Barrett

Tickets were a hundred bucks each so the beer tasting is a high-end affair. Assuming you’re allowed to call wealthy people getting shit-faced “high-end.” I ponder my brother’s choice of brew as I sip a tart IPA brewed with goji berries. He’s often seen drinking from a can of Natural Light or Milwaukee’s Best. Whatever’s cheap and plentiful.

Catarina’s all business today, reminding me of the way she was when I first met her. She’s wearing a brightly colored sundress which I referred to as “pink” and she corrected me with “It’s coral, caveman.” But trust me, underneath that “coral” frock, she’s as cold as ice.

At least where I’m concerned.

“Catarina Everhart!” exclaims an older woman when she sees us. “I was hoping I’d run into you this year.” She peruses me briefly but doesn’t recognize me, which is rare. “Your friend?”

“This is Barrett Fox. He’s an OSU alum and used to play for the Miami Dolphins. We’re on assignment together.”

“Oh.” The woman extends a hand, her smile painfully polite. Either she doesn’t know about the referee incident, or she knows and has chosen not to stab me in the eyeball with her cross necklace. “Paula Partridge. Pleased.”

I give her hand a brief shake. “Same to you, Paula.”

Paula loops her arm with Catarina’s and whispers in her ear. I don’t know what she’s saying, but I heard “North” which is enough to make me guzzle the rest of my goji berry beer. While they chatter about Kitty Cat’s obtuse ex, I believe I’ll get a refill.

I meander over to the booth and hand them my punch card. Up to thirty samples are included with the admission price of the ticket, which is insane. Even with four-ounce pours, I wouldn’t know my own name if I filled that card. There are plenty of people here rapidly approaching that state.

“I’ll try the coconut porter.”

The barmaid is dressed festively in a German-styled off the shoulder dress with a frilly skirt. Her red-mouthed smile widens along with her green eyes. “Hey. Aren’t you—”

“My boyfriend, Barrett Fox.” Catarina finishes for her, stepping up next to me and wrapping her arm around mine. “Isn’t he dreamy?”

Sarcasm drips off the word dreamy.

“I need a refill, please,” she tells the barmaid. Then to me: “Schnookums, what’d you get?”

If she thinks I’m not playing along, she’s about to be surprised.

“Coconut porter.” I unhook my arm from hers and take her hands, weaving our fingers together. “Same for you, honey?”

“Same,” she breathes, her cocky smile wobbling. By the time the barmaid begins pouring our beers, my Kitty Cat is trying to squirm away. I don’t let her, tightening my fingers in hers and gently wrapping our linked hands behind her back. I step close enough that her breasts brush my chest and I lower my face to hers and whisper one word.

“Trapped.”

Caramel-brown irises wander over my face and like that, I’m smitten. I don’t know what it is about this woman, but whenever she locks eyes with me I go as gooey as the candy her eyes resemble. Being this close to her reminds me of the explosive kiss we shared in the abandoned office yesterday, right before she stomped out.

“Why are you mad at me?” I forgo the opportunity to kiss her, taking advantage of her nearness to squeeze the truth from her instead.

“PMS.” She wiggles in my hold, but I don’t let her go.

“Try again. The truth this time.”

The barmaid sets our beers down and moves to help another customer. I don’t bother looking over since my eyes are already resting on the most beautiful woman here.

“I wouldn’t sleep with North and then kiss you, you moron.” Slender, perfectly angled eyebrows meet over her cute nose. She may be frustrated but I’m elated now that I know she didn’t screw that douchebag.

“The dry spell continues.” I lower my lips leaving barely a whisper of air between us. “Let me know if I can bring the rain, Kitty Cat.”

“Barrett Fox!” booms a male voice belonging to a guy about to get punched in the junk.

“Your fandom calls.” Catarina smirks, the simmering lust in her eyes dissipating like steam. I release her and she grabs our beers, handing over mine.

I turn around to find none other than Jackson Burke. The “SS Kick Your Ass” as we used to call him.

“Holy shit!” I grin, no longer wanting to murder him for interrupting. He grins back and opens his arms. I give him a huge hug, pounding him on the back as he lifts me off the ground.

The big, burly asshole. Of course he can still lift me off the ground.

“How the hell are you, man?” Burke slaps my upper arm. His dark brown hair is chin-length and his beard is in need of a trim. He flashes a white-toothed smile over my shoulder.

“Jackson Burke,” he introduces. “What’s your name, beautiful?”

“There are two of you? Fantastic.” Catarina shakes his hand but doesn’t seem happy about it. “Charmed. My name is Kitty Cat Everhart and I’ll be over here looking for a man who didn’t crawl out of the Paleozoic era if you need me.” She flashes a siren’s smile before she turns away to watch the band performing on stage.

“She’s a pistol,” Burke says. “How new is that?”

“Brand spanking new.” He smirks at my choice of phrase. “She’s my co-worker and we’re pretend dating for a column.”

He hoists one dark eyebrow. “That didn’t look like pretend. I thought you were going to fuck her right there in the grass.”

“It’s not like that,” I say a little harshly.

“That’s cool.” He points with his beer to the stage where a band is playing. “We’re going next. I know those guys. Was over there when they set up and they invited me up to play guitar. Now that I’m looking at you, change of plans. You’re coming with me. We’ll do the thing.”

Catarina leans on a maple tree at the back of a seated crowd as the band plays Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again.”

“The thing,” I repeat, watching as she casually crosses one foot over the other. She’s seriously gorgeous right now. That high ponytail. The way she peers into her beer glass before she takes a drink from it.

“Let’s get ’em going!” Burke gestures to the band. “The crowd won’t recognize me, but they will definitely recognize you. Come on, Fox. For old time’s sake.”

“Old times. Burke, we aren’t even thirty yet.”

“I’m thirty. Yesterday.”

“No shit?”

“It’ll be my belated birthday gift. Don’t make me call you up on stage because I will do it.”

He would.

“Think it’ll win me the girl?” I swallow the beer in my glass.

“You have to ask? That song’s a panty dropper. Especially with you singing lead. Let’s grab a refill and hit the stage, brother. It’s been too long.”

I can’t believe it, but the next word out of my mouth is “Okay.”

Catarina

When fingers skim along my elbow, I jump, startled. Luckily my beer glass is empty or else I’d be wearing the contents. Barrett doesn’t stop walking, passing by with a wink, his friend Burke trailing behind him.

“I’ll return him to you shortly, Kitty Cat Everhart,” Burke tells me with a wicked smile that is strangely charming.

I don’t find guys in slashed jeans attractive any more than I do bad boy red-haired former NFL players, yet here I am admiring both of them as they cut through the crowd.

I lose sight of them when they reach the front, suddenly frustrated that I’m standing here alone while my date is doing…I don’t know what. I begin mentally writing that paragraph in my head.

Dating tip, gentlemen: Don’t abandon your date for an old college buddy to play wingman. One, this is poor form, and two, that kiss you were expecting at the end of the night? Not going to happen.

I turn for the beer truck when a familiar voice crackles over the speakers. I turn to find Barrett and Burke on stage.

“How’s everyone doing?” Barrett asks, his husky baritone sending a ripple of awareness down my spine. “This is my buddy, Jackson Burke.”

“Hi, ladies,” Burke says, his voice dipping suggestively. It earns him more than a few female screams. “You all know my friend Barrett Fox.”

The screams increase tenfold. Despite the mild disgust I feel at how easily he earns attention, I swivel in my flip-flops and crush in with a crowd that is not only growing in size but pushing toward the front.

“This is an oldie, but goodie,” Barrett tells the crowd as Burke tunes the guitar looped around his neck. “It’s a little cheesy, but a lot effective. Kinda like Goose and Maverick singing ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’’ in Top Gun.”

More howls of appreciation from the opposite sex.

“Oh my God, he’s hotter in person,” a drunk girl slurs next to me. I turn to see if she’s talking to me but she isn’t.

Her equally drunk friend giggles and adds, “You can have him. I’ll take the bearded one.”

“Huh-uh,” the first girl argues dreamily. “I want a piece of that ginger.”

Yikes. I blink, lift my glass, but it’s empty. No way can I go to the beer truck now. I’ll lose my place in the mid-to-rear of the crowd. Burke clumsily plays a few chords, chuckles, and apologizes into the microphone as he tunes a string. Then he tries again and applause breaks out. Slowly at first and then rippling outward.

Oh, yes. Everyone recognizes the familiar ballad of Extreme’s “More Than Words.”

“Is he going to sing?” I ask no one in particular as Barrett accepts a beer from one of the band members who sacrificed his microphone.

“If he does, I’ll die,” the first girl answers.

Well, get ready for her to drop dead, because Barrett sets his glass down, approaches the microphone, and sings the first line.

Burke bobs his head and strums some more while Barrett sings about how he doesn’t want to hear the words I love you, but instead wants to be shown.

Damn. This song really holds up.

And damn Barrett Fox can sing.

Who saw that coming?

Burke croons backup as Barrett hits a high note like his vocal cords were designed to do just that.

The women next to me sigh and titter and I’m pretty sure I haven’t inhaled for a good while. I suck in a breath and simply…stare. Barrett’s eyes sink shut, his hand gripping the microphone stand loose but firm. The same way he held on to me when he kissed me in that empty office.

“Help me out,” he invites and then sings the chorus again. Every last one of us sings along with him.

No one can take their eyes off him, including me. The buzz of excitement is palpable. It’s the same buzz that surrounds him wherever he goes.

He and Burke softly sing the final notes and screams interspersed with cheers swell in the air. I’m grinning, applauding by slapping my wrist with one hand since I’m still holding my beer glass with the other. A blur of girls rush the stairs when they step off the stage.

I lose sight of them in the crush.

Still smiling and pretty damn impressed, I turn for the beer truck for the refill that I need more than I did a few minutes ago.

Barrett escapes his pop-up fan club and waves his apologies to them as his head turns toward the tree where I was leaning. I smile, not the least bit interested in waving him over. Let him look for me.

Burke is caught in a tangle of the two girls who were standing next to me. He yells for Barrett and the one who wanted “the ginger” sends him a flirty smile. Barrett shakes his head and almost walks right past me.

“Fox!” I shout, giving in.

His head snaps around and the smile on his face is a wily grin. Half of me wants to turn and see if the girl from earlier is watching the display, but I can’t free myself from the eye-lock with his very blue irises.

Barrett stops in front of me, his chin dipped, eyes burning mine. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I raise my beer and take a sip, but he takes it from me and finishes it off.

“Hey!”

“I worked hard up there. I need a drink.” A light sheen of sweat decorates his handsome face. “I’ll get you another one. Unless you want to make those girls jealous and lay a big, wet, sloppy kiss on me.”

I force a laugh but a kiss—sloppy or otherwise—doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Like, at all. “In your dreams, Fox.”

“In my reality, too.” One hand slides across my lower back and he tugs me until I have to grip his arms or lose my balance. “Remember?”

How could I forget?

“Come on, it’ll be good for ratings.”

I lift onto my toes, touch my nose to his, and whisper, “Buy me some French fries.”

I push his chest, intending to sway over to the food truck with a hand-painted banner that reads “FRESH CUT FRIES!” but I don’t make it. Barrett lifts my heels off the ground, lowers his face, and kisses me. The kiss is hard and firm…and far too brief.

“French fries it is,” he says, arm wrapped around my waist. “And more beer. God, Kitty Cat, our job sucks.”

Before we reach to the den of saturated fat, he shouts, “Nicely done, Burke!”

Burke is still standing with the two girls, flirting with the one who wanted him while I receive a dirty look from the one who wanted Barrett for herself.

I’m not petty. I don’t play games. But I can’t help taking Barrett’s hand with mine as we walk away.