Page 2 of The B!tch is Bad

“Oh, one is enology from UC Davis, another geology from Stanford.” Oliver waved an arm at the ocean of grapes. “Look at these guys, will you just look? I also spent years managing the Foo Fighters.”

“The band?” I queried, but he went off on another tangent.

“Are you purchasing this place for certain?”

“Yes, I just promised Lytton, he’ll be the silent partner.”

Oliver slapped his knee. “Excellent! Then you’ll want to see your new casa. Have you seen it yet?”

Actually, I hadn’t. I’d get an inspector out there to make sure nothing was rotting to the ground, or I could lowball the d’Attires.

We motored toward the house, a one-story modern structure with lots of glass.

Oliver said, “So you’re a tech boomer from California? Lytton said you met one of the Bare Boners on a film set.”

“Yes, I produced the film and wanted to be hands-on. I’m a great investor. A bad actor.”

“Wow, with this money you could’ve chartered a boat around the world! Taken a plane to see the Sphinx, or cruised in the Caribbean. That speaks loads that you chose to do this.” He splayed his hand on his chest. “Or, forgive me. Maybe you are doing those things.”

I had to chuckle. “No, I don’t have that much money. That’s why I have to live in this house. I plan to get involved with the life of the valley. The Rotary Club, if you will. Lytton told me all about the charities the Boners donate to.”

The interior of my new abode swam in steel grey and metal frames and doors, with floors of ivory porcelain. The dining room, looking out on a brick fireplace, seemed set for an important conference. A metallic chandelier over the table reminded me of fireworks. The stagers were serious about their work, probably figuring whoever lived here would entertain a lot, and one kitchen counter ran down forever, like a regular bar with twenty chairs.

And of course I was very interested in the kitchen.

A soaring window over the stove gave a view of the midcentury style cactus garden, backed by vineyards and sandstone cliffs. A neatly clipped lawn was used for croquet. I would insist on bocci ball. This would be a fine place to cook. Of course the room boasted a wine refrigerator, a steam oven, and an authentic Italian tile backsplash.

“Look,” said Oliver, opening a low cupboard. “For the dog.”

A built-in set of bowls rolled out. I didn’t like that feature. My dog had just been hit and runned by some asshole in San Jose, and I’d had to wash his blood off the street. “Let’s see the bedrooms.”

“You got to have a winery dog. The d’Attires had one of those small yappers. Not quite the image we wanted to project.”

I ignored him. “I heard the bathroom has his and hers showers and sinks.” I was more inclined to ponder on a future girlfriend. Wine would display new worlds for me, forge new friendships. People had honored wine for ages. It would be easy to meet a down-to-earth wine-loving gal who could help me show off the land. My last girlfriend in San Jose had been fucking my business partner, so she was simpler to forget than my dog.

The bathroom was about as spacious as the kitchen, and the woman’s side had its own vanity, with a television set into part of the mirror. The stager had fixed it to play a cooking channel.

“So you’re a tech mogul? I myself helped to invent voicemail.”

Frowning, I turned to him. “Voicemail? That first became available in the early ‘80s. Aren’t you too young for that?”

Oliver ignored my question. “Then I was a spokesman for the Stanford Information Institute. SII they called it. That’s before I crossed the Sahara on a murderous camel.”

My new vineyard manager wasn’t as important as inspecting the freestanding soaking tub with a fireplace. The main bedroom’s wall of windows gave a view of a pristine courtyard. I’d have to find window covering. Soon Lytton loped in the door.

“Wildstar is partying up at this bud and breakfast we own—Smoky Mountain High. I figured we’d take a drive up there to Mormon Lake. Give you a tour of the beauty.”

“Okay. I’ll follow you in my car.”

Lytton grinned as crookedly as Oliver Klozov. “Like hell. You’ll ride bitch on my Harley. You talk about being one with the land. You need to feel, smell, and taste the canyons, my man. It’s the only way to experience this Pure and Easy area.”

Oliver paused to give me some hefty side eye. “You do know how to operate a Harley?”

“Yep.” In fact, buying a nice ride was one of my flamboyant goals in Arizona. I was a bit nervous, but had to take the plunge. I needed to walk the walk.

As I mounted the saddle in the driveway, I asked Oliver, “Where do you live? When do you stop work?”

He waved a friendly hand. “Oh, I pretty much work 24/7. I live in that little cottage right behind you.”