Porter

by Georgia Cates

“Spent most of Saturday working on my 356B.” And then got laid on Saturday night for the first time in months. Can’t complain.

  “I don’t know what a three-fifty whatever you said is.”

  “It’s a 1963 Porsche.”

  “Ooh. Do you have a picture?”

  “Of course.”

  I take out my phone and open the album. “This is the before picture. Piece of shit, right?”

  “Uh, it could use some love.”

  I scroll to the photo I took yesterday after a good wash and wax. “This is what she looks like today.”

  “That’s a good-looking car. How long did it take to get it to that condition?”

  “‘Bout two years.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks. I’ve worked hard on restoring it. I’m a proud papa.”

  “You should be.”

  She takes a drink of coffee and looks around the room. “This is where I’ll be working?”

  “Yeah. Sorry it’s not more visually appealing.”

  “Lovibond is a brewery. I wouldn’t expect an office that looked like it belonged in a high-rise in New York.” Her hand gestures to the two desks. “Which one should I take?”

  “The right one. Computer is faster.”

  I roll across the floor until I’m beside Frankee and wiggle the mouse of the computer. Nothing. I reach around and press the on-off button. “This one has probably been shut down since the last time I used it.”

  “Do the two art department computers share a file server?”

  “Yes, as well as the computer in my office.”

  When the computer fires up, I open Finder and hover back and forth over the folders with the cursor. “Lovibond’s designs are here, and Bohemian Cider Company is here.”

  “You do the cider company’s designs too?”

  I guess I forgot to tell her that. “Yeah. BCC is Lovibond’s sister company.”

  “I knew Lucas was married to Oliver’s sister and they bought a cider company, but I didn’t know that you handled their graphics and marketing as well.”

  “Lawrence wouldn’t have it any other way.” No way she was going to let anyone else be in charge of those things for her company.

  “You do the graphics and marketing for two companies and still manage to help Oliver with brewing and creating new recipes?”

  “I do.” And it’s fucking killing me.

  “How can you possibly handle all of that?”

  “I ask myself the same thing every day.”

  “It’s no wonder you need help.”

  Frankee doesn’t know the half of it. Some days, I feel like I’m trapped and drowning in one of the brewery’s damn fermentation tanks with only a few inches to keep my head above the surface. “I’m grateful to have your help.”

  “This arrangement doesn’t work out any better for you than it does me. I’m grateful too, Beck.” She tilts her head and grins. “Do you remember me calling you Beck?”

  Frankee was sixteen the first time she called me Beck. It happened by accident. She got my name wrong but I couldn’t bring myself to correct her. After a while, it just felt right for her to call me by that name.

  Frankee Dawson! Mr. Beckman is my boss. And you’re a kid. It’s disrespectful for you to call him Beck. Apologize. Now.

  I’m sorry, Mr. Beckman. I’ll never call you Beck again.

  She was humiliated when her father scolded her in front of me. I didn’t want her to be embarrassed. And that’s why I told her later that day that I would like it very much if she continued to call me Beck. Our little secret.

  “You can still call me Beck if you want. But I’m not sure you should let your father know you call me that. He might scold you again.”

  “I think I’ll stick with Porter if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.”

  I should have her call me Mr. Beckman all the time. It would be a good reminder of how young she is. And that she is deeply off-limits. Mr. Beckman could serve as a prompt to help me remember to keep my fucking eyes in my head and not on her twenty-one-year-old tits and ass. It’s impossible not to look when she’s wearing clothes that hug her body in all the right places.

  Dress code around the office?

  Fuck. I should have told her to wear a turtleneck and mom jeans when she asked. Maybe then I could resist looking.

  Beckman, get this train back on the tracks.

  I open the Photoshop file of my latest design. “I started working on this label for the winter seasonal a month ago, and I’m no closer to a final than I was when I started.”

  “Hitting a wall, huh?”

  Yeah. One that won’t budge. “Nothing has felt right. I put it away with the intention of coming back to it later, but I got busy.”

  “Sometimes you have to put it down and walk away, or you’ll dig yourself into a hole you’ll never climb out of.”

  “That’s a good way of putting it.”

  “What’s the winter seasonal flavor?”

  “Smoked vanilla porter.”

  Frankee’s head tilts to the side. “Smoked vanilla porter. Sounds like a dessert special at a restaurant.”

  Stout and I have worked on that fucker for months. “It’s the finest porter I’ve ever tasted. I think it’s going to be a huge hit with our customers.”

  “Sounds delicious. I’m not even a beer drinker and I want to try it.” She’s not a beer drinker? I bet she likes those bright-colored girly cocktails.

  “It’s a great beer and it deserves a great label. So far, I’m not doing it justice.” And I hate that. This is one of our best beers ever. I feel like shit because I can’t come up with anything.

  “It’s seasonal. Are you okay with having some fun with the graphics?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you have a pencil and paper I can use to sketch out what’s in my head?”

  This isn’t much of an art department. Zero supplies. “Let’s go to my office. I have everything you’ll need in there.”

  I set up my drafting table with a sketch pad, graphites, coals, and pastels. “Need anything else?”

  She grins. “I think this will work for now.”

  Frankee sharpens a graphite pencil and then begins sketching the outline of a label. I don’t want to make her nervous by standing over her so I move to sit behind my desk. “Do you like to listen to music while you work?”

  “I do.”

  “Me too. What kind of music inspires you?”

  “I know it sounds weird, but I really like eighties and nineties rock.”

  I need something more specific than that. “Name some.”

  “Toto. Foreigner. Def Leppard. Journey. Heart. Boston. Kiss. REO Speedwagon. Poison.”

  Okay. I see where she’s going with that. “Bon Jovi. Mötley Crüe. Pearl Jam. Survivor. Warrant. 38 Special.”

  “Yes to every one of those and so many more.”

  I wouldn’t have pegged her for liking that kind of music. “You seem awful young to listen to those genres.”

  “That’s the kind of music my parents liked, so it’s what I grew up listening to.”

  I’m not sure Scott has turned forty yet. “They were young when you are born?”

  “Daddy was eighteen and Mama was seventeen.”

  Fuck. Her dad is only nine years older than me. My parents could be the same age as her grandparents.

  She looks up and grins. “I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. I was a slipup.”

  “What’s that like? Growing up with parents who had you when they were still kids?”

  “Hard. Not because they weren’t great parents. They were the best. But Daddy didn’t get to finish school. He had to quit and get a job when they found out I was on the way. No high school diploma means he had to settle for low-paying jobs. Our family struggled for a lot of years. I was sixteen before things started to turn around for us… after Daddy came to work at Lovibond.”

  I had no idea Scott was experiencing such hards
hip when he came to work for us. He hid it well. “I’m glad things turned around for your family.”

  “Me too. I don’t know where we’d be today if you hadn’t given him a chance.”

  We’ve gone through a lot of employees in the five years we’ve been open. Very few have been as loyal and dedicated to their job as Scott Dawson. “I don’t know where we’d be without him. There isn’t a better warehouse manager out there.”

  “That’s a nice thing to say.”

  “Nothing but the truth.”

  I turn on my phone’s Pandora app and connect it to the speaker via Bluetooth. “Is Bon Jovi station okay with you? It should play all kinds of random late-eighties and nineties hair bands.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  The first song to come on is ‘Bed of Roses’ by Bon Jovi. “Wow. Haven’t heard this one in a long time.”

  “This song is on one of my favorite playlists. I probably listened to it yesterday or the day before.”

  “Want me to skip to the next one?”

  “No. I love this song. I could listen to it every day.”

  Frankee sketches and erases. Sketches and erases. Sketches and erases. “Not my best work but I think you can see where I’m going with this. Come have a look.”

  I go to her and lean forward, one palm on the drafting table, looking over her shoulder. Fuck, she smells good.

  “I’m thinking a snowy winter scene as a background to wrap around the bottle. A chalet with a smoking chimney. Hipster man with beard, maybe some random snowflakes that have fallen on top of it. Hat. Snowboard tucked under his arm. Color scheme of cream, rich browns, light blues, deep reds. I think smoked vanilla porter should be a really clean sans serif font with a light drop shadow. All caps. That’s how I envision this label.”

  She twists on the stool and because of the way I’m standing, our faces are only inches apart. Her eyes ping-pong from my eyes to my lips and back up to my eyes. “Thoughts? Suggestions? Concerns?”

  “It’s very Lovibond… but with a heavier hipster vibe.”

  “Is it too hipster for Lovibond? Too fun? I wouldn’t want it to feel like the branding is off from the other labels.”

  “It’s different branding, but I think it’s the perfect blend for a seasonal. It’s great.”

  She smiles and bites her bottom lip before releasing it. Fuck, it’s sexy. “I’m glad you approve.”

  The design.

  The lip biting.

  The way her eyes bounce back and forth from my eyes and mouth.

  I approve of it all. One hundred percent.

  “Hey beautiful. Can you break and join your old man for lunch?”

  I look up and see my dad standing in the art department doorway. “I can do anything for my old man.”

  My old man.

  The graying hair around his temples. The deepening lines around his eyes and mouth. My dad is no old man but he has aged far beyond his thirty-nine years. Life mistreated him for a long time. Years spent in various types of jobs requiring extreme physical labor robbed him of his youthfulness a long time ago.

  I’m, like, thirty eraser swipes away from finishing this layer of my new design. I hate to stop in the middle and lose my place. “Can you give me five minutes to finish what I’m doing?”

  “Sure. I’ll meet you in the break room.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  I decrease the opacity of my eraser to soften the look and give me a better transition between the two images I plan to merge. “Damn, girl. You are good at what you do.” I do that a lot. Talk to myself when I’m working.

  “I love it when a girl is good at what she does.”

  I jolt at Porter’s unexpected voice in the doorway and over-erase the layer I’m working on. I can’t decide if I’m more shocked by his surprise appearance or the underlying sexual tone beneath his comment. “All right, sneaky. You just caused me to goof.”

  “Sorry.”

  I undo my last action. “No problem. Easy fix. What’s going on?”

  “I’m leaving for lunch. Would you want to join me?”

  I’d love to join him, but I’ve already told my dad we’d eat together today. And I’m not sure what he’d say about my having lunch with his boss. Our boss.

  Is it okay to turn your boss down for lunch? “I would love to, but my dad is waiting for me in the break room. It’s a daddy-daughter lunch date over pimento and cheese.”

  “I’m sure Scott enjoys having a lunch buddy.”

  This is my fifth day at Lovibond, and Daddy and I have had lunch together every one of those days. “I’ve been gone from home for the better part of the last three years. It’s nice to get to spend that time with him. Especially since I’m leaving again in three months.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to be guilty of stealing a princess away from her father. We can do lunch another time.”

  “I would like that.”

  Daddy has already taken our lunches out of the fridge and spread both on the table. That’s him. Always taking care of his little girl. “Pimento and cheese again?”

  “You know it.”

  My mom makes the best—the kind with cream cheese in it. None of that premade store-bought crap for us. “I asked for extra jalapeño in this batch so you have me to blame if it sets your mouth on fire.”

  “I don’t mind a little heat.”

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Dad holds up his half-eaten sandwich. “Don’t worry. I didn’t wait.”

  “It wasn’t my fault. My boss came by right after you left.”

  “Which one?”

  “Mr. Beckman.” As far as I’m concerned, Porter is my only boss; I haven’t seen Lucas Broussard or his wife, Lawrence. And despite Oliver’s office being only a few doors down from the art department, I’ve only run into him a few times.

  I’m curious to see what Dad will make of Porter’s lunch invitation. “He asked me to go to lunch with him.”

  Dad stops chewing and his head tilts to the side. “What did you tell him?”

  “That I had lunch plans with my old man.”

  “Good.”

  I figured he wouldn’t like it. “Good because I didn’t stand you up, or good because you don’t want me having lunch with Mr. Beckman?”

  “Porter is your boss, and you are his summer intern. There’s a line you don’t cross, and it’s best if you don’t do anything that could blur it.”

  “I don’t think eating burgers together qualifies as an act that will blur the boss-intern line.”

  “It has nothing to do with eating burgers, Frankee.”

  I think my dad sometimes forgets that I’m twenty-one. “I know what you’re talking about, but I don’t see the harm in sharing a meal together while we talk shop.”

  “You talk shop with Porter, huh?”

  “Yeah. We discuss fonts and Photoshop techniques and plug-ins and I know that when he nods his head and says ‘yeah’ that he isn’t just nodding and saying ‘yeah’ for the heck of it. He understands what I’m talking about. We bounce ideas off each other. We speak the same language.” It’s nice to talk to someone who gets me.

  “Well, as long as that’s all you let him bounce off you.”

  “Daddy.” I cannot believe he just said that to me.

  “You’re a beautiful girl. I assure you that hasn’t gone unnoticed by him or any other man at this brewery.”

  I should have known that I couldn’t work with my dad without him being on guard. “He hasn’t done anything out of line.”

  Well, maybe that’s not the complete truth. Let’s see… I caught him looking at my butt the day he interviewed me… and there’s been at least three occasions this week when I’ve seen him looking at my boobs… and then there was yesterday. I’m pretty sure he sniffed me when he leaned over to inspect my work.

  Scott Dawson would not approve.

  “I wouldn’t expect Porter to be anything but professional with you. That’s the kind of man he is
. But outside of work… I think that could be another story.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “More than one woman has showed up at the warehouse’s backdoor asking for Porter. Oliver too.”

  Porter is hot. I’d be surprised if a woman got a little bit of that and didn’t come around looking for more. “How old is Porter?”

  “Too old for you.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not why I’m asking.”

  “Then why are you asking?”

  “He’s part owner of a hugely successful company. I think it’s safe to say that his talent played a large part in that success. I know I have a lot to learn, but I’m trying to gauge the level my talent should be at this stage of the game.”

  “Porter wasn’t much older than you when he interned at a printing company owned by Lucas Broussard. Lucas wanted out of the printing business and Porter and Oliver were looking for an investor. That’s how Lovibond was born.”

  I think there’s way more to Porter Beckman than I suspected. “I’d love to hear that story from the beginning.”

  “Ask him sometime when he’s not busy. I’m sure he’d love to tell you all about it.” Dad looks at the clock. “I need to get back.”

  “It hasn’t even been twenty minutes.”

  “I know, but I don’t like this new guy in the warehouse. My counts have been off lately, and I suspect he could be the reason.”

  That’s always a problem my dad has to deal with. “You think he’s stealing from Lovibond?”

  “Not sure, but I want to avoid a routine. I don’t want him to feel like he’s able to predict how long I’ll be gone when I step away from the warehouse.”

  “Are you going to tell the bosses?”

  “Already have. They’re helping me monitor.”

  “You’re close to them, aren’t you?”

  “I guess I am.”

  It makes me feel good that they think so highly of my dad. All the more reason that I need to prove how good I am. All the more reason to show him it wasn’t a mistake to hire the warehouse manager’s daughter.

  This week’s assignment is to update Lovibond’s website since Porter has been too busy perfecting the fall seasonal recipe with Oliver. Sweet potato cream stout. Sounds even more like a dessert than the smoked vanilla porter.