Her Two Billionaires and a Baby(BBW Menage #4)

Chapter Two

She knew he was there long before her eyes, her nose, or her skin registered him, ears perked and hearing an unspoken need that shouted through the silence. Her neck shifted to the left, open for his lips, and he did not disappoint. As if forged by God for his very shape, the touch of his mouth on the nape of her neck seemed divine, shaped for this moment, the two parts of flesh melding into one through the sigh that escaped her, unbidden and knowing.

When Mike's hands slid over her shoulders, down to her elbows, then effortlessly transitioned to her hips, the two slipping into a V that traveled to her womanhood and stroked out to her thighs, his cock hard against the cleft of her ass as the shower spray poured down on them, the sigh that came from her was like a prayer. Spinning around, she took his face in her hands and kissed him, hard, the sudden, fierce uprising in her needing as much of him now, right now, hard and fast and tough and quick and in and out immediately. His tongue matched hers, all fire and taking, as his knees parted her legs, then let her go with a tight nip to her lower lip, turning her around and bending her down.

“You are so luscious,” he murmured in her ear, words shattered by the spray and the steam, cut into bits and pieces her overwhelmed, pulsing mind and body could barely understand, the allure of his hands on her breasts, one pausing to shift himself and plunge into her, then resuming its spot on her overflowing cup, taking her to an aroused madness. As friction grew, his thrusts timed perfectly, her swollen, red passage seemed tapped into her lungs, her heart, her lips and her everything.

Mike's hands roamed her torso, teasing her * as his gliding tightened, thrusts harder and more focused, the feel of his body behind her hardening as his own climax surely built. Her fingers clawed at the tiled walls, needing flesh to dig into, to hold on to for the wild ride of an explosive, wet, dripping orgasm that –

Beep, beep, beep. “Ack!' she squeaked, hand flailing for her phone. An alarm? What? Eyes unfocused and * in the throes of an orgasm (huh? In her sleep?) she fumbled the phone, its ineffectual clunk on the floor making her cringe in horror. Another broken glass screen wasn't going to please the geniuses at the Apple store.

Retrieving it and sighing loudly with relief at its intact condition, she stared dumbly. An alarm for a meeting at work. Jesus. So why was her p-ssy on overdrive, pulsing as if she –

Oh.

A flash of her dream drizzled into her subconscious – and then a tsunami of tactile and mental dream memories hit her.

Seriously? Coming from a dream? Was she that far gone?

As her * drummed a beat like a bass drum being attacked by a throng of marching band directors, the answer made her weep with frustration.

Yes. Apparently.

Josie was, quite possibly, Dylan and Mike's savior, because it appeared that she had convinced Laura to give them a shot and to come over for dinner. One very, very long week had passed without word from her, and then – a text. A quick phone call. An invitation heartily extended and hesitantly accepted.

Accepted. That's what counted, right? They had a chance.

Mike knew they could blow this so easily, so he had deferred to Dylan as the cook tonight. Admitting he was better in the kitchen was hard, but he had to face facts: something about the Italian in Dylan made his food a little extra...something. Extra flavorful? Extra intense?

Extra fine. Like the man. And if that little bit of extra could be the deciding factor between Laura's giving them a chance or walking away, Dylan could cook.

Choosing the wine, though, was Mike's fierce prerogative.

“Oh, a nice red!” Laura teased, taking the glass by the stem from Mike's nervous hand. They were standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen in his and Dylan's apartment, the entire place decorated in a slick, cold grey and black scheme he had never liked, but that been a legacy of choosing this place a few years ago. The price had been a stretch for him and Dylan, though Jill had shouldered a bit more of the rent; after her death they'd learned she had paid well over half the real price, the two of them blindly forking over a rent check to her every month, never knowing the true cost.

So he understood – on a more trivial level – how it felt to be duped. You're really comparing that to this? his conscience exclaimed, riding him. Not even close.

“It's a Chilean carmenere.” OK, OK, he argued back with himself. Not the same. Stop comparing and just stay in the moment. He took a deep breath, held it for seven seconds, and let it out in four. Center yourself, man. She's worth it.

“It's, um, very red,” she agreed, drinking half the glass in one long sip. Her hair was down and flowing tonight, framing her face with soft curves that mirrored her body. Casual, in a simple v-neck pink sweater, low-rise jeans that made his hands itch to grab that voluptuous ass, and with a tentative, but guarded, approach that made him want to reassure her, Mike wasn't sure how the night would end but he did know one thing:

He and Dylan were going to pull out all the stops to encourage Laura to take a giant, unconventional leap.

Even if it meant –

His fingers slid over her forearm, the touch soft and reassuring, meant to get her attention – not her arousal. He nodded toward the living room. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Laura had a way of tipping her eyes up first, eyebrows hitching up slightly, then bringing her entire face into the light – Mike's light, that is, given his height – that was so endearing his heart felt like it blossomed, a lotus flower of love. Love? Where'd that come from? His conscience panicked.


“Sure,” she said, eyebrows furrowed now. He didn't want to worry her. In fact, what he was about to say was all about getting her to relax. He compared what he was wearing to Dylan's flour-coated polo shirt, jeans, and bare feet. On balance, he'd done fine after changing three times – a simple blue button down and his most comfortable jeans seemed to fit in. Spending so much time worrying about little details was, at best, nothing more than angst and nothing less than an exercise in occupying his scrabbling mind.

Either this would all work out or it would just fall apart. And either way, he had to find peace with the outcome.

She leaned against the arm of the deep, scarred leather couch, a couch made shiny from too many hours of his and Dylan's asses being planted on it, watching some sports game (Dylan) or a quirky documentary (Mike). Jill's butt had left its considerably smaller imprint, too, for she had tortured them with her Christopher Guest obsession until Mike had finally gotten it – and loved those movies, too.

Shaking his head slightly, he willed himself back to the present, where Laura's perplexed look was shifting, microsecond by microsecond, into wariness. No, no, no – not what he was going for.

“I just wanted to say, first, that we're really glad you came tonight.” The skin between her eyes wrinkled with something other than a smile.

She looked up and simply said, “Thanks.”

“And Laura, I – this is awkward, but I want to say it. There are no expectations tonight.” His words had the opposite effect as his intent, her body bristling, eyes shifting away from his. Damn it! “I mean, Dylan and I – we just want this to be a simple dinner. No expectations.”

“You mean no assumptions.” Her voice was hard. Cold. Closed off. She nailed Ice Queen, that's for sure. It made the awkward teen in him come out, his voice shifting up.

“I just – I mean – I,” he choked out. F*ck. This wasn't how he meant it!

“Mike,” she said, interrupting him. “When you tell me there are 'no expectations' what you really mean is that normally you and Dylan would want sex. Expect sex. But you're – what? Being kind and letting me off the hook tonight?” She searched the room, looking for something, and then her head froze. Her purse. She was looking for her purse.

Ah, f*ck. Mike had driven her to leave by trying so hard, with good intentions, to put her at ease.

Once again, his plans destroyed everything. This wasn't really happening, was it? In horror he watched as she handed him her glass of red wine and walked to the couch where her purse sat.

Dylan appeared in the doorway, mouthing “What the f*ck?” to Mike as Laura turned her back to them, pausing with her hand inches from her purse strap.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. Turning toward them her eyes widened at the sight of Dylan, who now wore half a pound of flour in his hair and on the front of a bright red apron he'd donned. It even sprinkled the tops of his toes, giving him a disheveled, slighty-nuts chef look that made Mike wonder whether Laura noticed.

“Guys, we need to talk.” She picked up her purse and sat down, plunking it in her lap, then cocked one eyebrow at Dylan's appearance, a hint of a smile spreading her lips. Good. Good. Mike let out a rush of air; he'd been holding his breath without realizing it, as if that could stop time. Or, maybe, prevent him from bungling this. Too late for both.

“I don't have anything to lose here, so I'm just going to say this.” She paused, eyes rolling up and to the left, as if rethinking something. “Well, I have plenty to lose,” she muttered, “but pride can be rebuilt.”

With a frown, she put her purse back down and stood, waving her hand at Mike and Dylan, who both followed her lead and soon Mike found himself sitting next to Dylan, who plopped on the couch with a poof that made Mike cough a bit, flour now sprinkling his forearm. He gave Dylan a c'mon, are you kidding me? look.

“What? I get artistic in the kitchen.” Dylan self-consciously wiped his face, looked at his palms, and grimaced at the white powder.

“You cook like a four year old with an Easy Bake oven and a fan.”

“Hey!” Laura said firmly. “Me. Remember me?” Sheepish, they both had the sense to dip their heads before giving her their eyes. Mike suppressed an urge to shove Dylan. Unfortunately, Dylan had the impulse control of Bill Clinton in a room full of interns and couldn't hold back his nudge. Mike simmered. Not worth it. Not worth it. Not worth it.

His eyes settled on Laura.

Worth it.

Dylan blinked, his eyelashes white. “Yes.” His voice came out like silk. “Of course we do.”

“Then shut up and stop the childish crap and hear me out.” She wasn't angry now – her voice was preternaturally calm, and it creeped Mike out. Like she was detaching. Detaching not in some Buddhist sense, but detaching from them. From the relationship. From the possibility of what he knew, deep inside, was achievable.

So that creepy feeling needed to be respected.

And so did Laura.

“You know that what you did was wrong. You know that you should have told me.” Ah, here it comes, he thought. Good. Let's get this out in the open so we can deal with it like adults.

“We don't need to talk about this right now,” Dylan jumped in. Mike's hands twitched. If he strangled him would it be justifiable homicide? Instead he shoved him, hard, and stepped on his foot.

“Ow! Hey! What was that about?” Dylan crossed his leg up and massaged his instep. More flour. Jesus.

Mike gestured toward Laura while disdainfully brushing flour off his arm, carefully aiming it toward Dylan. “Let the lady talk.”

A grateful look from Laura was his reward. “We do need to talk about it. Now. So settle down there, buckaroo.”

Both men flinched, Mike's entire body turning into a lightning rod during a storm, directing all the electricity in the air through his nose, making his scalp stand on fire. Dylan just gawked at her, wide-eyed.

Instantly on alert, she seemed to realize something had happened, but Mike knew she wouldn't understand. “Did I just say something wrong?” she asked.

He leaned forward, wishing he could touch her, soothe her. Knowing he couldn't. Not yet. “No, no. Nothing wrong. It's just – that's what Jill used to call Dylan when he was, well, when he just was. Buckaroo. We haven't heard it in nearly two years.”

That face. Her cheekbones were so perfect, soft curves blunting hard bone, her eyes serene, questioning, and hard all at once, brows knitted in confusion and wariness, in something more – a look of evaluation, of surmising what was critical and worth knowing, to apply to some emotional calculus he didn't understand.

Buckaroo.

How one word could so easily change everything. Dylan swallowed so hard Mike could feel the click in his throat, and then he realized he had to break the tension, he had to make this all make sense, because Laura and Dylan weren't going to do it. All those years of Jill and Dylan carrying the emotional water in the relationship had made him stale. Soft. Lazy.

Time to step up.

Literally. He stood, took two steps and reached for her shoulder. The sweater was warm, she was warm and soft, and she smelled like something sweet, a vanilla-scented perfume that made half the words fall out of his head before he could say them, replaced by a desire to embrace her and just stand there, bathed in her. Warmed by her.

Holding back that impulse was 100 times harder than not shoving Dylan had been. “Laura, it's fine.” She tipped her face up, head at an angle, eyebrows up and questioning. Is it really? her face seemed to ask.


“I know,” she answered. He froze. Expecting to comfort her, to reassure her, instead she came out with the one answer he'd least expected, the one answer that made his heart swell and his mind nearly crack in half. For Laura knew herself far better than he had ever imagined.

And that made this all the more compelling.

“If there is any hope here,” she said, talking to him but also giving her eyes equally to Dylan, who now stood next to Mike, “we need to get two things straight.”

They nodded.

“No more lies. None. That doesn't mean we need to spill everything about ourselves into one big baggage pile-up right here and right now – ”

“But we could! I could! When I was in eighth grade I set fire to a field that caught train tracks on fire. And my senior year I slept with the new, hot assistant principal at my – ” Laura cut Dylan off with a well-placed finger to the lips. Mike got hard just watching it. He could only imagine what Dylan felt.

“No.” She tsk tsk'd him, finger now wagging in his face. “But no more enormous lies. You're lucky I am even here tonight.”

“We know,” they said in unison. She laughed. Mike felt a shift in the balance of power now, as if she had come in uncertain and questioning and now – she was the one in charge. It made his body buzz a bit more, set his senses on fire, and made him want to rescind his earlier offer of no expectations.

Fortunately, his rational mind knew better. But his body....He'd need to run a solid half marathon to pound this one out.

“What's the second rule?” Dylan asked, his hand running up and down her arm, slow and steady.

“No sex. Not tonight. Not until I ask. Being double-teamed like that – ”

Dylan snorted involuntarily. Mike cocked his jaw in irritation and kicked him in the calf. Dylan yelped.

Laura just shook her head and resumed. “Being – OK, new word – ambushed, by you guys, was really destabilizing. I don't regret anything we did. Not for one second.” She took a step back and Mike understood why. It was getting hot in here.

“And yet...I need to just hang out with you. Get comfortable. Understand how this all works. It's not like there are books out there on how to be a threesome.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mike muttered. “I checked.”

Every muscle on Laura's face came to life with laughter. “Me, too!”

Dylan shook his head. “I totally didn't.” He stopped rubbing Laura's arm and ran his hand through his hair. A puff of white smoke popped up over his head and his dark hair stood on end. He looked, to Mike, like an adult, human version of a Muppet. The one who cooked with the Swedish chef.

“Oh, my God, you look like Beaker! From the Muppets!” Laura squealed, patting his head as the hair sprang back up. “Myork! Myork! Myork!” she shouted, jumping up and down, her sweater climbing up and giving Mike a splendid view of her ass in what looked to be well-loved jeans. He could love them, too.

Being patted on the head didn't seem to suit Dylan; he looked like a dog being poked in the eye by a toddler, begging his master to rescue him, knowing he couldn't bite back. Tough shit, Buddy, Mike thought. You get to be Beaker for now.

Dylan rescued himself, his fingers clasping Laura's wrist the third time she tried to flatten his hair. He led her into the kitchen and handed her a colander. “Unlike the Swedish chef dude, I don't set meals on fire, so let's get this pasta going.”

“You do so set things on fire,” Mike objected, ready to tell Laura plenty of stories about his roommates kitchen screw-ups.

“Not since I became a firefighter.”

“Touché. You did nearly destroy a dorm kitchen single-handedly with a toaster and a frosted Pop-Tart, though.”

“Not my fault. Do you have any idea how many fire safety seminars there are about Pop-Tart glaze? It's breathtaking.”

“Yeah. Makes me gasp.” Mike poured a few inches of wine in his and Laura's glasses as she shot him a surprised look. Sarcasm didn't suit him, he knew. It oozed out when he was anxious.

Anxious? Still? Things seemed settled. Ish.

Ding! The kitchen timer went off. Dylan leaped and ran, leaving a small cloud of white flour in his wake. “The meatballs!” he shouted. Mike and Laura followed, curious.

“Oh, what is that amazing scent?” Laura asked, pretending to swoon. Maybe she really was. Mike was half delirious himself from the smell of whatever Dylan was making. Taking a chance, Mike slid his arm around Laura's shoulders. She relaxed into him, keeping her eyes on Dylan. The press of her body into his felt so comfortable he needed to pause and blink, arm resting against the nape of her neck, across her shoulders, the casual comfort of the gesture so...right.

This was what he missed most. The normalcy of a night of cooking, of hanging out, watching movies and just relaxing. Being. Living. As Dylan pulled a meatball out and put parts of it on forks for everyone to taste, something in Mike released. Exhaled.

It felt damn good. Better than sex right now.

Laura snuggled in closer, her arm reaching for the fork, taking it from Dylan, lips closing over the morsel, her ribs expanding against Mike as she sighed. Eyeing the contact between the two, Dylan just smiled. Cool. Everyone was finally starting to chill.

His grandma's magic meatballs cured everything.

If not everything, at least they brought them all a little culinary bliss. He tasted a bite. Perfection. A blend of beef, a little veal, some pork, and oregano, basil, pepper, a touch of sugar and some grated parmesan with a tiny bit of mozzarella. Loads of garlic, of course! Juicy and coated in homemade tomato sauce (was there any other kind? If it came in a jar it wasn't real food), each bite was like stepping into an Italian restaurant in the North End in Boston, red velvet booths and low light and white-shirted waiters shouting in Italian.

“All that's left is the salad. Give me a few minutes and I'll have everything out.” He surveyed the countertop. Destroyed. Red sauce everywhere (really? How'd it get on the kitchen ceiling fan blades?), the backsplash a buffet of splotches, every large pot dirty and stacked crooked in the sink, and zero counter space. None.

“I'll help,” Laura offered, peeling off Mike, who looked disappointed. Good.

“Great!” He handed her a decanter of olive oil and a cheese grinder. “Can you put the parm on the pasta and if it needs more oil, add some?”

“What about me?” Mike asked. “Need anything?”

“Set the table?” Mike nodded and made quick work of it, grabbing plates and shuttling to and fro between dining room and kitchen. It all felt so...domestic.

Until Mike put a dent in it. “Hey, Dyl!” he hissed, nodding to the hallway. Laura was tossing pasta and rotating the cheese grinder handle, sprinkles of parmesan snowing on the bowl of noodles.

“What's up?” he asked, drying his hands on a towel.

“That whole no lying thing. Should we tell her about the – you know...” Mike made a reluctant face.

“The you know what?”

“The billionaire thing. She doesn't want lies, and she considers not telling her something major to be a lie.”

F*ck. He hadn't thought of that. If they kept this from her, eventually it would come out. Would she be angry they didn't confide in her? Or would she understand why they wanted a little more time? It wasn't about worrying that she'd become greedy, or view them as sugar daddies, or any of the normal reasons guys with money would hesitate to let a woman know.

They had so much money there wasn't anything a woman could do to drain it anyhow, short of buying an island or a private jet, and even then – he shuddered, overwhelmed by the realization – it would just put a temporary dent in their cash flow. Jesus Christ. They really were filthy, stinking rich.


Next time, he was buying filet for dinner. Why had he made boring old pasta with meatballs? Sheesh.

“No way, man. Not tonight. It'll scare her off,” he told Mike. Hell, he hadn't even wanted poor Laura to have to get into talking about what he and Mike had done before. Anything that reminded her of negative feelings about them was off limits tonight. This dinner was about moving forward, not lingering in the past.

He wiggled his toes, feeling flour. Brushing his hand through his hair, he was shocked by the not inconsiderable amount that rained down on his shoulders and chest. Then he took a good look at the counter. Man, he was a slob.

But a slob who cooked some damn fine food.

“You don't think we should take the opportunity?”

“I do – just not this opportunity.” Dylan blinked, struggling to explain himself. Finally, he just let arrogance take him where he needed to go. “Look, Mike. She's vulnerable and unknowing right now. What women want at times like this is certainty. She doesn't need truth. Oh – eventually, sure,” he said as Mike opened his mouth to protest. “Not now, though. What we all need is a quiet, comfortable, fun night where we get to know each other and – ” He winked.

“Uh uh. No – ” Mike winked back, exaggeratedly.

“OK, fine.” He sighed heavily. “I was on the fence anyhow. Not that I don't want to, but more that – ”

“That she needs time.”

“I think she needs us.”

“And time.”

“Not too much time, I hope.”

“We're f*cking lucky she's here, Dylan,” Mike whispered. No anger. No frustration. Just a matter-of-fact statement.

“Not lucky,” he argued.

“Then what?”

Pink. Soft swells. Blonde hair. “Hey, guys?” Laura asked, head peering around the corner. “Ready to eat? I'm starving.” She raised her eyebrows, the skin pulling her nose up a tad and making her lips fuller. A cheerleader's face. No – a smart cheerleader's face.

“Yep – ready!” Dylan nearly shouted, almost jumping out of his skin when she appeared.

“What're you guys talking about?”

“You.” Mike! So blunt.

The three walked into the dining room. Mike had even lit candles. How romantic. How unnecessary, given the cockblocking.

“Me?” she asked.

“How great you are,” Dylan jumped in, eager hands slipping around her waist, his lips reaching out to press a kiss against her temple. The way she melted into him gave him more information than 1,000 words uttered from her lips.

Mike frowned at him. She pulled back from Dylan and said breathlessly, “Well, this is one amazing dinner.” Pulling out her own chair, she settled into what would normally be Mike's seat. Dylan grabbed Jill's old place and Mike settled into what they called the “guest” spot. No need for formalities, right? Tradition and habit were thrown out the window now anyhow. Everything they knew, from domestic life to finances to dating had gone out the window over the past two years.

Live a little, he thought. Shake it up. Sit somewhere new.

Ah, Dylan, you wild and crazy guy.

Homemade pasta, meatballs, salad and garlic bread was probably the most stereotypical Italian meal he could have cooked, but it seemed to hit the spot for everyone. Laura ate with great gusto and Dylan admired that. So many women he dated ate like they were competing in American Idol: Anorexia Edition.

She couldn't possibly eat more than Mike, though, who managed to eat the share of a seventeen-year-old football player going through a growth spurt. With a tapeworm. And a hollow leg.

Three plates later, Thor pushed himself back from the table and finished off his wine. “Amazing, Dylan. Really.”

“Thanks.” Dylan's stomach stretched just enough to make him want to unbutton his jeans. And he would have, if Laura weren't here.

“Oh,” Laura groaned, setting down her fork. “I give up.” She turned to Dylan and put her elbow on the table, chin resting in her palm. “That was the best dinner anyone has ever cooked for me.”

“Ready for dessert?” he asked. They both groaned and put up their hands in protest.

“How about a movie, first?” Mike asked.

“Which one?” Mike liked some really weird shit, like those Christopher Guest movies. Not “The Princess Bride,” which was a classic even Dylan liked, but the ones where people talked to each other like they were on some pretentious stage doing improv designed by a philosophy professor at a dog show as filmed by the Farrelly brothers.

“Let's let Laura pick.” Mike bowed slightly, in deference to her. Mike always knew what to say. It made Dylan feel like an idiot sometimes. So, in retaliation, he totally hogged the spot next to Laura on the couch, grabbed the remote, and turned on the television, flipping to an on demand service.

“Comedy?” Dylan suggested. Laura looked between the two men, reading them. Her cheeks were a bit flushed from the wine and she seemed to have let down her guard a bit, relaxing into the sofa with a patterned throw pillow in her lap. He loved seeing her like this. Just being. And there went his body, tingling and rising to the occasion.

The occasion Mike had squashed. Squash this, he thought, wiggling just enough to take the edge off his discomfort. Mike nudged past their knees and took his place on the other side of Laura. She looked to the left and to the right and seemed bemused.

Grabbing the remote from him, Laura's soft touch made him close his eyes and exhale. Garlic. Elephant amounts of garlic on his breath. Mammoth levels of garlic.

Leaning in toward her, he smelled it on her breath, too. Mike probably reeked, too, which made him relax. OK. It was all good. If everyone smelled like an Italian restaurant, then there was no need for breath mints.

Laura settled on a comedy he and Mike happened to have watched a few weeks ago. They exchanged a wordless glance of understanding; don't question it. The film was funny enough to enjoy again, and she seemed to be a bit nervous suddenly. Whatever it took to keep everyone happy was what they needed right now.

Even if it meant laughing all over at a movie they'd thought was just OK. Besides, right now, his attention wasn't exactly focused on the television screen, with Laura's warm body next to his, the rise and fall of her chest in his peripheral vision, her fingers worrying the wine glass stem. She wriggled and settled in place, crossing and uncrossing her legs, finally gulping the last of her wine and leaning forward to place her empty glass on a coaster.

Heat from her body disappeared and left him feeling colder than he'd expected, and then Mike burst into laughter, followed by Laura's surprised giggle. Something funny in the movie. He could only give it half his attention because the entire room came into sharp focus suddenly, as if he were watching them from above. A quiet night, capped with a decent, funny movie about some modern woman who was insecure, some man who'd hurt her accidentally, some big misunderstanding that needed to be unraveled, supported by each person's best friend as plot devices.

Add a second man and you had, well, them. All three.

Here they sat, laughing at it on the big screen.

Mike's legs were stretched out on the coffee table, ankles crossed. Laura leaned back in and slouched a little, head cocked to the left. Dylan clutched a pillow and let the glow of the TV wash over them all. They were just three friends hanging out, watching a movie after a great meal.

The tiramisu he'd soon spring on them was soaking in flavor.

He was soaking in all of this.

Self-assured, he stretched his arm behind Laura and rested one hand on his shoulder. A little smile played on her lips as she pretended to be completely absorbed by a movie that really only needed five of your brain cells to compute.


Mike caught his eye. Looked at his hand. Nodded.

Life was good.