Essence of Time (19 page)

Later, they lay in a tangle of limbs and blankets on her bed, his knee-jerk orgasm leaving him open for more play after a brief nap. She sighed into his chest, kissed his skin there, and up his neck, making him shiver. He held her snug against him, but kept his mind closed, unwilling to accept more than her body. Not then, or maybe ever.

 “This is it, isn’t it?” He muttered into her hair.

“What do you mean?” She propped up on his chest and looked at him, but her eyes told the story. He struggled out from under her and sat on the side of the bed, head in his hands. His body was sated but his heart ached as if they’d never had this little encounter.

He stood, found his clothes and wandered to the sink for some water. His head pounded. “Thanks for the mercy fuck. I should go,” he called over his shoulder.

“That was no mercy fuck, Blake.” She leaned in the doorway, wrapped in the robe again.

He held up his water glass. “All right. Then thanks for the fuck. I’ll be out of your hair now.”

“No, don’t go.” She stepped into his personal space. He shut his eyes.

“You don’t want me Suzanne. I get it. If you are really going to let me go, it means a lot of things, including me not working with you anymore.”

“No! Blake, we can. I mean…we’ll be…shit.” She sank into a chair.

He leaned against the counter and stared at her. “Yeah. Exactly. I love you Suzanne. I love you so god damned fucking much it is ripping my guts out to even be in the same room with you, much less kissing you, making love to you, making you come, or making you happy when I know you won’t have me. That you don’t love me back.”

She looked down at her hands. “I do love you Blake. I’ve missed you so much. I…” He stared at her, realizing this was the too little, too late moment. He would not fall into it with her again. He couldn’t. The emotional misery he’d endured for the last month had callused him, formed a hard shell around his heart that he didn’t think would ever break. So much the better, really. If it mean he wouldn’t hurt like that ever again. 

She stared at him, her eyes intense, her full lips swollen from their earlier activity. “Go.” She whispered. “You’re right. I…I don’t love you.”

 He left without another word, already composing his resignation as head brewer for Big House Brewing in his mind. He only had to get through the beer festival the following week in Chicago. He hurt from head to toe, and wondered if he would ever feel the same way about another person again.

Suzanne watched from the window, both hands on the cool glass, thinking that if she could still launch herself out the window, drop down onto him, tell him to please, please rescue her from herself again she would.  She tasted the tears as they fell, as she watched him leave her once and for all.

“Blake.” She whispered.  “I do love you. Go and be happy.”

As if he heard her, the young man stopped, looked up at the window and straight at her, raised a hand then turned and walked away. 

It would be nearly a decade for Suzanne to love again.

****

“You can’t quit.” Sara’s voice was firm. Blake shrugged and sipped his coffee. He was sleeping a little better, as if something was purged. Finally, knowing it was truly over, he felt more settled, albeit still miserable. He had a few days to go before the Taste of the Midwest event where they would be showcasing their brews for the first time in that market. Suzanne had worked her ass off to get them a good spot, and create the right display, but she wasn’t going. He, Evan, Cal and two of her sales people were. The days passed in a blur of continual avoidance. Even she didn’t pretend all was well anymore, and he spent plenty of time worrying about the darkening circles under her eyes, the way her clothes seemed to hang off her as if she had any spare body fat to begin with.

“Why not? I can find something else. I hear they’re hiring in Grand Rapids at a couple of the bigger breweries.”

“You can’t leave Ann Arbor. I need you here.”

He smiled at her. The funny part was, she was serious. He patted her hand. “You’ll be fine.”

She pouted. “I just got you back from the west coast. Great, now another reason to be mad at that woman.”

“Yeah. I suppose.” He still felt packed in cotton most days. Sounds were muffled, his vision tunneled, but each twenty-four-hour span was a hairsbreadth better than the one before. The best possible thing he could do was to get the hell out of town. “I’m gonna talk to Evan when we get back from Chicago. Hopefully he’ll give me a good reference.”

Thursday morning, while they were packing up the brewery trailer with portable bar, thousands of fliers, t-shirts, giveaways and other random crap, he sat a minute, staring out the open warehouse door, reflecting on his life. He had retrieved his stuff from her house, which echoed with ghosts even he didn’t want to acknowledge. No wonder she’d moved out. He'd stopped briefly to touch the banister on the way down the front steps. The thing that had ended her marriage, her life of fear and pain. Blake allowed himself a small moment of relief. Yes, it had been hard to be with her right after that, but he had truly thought it was what she needed. Apparently, she thought otherwise. He shook his head at himself. What a fucking sap.

The fall season was upon them. Maybe he could shut the door on the craziness that started and ended for him with the petite redheaded woman. He stretched, enjoying the slight soreness in his upper body. He’d changed up his workout, gone back to the training center where he’d gotten his black belt and was enjoying the hell out of hitting things, making them break, and combat.

“Yo, Thornton!” Cal’s voice broke his internal pep talk. “You ready to go?”

He glanced at the checklist Suzanne had given them earlier in the week. The beer was coming from their new Illinois distributor but he had to provide the draft system, including CO2, to pour. It was all ready, including all of the promotions shit. He waved and a minion shut the trailer door. Somehow the sound it made felt so final, he sighed, turned and nearly ran over Suzanne. He grabbed her to keep from knocking her over.

“Oh, sorry.” The smell that was quintessentially Suzanne filled his senses, making him wince. “Are you okay? You don’t look too hot.”

She gave him a weak smile. “Oh, just working through some stuff in therapy. Keeps me awake.” They stood and looked at each other, unspoken words curling between them.

“Sorry.” He finally spoke, and, unable to resist, put his palm to her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into him. He broke the contact and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. 

“Yeah, me too.” Her voice was hoarse. “Have fun. Behave. Represent, you know. The usual.”

“Sure you don’t wanna come?” He took a step back, needing distance in a bad way.
Would he ever get over this shit?
She shook her head. He swallowed, turned on his heels and walked away as he called for Cal and minions, truck keys jingling in this hand and nervous energy coursing through his body.  “Let’s get the hell out of here boys! New markets to conquer.”

**** 

By the time they had their display set up and ready, huge crowds of ticketed festival-goers were starting to gather at the entrance. They’d managed to get a decent location in the Michigan tent, and he and Cal spent an hour getting all eight of the draft lines flowing perfectly as the sales flunkies set up the swag and info displays.  He sat back, tasted a few of his own creations, and watched the place fill in with happy beer drinkers. The Great Taste event was ostensibly a beer and food pairing one, and they had beers ready for a couple of tasting sessions later in the day plus a full on beer pairing thing tomorrow. “You kids got this?” He called out to the group. He was jumping out of his skin, needed to move around. “I’m gonna check out a few brews.”

“We got it boss.” Cal called out. Blake smiled. That guy would make a fine head brewer when he left. Maybe a little low on imagination, but a solid worker and excellent technician. As Blake turned he saw her, a flash of red hair, a laugh he would recognize blindfolded.
What the hell?
He rushed over, shoving aside a few protesting bodies to get at her. Touched her shoulder, his heart in his throat.

She’d come.

Maybe it was a sign. Maybe they could make it work. 

“Suzanne?”

The woman turned when he touched her, confusion in the eyes that were not Suzanne’s. “Oh,” he stumbled back, alarmed at his own reaction to the concept that she’d made the trip after all. “Sorry. Thought you were someone else.” The not unattractive woman smiled at him and an inviting look he knew well passed over her face. He shook his head and let the crowd absorb him, filling the space between them.
Fucking-A Thornton. It is over. Why won’t you accept it?

All of a sudden he wanted to be anywhere else but there, on the hot asphalt, in the teeming city, at a stupid fucking beer event. Looking up at the roof of the huge tent he took a breath. Well, at least there was plenty of alcohol all around him just waiting to be consumed.

After a few hours, Blake stumbled, nearly fell onto the concrete which had suddenly buckled under his feet. He grimaced and braced himself against a metal pole holding up one of the hundreds of tents in the street.

“Hey man, you okay?” A random voice filled his ear.  He nodded, waving the stranger away, unwilling to speak, lest he puke, or cry like a little kid.

The crowd flowed around him. He held onto the cool metal for dear life, willing himself sober. It didn’t work; never had before either. He ran a hand down his face, forced himself to get a grip.
Christ almighty she was just a woman. A god damned female.
He gulped, his hands curled into fists, still feeling her skin, her silky hair, heard her voice, her laugh, her… "Fuck!” He yelled, and pushed away from the tent, launched himself into the throng.

He smiled at the guy behind the nearest booth, shoved his sample cup across the portable bar. “Whatever you’ve got that’s hoppy.” The guy started babbling but Blake had stopped listening. The same words kept pounding his nerve endings.
“It’s over Blake. Let it go. I don’t love you.”

He groaned, and sucked back the bitter brew, moving on to the next booth and the next filling, drinking, talking and hearing nothing except, “I don’t love you,” over and over and over again.  After another hour, he saw double, then triple. How he came to be sitting at a table, head in his hands, he never remembered. But later he would acknowledge that was the moment that his life changed forever.

“Hey, you all right?” Blake sat up, wincing at the wave of nausea that flowed through him and tried to focus on the tall, blond man now kneeling next to his chair.

“No. Go ‘way.” He waved the guy off, tried to stand. “Whoa.” He sat, quickly, or more likely fell back in the seat. “Shit,” he glared up into the sunlight, pain already stabbing behind his eyes. “You are really….tall.”  The man smiled, and Blake had a minute of something like…”Oh hell, I’m gonna hurl.” He lurched up and stumbled around the back of the nearest tent, and emptied his stomach, mostly liquid, onto the grass. He sat, wiping his mouth, feeling like the world’s largest loser, until the edges of his vision dimmed.

Chapter Eight

Sunlight pierced the fog in his brain as Blake tried to figure out where in the hell he was, but all he knew in that moment was agony. The mother of all headaches had his skull in a vise.  He groaned and sat up, nearly losing an epic battle to keep the contents of his stomach in place. 

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty.”

He glared up at the good-looking guy who towered over him, a glass of fizzy liquid in one hand, soccer ball in the other. “Here. Drink this. Trust me.” Blake took the glass, sipped it and tried to put it on the table. The other man stopped him. “Nope. Finish it, then lie back down for another few hours. It’s your only hope.”

Blake glared at the man, gulped it down, moaned and laid back. A blanket found its way up his body, a hand landed on his shoulder and he leaned into it reflexively as the room faded again.

The unmistakable sound of a British voice calling a soccer game woke Blake again. He blinked up at the ceiling, took inventory of his head, his stomach, found that he might live after all and sat up.  The strange man, his savior, or perhapss serial killer who preyed on drunk men at beer festivals, tossed a soccer ball from hand to hand, intent on the large television in front of him. Blake got to his feet, shaky but needing to find a bathroom.

“End of the hall,” the man pointed to the left. “Take your time. Towels are in the cabinet.”  Blake had about a millisecond of worry, and then shrugged. If the guy wanted to kill him he had already passed on too many opportunities.  He took a longer look, fully appreciating the man’s long legs, bare up to a pair of soccer shorts, and his equally bare torso, lean and cut. He shook his head at himself.
Cut the shit Thornton. Get a shower. Get out. Go home. Face reality.

He emerged, toweling his hair, back in his filthy jeans, and embarrassed beyond belief. “I’m sorry. Uh, I don’t even know your…”

“Rob,” the guy stood at the far end of the hall. Blake did another double take.  Jesus Christ but the man was a perfect specimen.  Bright yellow hair cut short, small hoop earring in one ear, a dark green tattoo of a hop flower gracing his left bicep. Blake gulped, suddenly very uncomfortable. The man’s deep brown eyes sparkled as he spoke. “But I told you that last night.”

Blake nodded to the ink.  “You’re a brewer?” Taking a step closer to the man, he reached out, compelled by something he couldn’t identify but would later thank everything he held holy. The man’s nearly hairless skin pebbled under Blake’s touch as he ran fingertips over the outlines of the intricate art on the man’s—Rob’s—flesh. He sighed, closed the distance between them and let his hand wander up, grip the impossibly handsome rescuer’s neck. “You are really tall,” he whispered, before leaning in and capturing full lips with a kiss. Keeping it light, non-committal, he explored, and Rob let him.