Chapter Fourteen
“Hoffman!”
Ross winced at the way his name bounced around the huge room full of stainless steel. But he was pleased to note that no one looked up at the sound of it. He had the staff well-trained, Brad Jefferson did. He was eighty percent bluster, fifteen percent bullshit and five percent businessman. He’d lucked into the craft beer business by being at the right place with a giant trust fund, not too far off Austin’s story, really. Big difference being Jefferson was a shitty brewer while Austin was pretty good. Not as good as Ross of course, but not many people were.
He grinned at himself in the spotless surface of the giant kettle where thousands of gallons of Brad’s Finest IPA were brewing away under his watchful eye. Since returning to Colorado after Rose’s flu scare he’d jumped right back into his austerity measures—work, workout, sleep.
No women. No partying. No sex.
He’d toned up his body even more and had never felt better, except for the ‘no sex’ thing. He was pretty certain that he wasn’t wired for that particular life choice. But his options remained scarce since he didn’t put himself in a position to pick up women anymore, other than the ones constantly eyeballing him at the gym. So, he was going with it, channeling his pent-up energy into lifting more weights, running more miles. Hell, he’d even started reading books again.
“God damn it, Hoffman I know you can hear me.”
Ross began whistling as he waited for the monitor to flash so he could add the final ingredients to the boil. He really hated this hands-off, computerized brewing. But when dealing with batches as large as these, it was the only way.
Brad ran up to him, breathing heavily.
“You ought to lay off the beer cheese, dude,” Ross said as he shoved past the man to grab the dried moss, the ingredient that kept the wort from boiling over. As he shook the carefully measured grayish powder into the recesses of the kettle, he kept his eyes on the dark swirl of almost-beer in the tank below him. Brad waited, knowing that Ross wouldn’t pay a lick of attention to him while he was working on a batch of their best-selling brew.
“Now,” Ross said, as he tossed the pail into the large sink next to the brew house. “What can I do for you, Bradley?”
The man’s face was bright red around his brewer-hipster, carefully trimmed beard. His eyes blazed with fury. Ross raised an eyebrow, wondering what in the world would have gotten the guy so worked up.
“What did you do?” his bossed half-whispered to him.
“Not sure, other than brew yet more of this super boring, very average IPA.”
“God damn it. I mean to her.”
“To…whom?”
But he thought he knew who. And, as it turned out, he was correct.
“Holly. She just dumped me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Ross patted the man’s thick shoulder. “Want to sit and eat a pint of ice cream together?”
“Fuck you, Hoffman. I know it’s your fault.”
“Hardly,” Ross said, as he pecked out a few commands on the keyboard, setting the concoction’s temperature for the next couple of hours. The brief memory of Holly’s hot ass, tits, and mouth made a shiver run down his spine. But he clenched his jaw and forced himself to turn back to his boss. “I mean, I haven’t talked to her or seen her or anything since I got back from Michigan. Scout’s honor.”
“Your honor isn’t worth shit to me. I know it’s you. She told me.”
“Well, she lied. Big surprise there, eh, champ?”
“No, I think you’re lying.”
Ross felt a meaty hand clamp his left biceps. He glared down at it, then over at Brad’s flushed face.
“You’re a lying, cheating, woman-stealing shithead,” Brad declared, his face beet red.
“Once upon a time, perhaps,” Ross said, peeling the man’s fingers off his arm before he lost his cool and did something even stupider than he’d done so far in this job. “But you’ll have to find someone else to blame this time, I’m afraid. Or you could blame your fat, lazy, self.”
“You…are…” Brad hauled back and Ross braced himself. The guy packed a fair bit of muscle under his bulk and he quite possibly deserved to get decked for that last crack. But the blow never came. “You’re fired.”
“Aw, you don’t mean that,” Ross said, wiping his hands on the towel he kept tied onto his belt loop. “Don’t go away mad. Let’s get some fudge ripple and binge-watch Sex and the City.”
Brad double flipped him off then turned and stomped away, muttering under his breath. Wishing the guy had whacked him one so he could’ve laid into him and released a bit of his pent-up energy, Ross caught the eye of a few of the other brewery staff and shrugged. “Boss man’s got lady trouble,” he said.
Within a few hours, he’d forgotten the whole incident. As he was packing up to head home, his phone buzzed with a message. When he saw who it was, he repressed the urge to delete without reading it.
Man up, Hoffman. You can’t ignore her forever. He dropped into the couch he’d liberated from the employee lounge his first week as head brewer. It’s Evelyn. You like her, remember? With a sigh, he read her message.
I think we need your help here for a while. Can you manage to break away from The Diva out there for a few weeks?
Realizing that now might indeed be a great time for a break from this place, let Brad cool off and remind himself why he’d bolted from Michigan with a dose of Austin-Evelyn domesticity, he grinned as he replied.
Sure thing. I call my own shots out here anyway. If he doesn’t like it I’ll just quit again.
Or get fired.
Whichever.
He picked up the phone, recalling something that had nestled in the back of his brain ever since he’d returned. Elisa Nagel—the strange-looking fraulein with the ice-gray eyes, skinny body, and wild-ass hair. Why in God’s name an odd bird like her would stick with him as long as she had, he had no earthly idea.
What about your new lady brewer? She might not like me coming in and bossing her around.
He stretched out, staring at the screen, waiting for the reply. Waiting too eagerly, of course. Evelyn Benedict Fitzgerald always had that effect on him. When nothing came, he stamped out the tiny flame of disappointment and resumed shutting his space down for the night. The brewery ran on a twenty-four-hour cycle, so he passed by the brew house to check on things before heading out of the back door, hopping on his borrowed motorcycle and pointing it toward the house he still rented from the on-sabbatical prof.
The night was cool, and smelled oddly of lemons and engine exhaust. He took deep breaths as he made the hairpin turns up the mountain without even thinking too hard about it. Memories of Evelyn flooded his brain, aggravating him, turning him on, pissing him off.
Damn woman. He’d never be shed of her.
A small voice rose in his head reminding him that if he didn’t even try to find someone else, that would be a hard fact for the rest of his life—and his own damn fault, to boot.
He parked in the driveway and slammed the kickstand down, furious with himself, and his dick which was already half-hard at the thought of her.
Maybe he was over-valuing this whole monk-like existence. Maybe he should go out and get himself laid, knock off his edge.
Because he really couldn’t fathom spending two or three weeks working alongside Evelyn without losing his ever-loving mind and perhaps expiring from blue balls. Embarrassing for a man of his age and general experience level.
Resolved to take his usual ten-mile run, even in the near dark, then go out to a bar, find a girl and fuck her brains out, he shoved open the door to the kitchen. He froze, realizing in a split second that something was off…that a hell of a lot things were, actually.
As he put his helmet on the kitchen table, he took it all in. The place was spotlessly clean for one. Not the condition he’d left it in to be sure. He wasn’t a slob, but it looked like an entire battalion of maids had swept through the place. The damn kitchen faucet sparkled for crying out loud and the place even smelled good.
“Hello?” While he wasn’t exactly nervous—he’d never heard of robbers doing a white tornado cleaning job—he had a sneaking suspicion about what might be going on. And while part of him didn’t want any part of it, another part—the part now straining the crotch of his jeans—had a different opinion. “Down boy,” he muttered, shifting his junk around so he could breathe. “Who’s here?”
He dropped his backpack and pulled a water bottle from the fridge, figuring she’d show herself eventually. Finally, he turned and was treated to the view his brain didn’t want but that made his dick practically leap out of his pants. “I thought it might be you,” he said, letting the water bottle dangle from two fingers.
Holly smiled and leaned into the doorway against one raised, slender arm. The action highlighted her tits, which were barely encased in a black, silky-looking blouse. “I’m here to call a truce,” she said, holding out two glasses of dark beer. “What do you say?”
He sighed, took the beer and clinked glasses with her. “Fine,” he said, before downing the thing in a few gulps. “You can go now.”
“Don’t be like that, Ross baby,” she said, leaning forward and giving him a clear cleavage shot. “Let’s be friends.”
“I’m not your…” he stopped, realizing that his tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth all of a sudden. “Shit,” he said. Or at least he tried to say.
Holly moved closer, put her finger to his lips. “Shh, no more talking,” she said, her face doing a freakish wavering thing in front of his eyes.
“Bitch,” he said. Or thought he said as several sets of soft hands seemed to be guiding him out of the kitchen.
That was all Ross remembered for a while.
* * * *
He woke to the great-grandmother of all headaches. Groaning and gripping his throbbing skull, he rolled away from the mass of bodies piled all around him. The sun illuminated the room, hitting him in the eyes with the force of a sledge hammer. Stumbling around, he managed to make it to the bathroom and empty his bladder while leaning against the wall so he didn’t fall into the toilet. A shower seemed like the best idea on the planet so he cranked the water to blazing hot and ducked under it.
He stood, hands propped on the tiles, letting the water hit him square in the face. When he tried figure out why he was so damn sore, he saw bite marks and tiny burned spots on his chest and stomach. Wincing, he touched his dick which felt scraped completely raw. His lips were raw too. His neck stung when the water hit it, cluing him in that it was probably in the same shape as his torso. But nothing compared to the utter pounding ball of agony that had replaced his noggin.
With another loud groan, he dropped his hands to his knees and focused on not puking his guts up all over the shower. Slowly, carefully, as if he might shatter into pieces otherwise, he plucked a towel from the rack and patted himself dry before wrapping it around his waist, yelping in pain when the fabric touched his stinging cock. Forgoing that particular modesty, he walked out into his bedroom naked, then into the hall, listening for sounds indicating the orgy ladies still lingered.
After brushing his teeth—which also hurt—for nearly five minutes, they still felt coated in slime. “Bitch drugged me,” he muttered swiping a shaking hand down his face. Finally deciding that he didn’t care who was around, if he didn’t get some water into his system in the next ten seconds he would keel over and die, he stomped past the scene of the debauchery and into the kitchen. Two huge glasses of water later, he stood, gasping, and staring out of the window.
When he processed that the buzzing sound wasn’t coming from inside his head, he picked up his discarded jeans and tugged the phone from his pocket. Austin had been calling and texting him for the better part of the last—he squinted at the first message—eight hours.
“What the fuck is it now,” he muttered, scrolling through to make sure the kid was all right before giving up and putting the phone to his ear.
“You really know how to make yourself scarce, don’t you?” his friend said by way of greeting.
Ross grunted a reply as he sat gingerly down into a chair at the kitchen table. The sunlight blaring through the window pierced him right in the eyeballs. It shoved the spike of pain nice and deep into his brainpan, blinding and deafening him for a few seconds. “What? Sorry. I’m a little fragile this morning.”
“Whatever, dude. So, can you come?”
“I already told Evelyn I would.” He couldn’t keep the snippy tone out of his voice. It was all he could do at that moment not to puke all over the expensive hardwood floor.
“What? When did you talk to her?” Austin sounded frazzled. But he’d sounded that way ever since Rose’s birth.
“Shit man, I don’t remember. What the hell day is it anyway?”
“What happened to Mr. Pure Living?”
“He got gang banged by a pack of succubus, all right? Cut him a break.”
“Nice,” Austin said. Ross couldn’t tell if he were amused or honestly pissed off.
“Whatever. So yeah, I told her at some point I’d help you guys. I’m somewhat persona non grata around here all of a sudden, anyway.” He rubbed his eyes. “Seriously, what day is it?”
Austin’s heavy sigh set Ross’ sensitive on edge. But he sat still, willing the clanging agony in his head to stop, knowing getting angry would only exacerbate it. “It’s Wednesday morning, eleven a.m. where I am, which makes it nine where you are.”
Shocked at the lost twenty-four hours, he lurched forward, which sent a jolt of nausea up his throat. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah. So, I guess you heard it all, then. If you talked to Evelyn?”
“I, uh, don’t know,” he hedged as he stumbled to the kitchen sink just in case. The silence on the other end of the line made his pulse race. His good buddy was getting a tad bit bossy and Ross was in zero mood for it. “Guess you should tell me whatever the fuck it all is. Since the last I spoke to Evelyn it was Monday night. Tuesday seems to have been sucked away, along with every ounce of my—”
“Spare me.”
“Dude, just fill me in. Holly showed up here that same night and I’m pretty sure she drugged me or something.”
“Poor little snowflake,” Austin said, amusement clear in his voice this time.
“Yeah. I sure as hell wish I could remember any of it.” He touched his sore dick before pressing fingertips against the many, tiny burned spots and gouges on his chest. “So, anyway, what’s going on now, drama king?”
“Oh, not much I guess. Other than my wife was nearly raped and killed by a psycho almost-ex-employee before he got popped between the eyes by my strange new German lady brewer.”
“You really shouldn’t mess with me right now.” Ross kept his head lowered, waiting for the inevitable over the sink.
“I’m not.”
“Evelyn was…is she all right?” He poured another glass of water and forced it past the rising gorge in his throat.
“Yes. Thanks to Elisa Nagel, she is. Although that woman is now in custody and I gotta go post a two hundred fifty thou bail and get her scary ass in front of my lawyer.”
“Elisa…who?” The room had commenced spinning so he squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, right. The Berliner brewer chick.” But he knew damn well who she was. Fronting with confusion was his reflex to counter the surge of emotion that had muscled past his pain at the sound of her name.
“Not to mention Evelyn’s office window overlooking the brewery is coated in blood and brains. And some got on Rose.” His voice got tighter and higher. Ross opened his eyes and took a long breath.
“Rose is all right, though?”
“Yes. No worse for wear.”
“Austin, you’re serious about this.”
“Fuck, yes, I’m serious. Why would I make up a story like this and interrupt your fragile, post-succubus recovery period with it?”
Ross sat slowly so as not to jar his head. There was something like a million pains all over his body now—so many he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where any of them were, specifically. “Okay, I’m sitting down now. Tell me again. All of it, please.”
“There used to be an employee here named Tim, who, apparently was seriously harassing Elle, the lady brewer. Evelyn convinced her to file a complaint the same day somebody—Tim, we now believe—sabotaged one of the biggest fermenters, sending something like fifteen thousand gallons of beer swirling down the fucking drain. Evelyn had a heart-to-heart with her, got a lot of bizarre details about her life, had her fill out the harassment claim, then was in her office packing up when this…this…asshole showed up.” Ross could hear Austin’s throat clicking as he swallowed. “He, uh, tried to attack her. Our Evelyn, Hoffman. He was going to…to rape her right in front of the baby. Oh, Jesus.”
Ross leaned forward, elbows on his knees, willing himself not to react. If he lost it, he believed that his head may very well pop off his neck like a zit and roll across the kitchen floor. Part of him wished it would, if it meant the pain would stop. He waited Austin out, the silence between the two men as long as the actual miles.
“He ripped off her blouse, yanked out some of her hair. She told me…that she was ready to do whatever he wanted just so he’d leave the baby alone. Rose was crying I guess and so this fucker picked up her car seat and put it on the god damned table. Then he…he…he…”
“Enough,” Ross choked out.
As if he hadn’t heard Ross speak, Austin kept going. “He was… He had her pinned to the table and was… It…”
“God damn it, man,” Ross roared, leaping up to pace the room, monster headache be damned. “God fucking damn it.”
“Yeah, so…literally just as he was about to rape her…the door flew open and there stood our little vigilante.” Austin sucked in a shaky breath. “She walked in and blew Tim’s sorry brains out without a word, Evelyn said. She grabbed the baby and they ran down to the brewery floor. It was a bottling night so all their noise was covered up. But Elle had one of the brewery assistants call the cops while she helped Evelyn get herself…her clothes…back together in the locker room.”
“Holy… I… I don’t even have a word.”
“Right, so…now my head brewer is still laid up with a concussion and my second-in-command is facing assault with a deadly weapon and manslaughter charges. Evelyn’s all right, I mean, as all right as she can be. And we just signed a wholesaling agreement with a super aggressive exporter. Follow me?”
“Yeah. You need me.”
“Exactly. So, when can I expect you here?”
“Well…” Ross ran a hand through his hair. He felt sweaty, sticky, and the clanging in his skull had only gotten worse. “I gotta talk to Brad first.”
“Fine. Do what you have to do and get here. Please, Ross. I’m tearing my hair out and really need your help.”
“Okay. I will. Sorry about…all the mess. You sure Evelyn and the kid are all right?”
“Yes, they’re fine. Now, get the hell off the phone and get on a plane.”
Ross opened his mouth to reply but the line was dead.