Essence of Time (12 page)

Blake watched, the protective buzz getting stronger by the second as she walked away, whispering into the phone. Realizing he had no business whatsoever doing it, he followed her, needing to hear her end of the conversation. 

“I know Mitchell. I’ll be home later.” A pause. “No. He’s not. What difference does that…sorry.” A longer pause. “How is this any different that you being on call on the weekends?”  A short pause. “Okay. I will be. I promise. Now, please let me work.” He backed away into the shadows and saw her slump against a conditioning tank, and nearly chewed a hole on the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling at her, to ask what was wrong. Clenching his fists, he forced himself to whistle, to fuck around with shit in the lab. Then, he got an idea.

“Hey.” He called out, knowing she’d hear him. “You’re here. I’m here. Let’s brew.”

There was a few seconds of silence.  “How long will that take?”

“A few hours, four at the most.” He walked over to the mill room, determined to make this happen, to do the brew school, anything to share time with her and, in the process, hopefully find out what was going on.

She emerged from the shadows. Her face was drawn and her eyes positively haunted. Deciding to ignore that in hopes of getting more out of her once they were hard at work, he held out some heavy rubber gloves.  “C’mon doll. You can’t be a beer wench unless you’ve actually brewed.”

That did it. The smile was one he knew, and was growing to love in ways that terrified him.  “Fine. Gauntlet thrown. Consider it picked up, brewer.” She grabbed the gloves.

By the time they had the wort happily boiling, Blake knew he was an utter goner. She took to everything, shied from no challenge, hefted malt bags, calculated complex equations for gravity, even made a few pretty good suggestions about the hops to use. Blake showed her how to measure the aromatic pellets of brewing magic, handed her the buckets and she poured them in, smiling as the steam took on a distinctive odor he loved. “I love this part of the process.” She said as she stared into the huge tank holding the now hop laden sugar water that would eventually become a batch of their distinctive India Pale Ale.  He repressed the urge to leap up the steps of the brewing platform and kiss her.

“Huh. Mine too.” He kept it cool, watching as steam swirled around her face. She seemed relaxed, even happy, for the first time since he’d laid eyes on her nearly three months prior. Unable to resist, drawn by something he simply could not name, he climbed the metal steps and stood behind her. She shifted, leaned back into him ever so slightly. He put a hand on her shoulder. But she shook her head, turned and smiled at him, putting a little distance between them again. And the moment was broken.

“Okay,” he croaked out. “Time to work.” She gave him a quizzical look. He handed her the stainless steel trowel.

An hour later she had the heavy remnants of their brew day—the wet, spent grains they started with—scraped down into rubber garbage bins and ready to put outside for the farmer who picked up twice a week. She stood, wiped a hand across her face. “Damn.” He grinned at her from his position by the fermenter where he’d just pitched yeast into the wort for the fermentation stage of brewing.

He fiddled with the connections, even though he knew there were perfect. “Yeah, who needs aerobics, eh?” She looked stunning even in jeans and a t-shirt, covered nearly head to toe with wet, smelly, sticky grains of barley. She laughed and together they hosed off the inside of the tank, the trowel and all of the various implements they’d used in the previous hours. He kept up an inane chatter, talking about chemistry, original gravities, all sort of bullshit just to keep talking. Because, if he stopped, he was certain he would grab her and kiss her, which was probably not the right move at that moment, possibly not ever.

She groaned and stretched her arms. He held out a hand. “Let’s have a drink. Celebrate our first day working together that did not end in profanity and thrown objects.” She looked at it, yearning in her eyes.

“Oh, well…” She plucked her phone from the table and glanced at it.

The look on her face caused a thrill of anger to pass through him. Whoever was communicating with her had scared her. He tried not to interfere, just stood, unwilling to move. “What’s up?” he gestured at the phone.

“Nothing. Okay. One beer. You choose.”

Within minutes they sat on the couch in the Tap Room, feet up on the makeshift table made of crates, holding the first of the bourbon barrel aged series. “Oh hell, Blake this is…” she sipped again, closed her eyes then looked straight at him. “You really are good at this aren’t you?”

He shrugged, sipped his own, noted its imperfections before acknowledging it was pretty damn good even this young.  “Yeah. I am. Sorry you have to admit it.”

She bumped shoulders with him, making him gulp. He had never in his entire life felt this worked up over anyone, male or female. He didn’t like it. But had no idea what to do about it. He propped an arm on the couch back, feeling like a kid on his first date. She flopped back, her hair draping over his bare skin. He tried not to shiver too obviously. 

They continued to sip in companionable silence, thighs touching slightly, observing the mellow vibe of the Tap Room on a Sunday. Her phone buzzed. She sighed and stared at it, then over at him. He smiled, hoping he didn’t give away the raw emotion churning in his gut. “Well,” she touched his leg nearly making him leap out of his overwrought skin. “Gotta go. Thanks, Blake. Seriously. This was,” she held up her empty glass, “exactly what I needed.”

She rose, her small frame full of tension again. Blake forced himself to stay silent and still as she greeted a few customers, set her glass on the bar and left. Hauling himself out of the couch, he stretched and headed back into the brewery to do a few more things before heading home. He made some notes on the IPA board, ran his hand over his rough jaw, entertaining the concept of growing a beard, realized he had his black belt test in a week. Willing himself to think about everything, anything, but Suzanne and that look of fear that had passed over her face. The whole strong-professional female vibe she cultivated had cracked, given him a look at the real her. It made him even crazier than before.

 The soft snick of the back brewery door made him look up, a greeting on his lips for what he assumed was likely his second brewer. The guy was OCD about this process, which was the very reason he’d been hired.  He blinked at the bright sunlight backlighting the figure in the doorway. “Cal?” He called out, looking back down at this laptop screen. “Hey man, I, um, we went ahead and did the IPA today so…” A touch on his arm made him turn.

His heart pounded again at the sight of the lovely red-headed woman who starred in all his most vivid recent fantasies. “Hey,” He started to try and deflect, but she put her lips to his so fast he knew nothing else. Nothing but her. After a half second of surprise he cupped the back of her neck, held her close, afraid this was yet another dream and he’d awake to nothing. She slid her arms around him, opened her lips to his tongue and he couldn’t repress a groan as he dove into her mouth. Their hands roamed all over each other in a strange dance of desperation. He turned her so her back was against the tall worktable, kissed his way down her neck, cupped a breast as she sighed and fisted her hands in his hair.

“Blake,” she whispered. “Wait.”

“Hell no. I am not waiting.” He mumbled against the intoxicating deliciousness of her skin. “I can’t.” He shifted, sensing her hand make its way toward the stiffening under his zipper. But then, as soon as it started, it was over. The phone buzzed in her back pocket; she lifted the damn thing up and stared at it. Blake caught a glimpse of the name “Mitchell.” She tucked it back into her jeans, cradled his face between her hands.

“I just wanted to thank you.” She brushed her lips over his. He shuddered, realizing this was indeed a fucking nightmare. He ran his hands up the pebbling skin of her arms, frowning as she flinched when he reached her biceps. The bizarre, possessive buzzing started up again. He pushed up the sleeve of her tee shirt. A ring of angry bruises against her porcelain skin nearly made him growl with anger. She sucked in a breath as he stared at it, then up at her.

“What the fuck?” he started, but she pulled away, yanked her sleeves down.

“Oh, I was rollerblading. Nearly fell. A friend grabbed me, kept me from face planting. But I bruise like a peach.” She rubbed one arm, her eyes darting all over the room, anywhere but on him.  He put a thumb to her chin, made her focus.

He leaned in to taste her lips, just once more. She met him halfway, sending him further in a downward spiral of lust and need. He broke the clinch this time kissing her nose, her forehead, and both cheeks. “Thank me anytime, just like that.” She blushed beet red, turned and darted out the door, leaving him, chest heaving, brain humming, every nerve ending on fire.

Suzanne sat in her car gripping the steering wheel, and tried to calm her pounding pulse. She stared out the windshield. Recaptured the sensation of Blake’s arms around her, of his lips on hers. The memory of that perfect moment when they finally came together made tears press behind her eyes. She sucked in a breath, and answered Mitchell’s millionth call of the day.

“Yes?”

“Where the hell are you now?”

She winced at the familiar tightness in his voice. “In the car, heading home.”

“About fucking time.”

“Aren’t you leaving soon anyway?” She knew this was true and something in her wanted to hear him say it. She’d mostly gotten past the need to provoke her hot-tempered husband a few months ago, when the verbal control he’d always exerted over her had become actual physical abuse. She rubbed her arm, still sore where he’d grabbed her. The lies she’d started concocting sometimes even convinced her that she was not the victim of a brutish man she’d once loved.

“Huh,” he grunted, and she could picture him pacing, running his fingers through his hair, obsessing about her every move. “Yeah. That’s why I wanted you home. I thought we’d, you know, spend some time together today.”

Suzanne closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest of her expensive imported car. Without realizing she was doing it, she brushed her fingers over her lips, attempting to conjure Blake as she placated the man who’d met her the first week of medical school, chased her with flattering intensity and now had turned on her with such shocking ferocity.

“Okay, I’m on my way. Was going to stop for groceries.” She had started calculating ways to avoid him, work around his schedule so she didn’t have to be in the house when he was there. She shuddered at a sudden flash of memory. Mitchell’s handsome, eager face as he went down on one knee and presented his family’s heirloom diamond ring for her. The terror-filled moment when she refused him and he stood, anger clear in his gaze and gripped her arm for a split second before releasing her.

It had taken him three attempts but finally she’d agreed. He had such a powerful way about him, reminded her so much of Jack, back in the days when she'd nurtured a not-so-secret crush on that man. Suzanne had grown up a loner, an only child of a single mother who worked around the clock to make ends meet. Most of her friends through all stages of school had been men. She had her fair share of opportunities to hook up, to be part of a couple, and had resisted it all the way into medical school. Until she met Mitchell Baxter.

“No,” the tightness in his voice increased, not boding well for her welcome home. She put a hand on her chest, trying to quell the rising panic. She should not have come here today. Should have let Blake forget the brewing altogether. She definitely should not have gone back inside to “thank” him. She knew damn good and well she wanted to kiss him, but was now sorry she had done it. He represented a bright, shining beacon of hope in her rapidly narrowing world. And that was in no way fair to him. She snapped to, realizing Mitchell had asked her a question. “Well?” He demanded.

 She gulped. “Sorry hon, I uh, was just pulling out into traffic. What did you ask?”

“Oh never mind, Jesus. Use the hands-free Bluetooth. It’s why I bought that fucking expensive car for you.” He sighed and Suzanne waited, knowing what was coming next. He was nothing if not predictable lately. “Sorry. I, um, I didn’t mean to snap.”

“It’s fine. I’ll be home in a few.”

“Good. I think we could work on our little project.”

Suzanne ground her teeth. Mitchell was bound and determined to get her pregnant. Up until the moment when he’d lashed out at her with his fists for staying out late at a beer event, she’d gone along with the plan. But the minute he backhanded her, sending her spinning across the kitchen, catching her hip on the expensive oven handle, she’d made a vow. She had gone to her gynecologist, sworn her to secrecy since the woman knew Mitchell too, and was back on the pill within a day.

She pulled into the long, circular drive of the Italianate home he’d bought “for her” the week they got married. She’d been so young, so in love, and so completely stupid. She sat in the garage holding on to the wheel about a minute too long. The loud rap on the window, the look of fury on his once-beloved face, provided exactly the sort of welcome home she expected. As she emerged, his glare softened and he pulled her in for a patented "Mitchell Baxter mind-blowing" kiss. She pretended to sigh with satisfaction.
I really could get an Academy Award for the acting job I’ve been doing the last six months.

There had been a time when she would have been grateful for this sudden change of atmosphere, but she’d been fooled by it too many times. So, she kissed him back, bracing for the moment when he flipped the switch in his head and started berating her, or the latest in the Mitchell repertoire, hitting her so she was forced to stay home and away from the job she loved. This new routine always included crying and remorse, begging for her forgiveness, and tending her usually out-of-sight wounds before disappearing for another unsatisfactory shift at the hospital.

“C’mon baby,” he muttered in her ear, making her skin crawl with dread. “Let’s go make a baby.”