of the time they’d known each other.
The time had come to change that.
Stirling’s gaze zoomed to the binder tucked under his arm. “Is that Dr. Argent’s precious notebook that no one has been allowed to access because we don’t possess the intellectual ability to crack your super-secret code?”
Liam set the binder on his end of the table and pushed it so it slid across the table to her end. “Have at it.”
“Knock off the fake I’m-a-team-player attitude. My brother won’t believe it any more than I do.”
He slammed his hands down on the table and she jumped. “Enough. We’re not enemies, Miss Gradsky. We are coworkers. It’s exhausting to constantly look over my shoulder to see what form of torture you’ll inflict on me next. So, please. Can we call a truce?”
“For real?”
He raised his left eyebrow. “You prefer a blood oath? Fine. You first.”
She laughed. A real laugh—not that evil chuckle he was used to hearing from her.
And the smile that accompanied her laugh? Beautiful.
“I deserved that.” She smiled again. “Truce.”
“Thank God.” Liam dropped into the chair opposite her end of the table.
Stirling drummed her fingernails on the top of the binder. She studied him with curiosity, not hostility. “Are these really your notes?”
“Some of them. The rest are in my office.”
“For the past ten months you’ve led me on a merry chase regarding your research.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t trust you after you subjected me to the stripper ‘lab assistant’”—he made air quotes—“who had her breasts in my face so I couldn’t even look in my microscope without getting an eyeful of her cleavage. Then I caught her pawing through my desk right after she’d tried to stick her hand down my pants.”
“Misty wasn’t a stripper.”
He leaned forward. “Seriously, Stirling? You’re trying to convince me that Misty Rain wasn’t a stripper?”
“Fine. She was a stripper. And a high-priced one.” She sighed. “I can’t believe that didn’t work.”
“So that’s why you considered sending a half-naked gay cowboy into my lab? To see if I preferred…man meat over a taco?”
Stirling choked on her water. Then she started laughing so hard that it took several long moments for her to stop. “Man meat? Taco?”
“I wasn’t sure if using the words cock and pussy would offend your delicate sensibilities.”
“Jesus, Liam, you’re funny.”
That was the first time she’d used his name without attaching some snarky insult to it. He folded his arms over his chest. “Did you ever consider if you just asked me nicely, and acted as if you sincerely cared about what I’d been working on, that I would’ve given you access to my research notes?”
That startled her. Then she groaned. “All I would’ve had to do was say please?”
“Or bribed me with an ounce of premium weed—specifically the Girl Scout Cookies strain. That’s my go-to smoke when I’ve had a shit day.”
Stirling’s blue eyes lit up. “Really? Mine too.” A pause. “Wait. Now I remember. The late meeting. Like three months ago. You were in a bad mood.”
“I’m surprised you remember, given you probably believe I’m always in a bad mood.”
“Truce much, asswipe?” she retorted.
He sighed. “Sorry. That day in particular I ended up in a bad headspace.” His e
x had called, trying to grill him about what he was working on. Making promises about all the perks he’d get—including her—if he came back to work at GreenTech. When he’d laughed, she showed him her nasty, cutthroat side and a reminder of why he’d left.
“You perked right up when I whipped out the new vaporizer pen and loaded it with the chocolaty, minty goodness of the Girl Scout Cookies variety of cannabis buds.”
He remembered the first hit of that sweet smoke. “So those buds were from your personal stash?”
“Yeah. And I don’t share my weed with just anyone. But you really needed something to level you out. I’d never seen you that unhappy. So I was glad to help you, even if it was just in a small way.” She seemed surprised she’d admitted that.
Liam realized that was Stirling offering an olive branch. “It was not a small thing and I’m grateful for your generosity. Maybe I can return the favor and we can smoke together again, this time from my personal stash.”
“I’d like that.”
They stared at one another, a different sort of awareness stretching between them.
Stirling patted the book. “You don’t mind if I flip through this as we’re waiting for Macon?”
“Knock yourself out.” He smirked. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”
“Of course.”
While she pored over the pages, Liam snagged a sparkling water from the mini fridge.
Stirling squinted at the corner of one page, lifting the binder up and tilting it to achieve a better angle. Then a sneaky smile curled her lips and she looked absolutely adorable.
Of all the adjectives you could assign to her, you choose…adorable? Not hot-as-fuck?
“Dude. Did you really draw an effigy of me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
He refused to be embarrassed. “During the full staff meeting where you forced everyone to participate in ‘trust building’ exercises.”
Amused, she said, “Not fond of corporate bonding techniques?”
“I’ve never understood the purpose of them. It’s a waste of time.”
“It’s a waste of my time if you’re doodling during the meeting,” she pointed out.
That’s when he felt slightly guilty. “I apologize. But it is a pretty good likeness, isn’t it?”
“Your rendering of my dreads is quite good. Yet I’m surprised you didn’t fashion them into snakes to cement my similarity to Medusa.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not. It’s just…” She tilted her head, sending those white-blond dreads tumbling over her shoulder like bleached-out ropes. “I would’ve drawn devil horns on you. Maybe blackened out a couple of teeth. Given you a beaver’s tail and a peg leg.”
He reached into his pocket protector, withdrew a mechanical pencil, and rolled it across the table to her. “Prove it.”
“You’re joking.”
“You know you want to even the score.”
“What makes you think I can draw?”
Liam lifted an eyebrow. “I’m supposed to believe that someone else at High Society drew a sack and four penises on the back window of my car with the phrase ‘Eat a bag of dicks, asshat’?”
She opened her mouth to deny it when Macon hustled into the room.
He wore a Western-cut suit, cowboy boots, and a black hat. The suit wasn’t stylish; it veered close to cheap looking and tacky. Macon knew he came across as a hick ambulance-chasing lawyer, but that served him well. This persona was just that—a skin he slipped on when it suited him and slithered out of when he accomplished his goal. His adversaries in court wouldn’t recognize him outside the courtroom—which was exactly why he dressed as he did.
“There’s no blood on the walls, floor, or conference table, so I’m assuming one of you just got here?” Macon said to Stirling.
“Actually, Dr. Argent and I are taking a stab at civility.”
Liam fought a smile. “Apt choice of phrasing, Miss Gradsky. But I concur.”
Macon rolled his eyes. “Jesus. This is the one place I come to get away from lawyer speak, so knock that formal vocab shit off right now. And move down to this end of the table. This isn’t Game of Thrones.”
When Liam said, “The iron throne is mine,” Stirling said the same thing.
Their eyes caught and they both laughed.
“I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate dimension.”
Liam muttered, “You’re not the only one,” as he walked over to claim the seat next to Stirling.
Macon popped the locks on his beat-up briefcase. “Speaking of…” He pulled out a top of the line vaporizer pen and clicked it five times to ignite it.
“Bad day?” Stirling asked.
“You have no idea. TGIF.” He brought the pen to his mouth and inhaled.
“Umm… It’s Thursday, not Friday, bro.”
Liam gave Stirling a sideways glance. She seemed nonplussed about her brother’s behavior.
“So? Why’d you call a meeting when it appears you’re ready to get your buzz on?”
He exhaled. “Not a buzz, little sis. This is a boost because my workday won’t end until midnight.”
Stirling said, “Your boss is a hardass,” fully aware that Macon ran his own law firm.
“And I’ve heard he’s a smartass too,” Liam added.
Ignoring their jabs, Macon rested his elbows on the conference table and addressed Stirling. “The recreational store had a dip in revenue last month. What happened?”
Stirling jutted out that stubborn jaw, and Liam found it hard to concentrate on her words and not how perfectly plush her lips were. “We were out of stock on just about every edible we carry. We sold the fresh cookies and bars from Wake and Bake the same day they delivered them. And they can’t keep up with demand on their end, so increasing our order isn’t an option. The gummies, suckers, mints—all the prepackaged edibles—the suppliers ran out, again due to higher than expected demand across the city. Nothing we can do about that. Oh right, except buy that industrial-size supercritical CO2 extraction machine, so even if we opt not to create and sell our own edibles, we can resell the refined products—whether it’s oil, wax, or resin, since evidently there’s a shortage.”
Liam nodded.
“You’re the one who keeps telling me we don’t need to expand,” Macon said.
“We don’t. This machine would be added value, not expansion.”
“Revenue is down. And that machine and the vacuum ovens are astronomically expensive.”
“Is it less expensive than the equipment you purchased for Dr. Argent’s secret lab? Has that paid off?”
Macon glanced at Liam. “Last time we spoke you’d successfully spliced two heirloom strains. Where are you on that?”
“Splicing only produced me four live plants to work with, and two of those were culled for pollination in case I do get positive results. They’re in second stage grow right now.”
“Any indication whether the new strain will have a higher yield?”
Liam bristled. “I’ll remind you that I didn’t sign on to increase the size of your recreational cash crop.”
Silence.
Then Macon said, “I’d hoped that higher yield would be a positive side effect of your experimentation.”
“Hoped?” Stirling repeated.
Liam deflected the conversation. “You have Artie managing the grow. He’s rotating twenty-four cannabis varieties. Most commercial growers with a retail store aren’t offering their clientele half that many premium options. It’s not like we’re cannibalizing the recreational side to support my work on the medical side.”
“So what exactly is it that you do around here if Artie is managing the grow?” she asked.
But Macon talked over her and the question was lost. “You developed a medical strain that met with great success, which is why I hired you.”
No, you hired me because you want to win the 420 Cup.
“Whoa.” Stirling made a tim
e-out sign. “You both lost me. Back up. Explain Dr. Argent’s success with developing a new medical strain.”
That was humbling. Stirling didn’t know anything about his prior accomplishment. But then again, few people did since he’d signed nondisclosures. Still, it made no sense that Macon hadn’t told his business partner about his qualifications.
This was not good. So much for their truce.
“If you two weren’t so goddamned busy fighting maybe you would’ve had a normal conversation between colleagues. So I’ll spell it out for you, sis.” Macon pointed at Liam. “Ever heard of the Livin’ Large variety?”
“Of course I have,” she snapped. “It’s the premier CBN strain owned by a Dutch pharmaceutical company. It’s had excellent results alleviating several common ailments cancer patients suffer from during and after chemotherapy. What does that have to do with this?”
“Everything. Dr. Liam Argent bred that hybrid strain. Think about it. The varietal name is pretty fucking clever.”
A beat passed. “L from his first name and arge from his last name,” she muttered and blew out a breath. “Fine. So you’re some kind of ganja rockstar god for your cannabis creation. But that just makes me even more suspicious of why’d you’d come to work for us. We’re nobody. We’re not large scale. Hell, we’re not even medium scale.”
“I came to work here because I grew up in Denver and I was tired of California.”
“That’s it?” she demanded.
“No. My previous employer fucked me over. The Dutch company paid GreenTech, the research facility I worked in, millions for the right to register the name with the international plant registry. I was allowed to name the strain but not tell anyone I’d created it. That right belonged to GreenTech.” He felt like an idiot admitting that he’d signed away his ownership rights in his employment contract. “I wanted to continue the work I’d been doing and Macon promised me minimal oversight.” And a one-year contract. Somehow he didn’t think Stirling knew about that, either.
“That’s why you refused to show me what you were working on. Afraid I was going to steal it?”
Liam felt her glare—as hot as a Bunsen burner—and met it head on. “Like I mentioned earlier, had you just asked me nicely, Miss Gradsky, I would’ve been happy to accommodate you. But it doesn’t change the truth that anyone with a handful of cannabis seeds, a place to grow, and access to the Internet can cultivate and clone cannabis. And yes, I’m completely aware that the goal in a commercial facility is growing bigger buds, which equals higher yields and more money. But it’d be a waste of the top of the line scientific instruments in my lab, and a waste of my doctorate in microbiology, to be quite frank, to focus my expertise solely on increasing quantity.”
Tripped Out: A Blacktop Cowboys® Novella Page 3