Throw Macon under the bus? Or let the bus plow over him?
No brainer.
Brace yourself, Macon.
“Besides, Macon was aware I’d be focused on continuing my work isolating CBD and CBN characteristics to build phytocannabinoid profiles and further break down each pharmacological effect.”
Macon opened his mouth to comment, but Stirling shut him down. “You hired him to do research that we don’t need? And doesn’t add any value to our business?”
Ouch. Seemed the bus had hit him as well.
“Yes, Liam is a scientist with loftier and nobler goals than peddling premium pot.” Macon shot him a look. “Giving him autonomy and not filling you in on his role here was an error in judgment on my part.”
“You’re damn right it was. We’re supposed to be partners. You know that I sank every cent I had into this venture. I trusted your judgment across the board. I didn’t even question your initial projected numbers for ROI.” She paused and glared at Macon. “How inflated were they?”
“Only by two percent. And stretched out over forty-eight months instead of twenty-four months.”
Stirling stood and slapped her hands on the table in front of her brother. “And you have the balls to bring up one month’s lower than expected revenue with me? When it appears I’ll have to wait four fucking years to earn back what I put in?”
Macon said, “The bottom line is we need to expand.”
“Bigger is not better. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that. You know that is not what I wanted.”
“No, you didn’t want to deal with the plant side from the start, so I hired Dr. Argent to do that. You insisted on setting up the rec store. Dealing with vendors. Choosing the right budtenders. Hiring other knowledgeable employees, a website guru, a graphic designer for branding and ads. You put it all together so the space had a good vibe.”
“I never intended for my contribution to this business to be managing employees and ordering stock. There’s far more to running the front end that I’m not getting to do because I’m stuck working fourteen plus hours every day.”
“I guess we’re both wrong in our expectations, aren’t we?”
Stirling made a growling noise that set the hair on the back of Liam’s neck on end.
Macon sighed. “I admit I haven’t been focused on this business, with running my law practice—”
“Save it. I’m done.” She stormed toward the exit, her dreadlocks swaying across her back.
“Done? What do you mean done?” Macon demanded.
Stirling didn’t even turn around as she flipped him off and slammed the door behind her.
And things had been going so well.
For about twenty minutes.
Macon tossed his vape pen in his briefcase and snapped the locks. He pushed to his feet.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Liam asked.
“To smooth things over with my sister.”
“Leave her be.”
“Right. It’ll be ten times worse if—”
“You track her down and come up with more bullshit excuses?” he said tightly.
Macon hung his head.
“Why not just tell her that you hired me to craft a new strain to enter into the 420 Cup while I was working on research?”
“Because neither of those things matter to her. The 420 Cup was created to showcase new cannabis businesses, which is why we can only enter it one time. Wacky Tobaccky built their multimillion-dollar business on winning it. So did Green Machine—and they’re the two largest volume dispensaries in Colorado. The impact of winning the cup will wear off, but not in its third year. You knocked it out of the park with our entry, Liam. That is the smoothest indica-sativa hybrid I’ve ever smoked. Winning that award would be a game changer on so many levels for High Society, and we both know it.”
“Again, not to sound like a broken record, but why not just tell Stirling that?”
“Because she’s already overworked and she’ll just see more recognition as more work. My former Big Ag, corporate executive sister is a pot purist. She argues that we’ll continue to set ourselves apart by providing customers with a personalized boutique experience, and not becoming the Costco of cannabis.” He snorted. “Putting the business in beer terms—I’m Coors and she’s a craft brewery.”
“Partners usually have a singular vision. You’ve been alternately micromanaging petty matters and ignoring major points of contention.” Liam narrowed his eyes. “Did you intentionally pit me against Stirling? Ensuring we each kept our own agendas instead of developing a common goal?”
“Oh, hell no. I’ll shoulder the blame for my shortsightedness in the name of profit and following my gut instead of a preset financial strategy, but I had nothing to do with you and Stirling butting heads from day one.”
“Fair enough.” But Macon couldn’t deny that he’d kept the grow and the retail side as separate entities. With limited staff, Liam and Stirling had been too busy in their respective departments to get to know each other, to say nothing of really working together. “Have you heard when they’re announcing the 420 Cup winner?”
“I’m expecting the call—win or lose—any day.”
If they didn’t win, would Macon let him go when the one-year contract was up? Liam had forced himself not to think about it.
“Look, will you tell Stirling we’ll reconvene same time tomorrow? I’ll figure something out between now and then.”
Liam pointed at him. “There’s your problem. You and Stirling need to figure it out.”
“And we will. Tomorrow.” Macon’s cell phone rang and he answered it as he sailed out the door.
After picking up his binder, Liam headed for Stirling’s office.
He knocked and waited.
No response.
At least he hadn’t heard her cocking a pistol or racking a shotgun.
Liam knocked again. “Stirling. It’s Liam. Macon left.”
Silence.
He turned the handle and found the door unlocked. As he slowly pushed it open, he thought, Please don’t let the door be booby-trapped.
He’d pulled that prank on her after she’d put powdered Kool-Aid in his lab gloves, turning his hands vivid purple. A man could only stand so many “Did you jack off Barney?” jokes before he snapped. He added color to Stirling’s life by placing a plastic bucket filled with red Jell-O mix and powdery fine glitter above the door. The next morning he’d literally caught her red-faced and red-handed.
Liam eased the door open and said, “Stirling? I’m coming in.”
She stood in front of the windows with her back to him.
“Are you okay?”
“No. Did my brother send you?”
“No. I stopped him from storming in here and making things worse.”
“I don’t know how they could get any worse.”
His gut tightened at her clipped tone. Without thinking, he moved in behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, just wanting to…soothe her.
And it was very telling, how lost she was in her own head that she didn’t flinch or shrug him off.
“Talk to me,” he said softly.
“About what?”
“About everything.”
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“How about at the beginning? Where we should’ve started months ago.”
Stirling tensed up. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m too goddamned mad to think straight right now.”
He grinned. In the reflection of the window he saw her stick her tongue out at him. “Lucky for you, Miss Gradsky, I have the perfect outlet for that anger.”
She started to argue, but he cut her off.
“Before you assume that my suggestion is sexual in nature, I’ll add that my anger management solution involves boxing gloves and a heavy bag.”
Stirling faced him. “Are you serious? Because I could totally beat the shit out of s
omething right now.”
“I have a full kick boxing setup at my place.”
Her eyes searched his. “So you’re what…inviting me over?”
“Yes.” His pulse kicked up a notch or thirty. “We need to talk. You need to punch the fuck out of my heavy bag. While you’re doing that and getting your head together, I’ll cook dinner for us.”
“You cook?”
Liam snagged one of her dreadlocks and tugged it. “Throwing pasta in a pan is much easier than gene splicing.”
“True.”
“Even if you don’t trust my culinary skills, Stirling, don’t deny that after that shitshow of a meeting with Macon, we’re long overdue for a serious discussion.”
“I don’t deny it.”
“Good. I’ll text you my address.” He took a couple of steps back. “Don’t overthink this and convince yourself not to show up.”
No surprise that guilt flashed in her eyes.
“Punching, pasta, and conversation.” Liam smiled at her. “That’s it.”
“Okay. But attempt any funny business, Dr. Pushy, and I’m punching you with your own gloves.”
Chapter Three
Stirling’s mood didn’t change during the thirty minutes it took her to lock up and drive over to Liam’s house. She double checked the number on the front of the brick duplex against the text message and parked in the empty space on the street.
Backpack in hand, she jogged up the sidewalk. She’d held her rage, disillusionment, and self-recriminations at bay until that moment when she could let her fists fly.
A set of wide stone steps led to a small porch, surrounded on three sides by a wrought-iron railing. An enormous lilac bush separated the duplex’s entrances, offering additional privacy. In this older section of Denver, the well-established vines climbed the bricks and twisted around the fence. This house looked exactly like the kind of place that a stuffy professor—or a tight-ass scientist—would call home.
None of that. A truce means no name calling, no matter how funny some of the names are.
She poked the doorbell.
Immediately the curved wooden door opened, almost as if he’d been standing there, anxious for her arrival.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Her fingers tightened on the strap of her backpack as she followed him into the foyer.
Liam pointed up the stairs. “The workout room is the first door on your left. There’s a variety of gloves and hand wraps. Feel free to hook your phone up to the stereo system and play music as loud as you want. My neighbor is hard of hearing and this old house is solidly soundproofed.”
“Even against screams?” she blurted out.
Those silver-hued eyes of his softened and he reached out as if to reassure her.
She’d start bawling if he showed her kindness. Right now she needed to give her anger an outlet. Civility would have to wait. “Uh, thanks.”
“Take as much time as you need. Come find me in the kitchen when you’re done.”
* * * *
Everything blurred together—the repetitive thud of her gloves, the speed metal blasting from her phone, the creak of the chain holding the heavy bag, and her harsh grunts breaking free with each hard punch. Uncertainty, and anger drove her until exhaustion had her clinging to the heavy bag. She inhaled. Exhaled. Letting her tears fall down her face to mix with the sweat dripping from her chin. She needed to get it all out of her system now, break down in solitude.
Once she’d regained control, she collected herself as she mopped her face with a hand towel. What was that old adage? Never let them see you sweat?
Wrong. Better to show them sweat and blood than tears.
Stirling returned downstairs, confident in her ability to be rational and remain cool-headed and professional.
Holy shit.
She froze in the open doorway to the kitchen.
How in the hell was she supposed to remain professional when she finally got to see Dr. Liam Argent without his trusty lab coat?
Talk about giving “tight ass” a whole new meaning. Had his jeans been custom made to perfectly mold that bitable backside?
Her gaze moved up, skimming across his wide shoulders. The dark gray T-shirt was contoured in all the right places, showcasing his impressive biceps. His tattoo started at the knuckles of his right hand, continuing up the front and back of his forearm until the colorful ink disappeared beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Just how much of his surprisingly buff body was inked?
Liam chose that moment to turn around. Unlike her, his gaze didn’t leave her face. “Better?”
“Much. Thank you. I’ll warn ya… I probably reek since I don’t have a change of clothes.”
He shrugged. “After dealing with terpenes all day, nothing bothers me.”
“I had no clue what terpenes were until a guy in my freshman year took me to his place and turned me loose in his grow house. I’ll never forget how surprising it was to pick out those individual aromas—terpenes—when I rubbed on different plants’ leaves. I always thought pot was pot and all marijuana plants smelled the same. Even now that I’m educated on the scent of different terpenes, I don’t understand how smokers seek out weed with that cheesy funk smell. My gag reflex kicks in. I prefer varieties with a floral, fuel, fruit, or pine aroma.”
“Hence why terpenes are so important and why we need to educate consumers on the impact their cannabis choice will have on them. What smells good to you will taste good when you smoke. Scientifically speaking, all the cannabis compounds interact synergistically to create an ‘entourage effect’ that magnifies the therapeutic benefits of the plant’s individual components—so we can see that the medicinal impact of the whole plant is greater than the sum of its parts. That is what fascinates me.”
Stirling blinked at him.
He groaned. “I apologize in advance for slipping into lecture mode. I drift into that when I’m passionate about something and I tend to go into excessive detail…or so I’ve been told.” He blushed. “Not that you need me to explain things to you, since you have a scientific background.”
The man was so damn cute when he was flustered.
“Put me out of my misery, please, and let’s eat.” He pointed to an alcove which held a round table and four chairs. “Dinner is done.”
He’d laid out two place settings. She sat near the counter and checked out his living room. A gray, black, and red plaid couch, a black leather recliner, a metal coffee table, and a gray wingback chair were arranged on a vivid scarlet rug. Art decorated the walls. Impressive and not at all what she’d expected.
Liam slid a plate in front of her. “Linguine with pesto and parmesan.”
“Looks and smells delicious.”
“Thanks. It’s my go-to dish when I want a fast meal.”
They ate in relative silence.
Stirling snuck looks at Liam, wondering what caused his brow to furrow behind his glasses. She probably should’ve been organizing her thoughts for their impending conversation, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from tracking over his ropy forearms, his broad shoulders, and the muscular definition in his chest. Seeing him in street clothes reiterated the fact that Dr. Liam Argent was hot as fire.
“Stirling? You okay? You look flushed.”
Busted. “Lingering effect from my heavy bag session.”
“I’ll get you a glass of water.” He picked up both of their empty plates and retreated to the kitchen.
Who was this solicitous hunk? What happened to Dr. Condescending, Calculating, and Contrary?
He froze next to the table when he caught her eyeballing him. “What?”
“It’s really strange that we’re basically strangers and we’ve worked together for ten months.”
He relaxed. “I agree.”
“I’m not being sarcastic when I ask… How do we do this? Drop the shields and the preconceived ideas we’ve had about each other and really get to know each other?”
“We talk abo
ut our life’s triumphs and failures.” Liam’s grin was nothing short of dazzling. “But I say we get high first.”
“Omigod, I knew it! You invited me to your place to get me stoned out of my mind so I’d have sex with you.”
His smile died and his cheeks flushed.
The man was adorable and delectable. She was totally fucked.
“Umm, actually—”
“I was just giving you shit, Dr. Strangelove. That’s what friends do.”
“Just for that, Miss Gradsky, I’m making you go first.” He set down her glass of water. “And I’m not talking about who gets the first hit.”
Smiling, she followed him into the living room.
He perched on the edge of the couch and pulled out a plain wooden box from the lower shelf of the coffee table. As soon as he opened the lid, the sweet, pungent scent of cannabis drifted out.
“So what variety is our dessert?”
“Guess.” He popped the top of the small glass container right under her nose.
She sniffed. “Definitely fuel based. Slight hint of lemon on the back end. I’m guessing…Sour D?”
Liam smiled at her. “Close. Sour Amnesia. The back end of this one is a skunky spice, not citrus. This one is more uplifting than brain fogging.” He bumped his shoulder into hers. “Good nose. Maybe you should keep running the retail store.”
“Piss off.”
He laughed.
She tried not to react to that sexy, husky deep laugh.
And she really tried not to notice how dexterous his long fingers were as he prepped the pipe. But every motion seemed overtly sexual. How lovingly he stroked the glass. How firmly his thumb pressed into the flint on the lighter as he adjusted the level of the flame. How reverently he broke up the bud and then lifted his fingers to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled that unique fragrance.
Tripped Out: A Blacktop Cowboys® Novella Page 4