by JA Huss
I follow him out, find him in the kitchen jingling his keys in his hand. “Ready?”
I nod yes as he opens his apartment door and waves me through. Always the gentleman, this guy.
We’re down in his underground garage heading towards his car when I realize I’m still wearing his jacket. “Oh, shit,” I say, stopping. “I’ve got your jacket on.”
“Keep it,” he says, clicking the alarm on his key fob. The lights of a black BMW blink twice as the alarm chips off and he opens the passenger door for me.
He definitely has nice manners. If I ever meet his mother I will be sure to compliment her on his upbringing.
I slide in and he closes the door gently as I find and secure my seatbelt. But my eyes never stop tracking him as he walks in front of the car to get in on his side.
How did this man get so hot in the span of ten minutes?
Is that all it takes for me? A stupid t-shirt and some sunglasses?
No, Oaklee. You saw his body, dumbass. You’re shallow as fuck.
“Now you really do have to tell me where we’re going.” He chuckles. “Otherwise we’ll never get there.”
“Golden,” I say. “There’s a bar up there having a beer-tasting party.”
“Oh, cool. So you’ve got a few beers in there?”
“Nope,” I say. “Not exactly.”
CHAPTER SIX - LAWTON
As we get on the 6th Avenue Freeway towards Golden Oaklee is quiet. It was kinda fun back at my place. I saw her looking at me when I took my shirt off. I mean, I did that on purpose. I’ve been working out five days a week since I was seventeen so I’ve got a nice body. And I’m not being conceited either, it’s just fucking nice.
People don’t notice it much though. Probably because I wear suits. Like they know I’m big—a little over six-two and my shoulders are so wide every dress shirt in my closet was custom-made. T-shirt sleeves stretch around my biceps and the chest is always too tight. Which makes it look like I’m showing off, and I’m not. That’s just how things fit me.
This shirt is especially tight. I mean, I’ve had it since I was a teenager and the only reason I didn’t rip the fucker getting it over my head is because it was huge on me back then.
So people can’t help but notice I’m big. But I just carry it well, I guess.
Yeah. She looked. Good and hard.
Which makes me smile. Then glance over at her to see if she’s noticing my smile—but she isn’t.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“You’re quiet all of a sudden. You’re probably thinking ‘He’s out of my league,’ right?”
“What?” This makes her laugh.
“Well, I’m kind of a catch.”
“And I’m not?” She actually snorts.
“No, I didn’t say that. You’re a total catch. But I get it. I’m probably not the kind of guy you date, right?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, you’re dressing me up like a… like a biker or something. Is that who you normally date? Is there some angry biker waiting for me at this bar in Golden?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I mean, yeah, I like the bad ones, I’ll admit that. But that’s not why we’re going.”
“So why are you doing this? You don’t need to buy a boyfriend. You’ve got thousands of people coming through your brewery every week and chances are most of them are dudes who’d be more than a little bit excited about dating Oaklee Ryan. So what’s really up with this game?”
She sighs but doesn’t look at me. Just stares out the window as we make our way west up into the foothills.
I take the hint to change the subject. I’m a patient guy that way. I’m gonna find out what this is really about soon enough. So I say, “I looked at a place up in the Golden foothills. Was pretty nice too. Too nice, maybe.”
This gets her attention. “How too nice?”
“You know. Fancy shit. The house I picked, the one I’m gonna make an offer on if I get this TV deal, is more… homey, I guess. It’s not a log cabin but it’s got raw edge beams, and the trim is that cool knotty pine. Not too knotty though,” I explain. “Because there’s a difference in quality.”
She huffs a laugh through her nose and turns her body a little so she’s facing me.
“This Golden house had a pool, and tennis courts with lights and shit. And it was in a gated community of sixty-acre ranches. The one I chose is only ten acres of land but it’s all surrounded by forest. You can’t see anyone. And this one is a little smaller. I just like the finishes better.”
“It’s funny,” she says.
“What is?”
“Hearing a guy talk about home finishes.”
“Real estate.” I shrug. “It’s my life.”
“Does that… disappoint you?”
“I dunno. It’s all cool, I guess. I mean, it certainly pays the bills. But I’m gonna be thirty this year and I’m starting to think about doing other things.”
“Mid-life crisis at thirty, huh?”
“There’s a part of me that thinks… I was never this guy, ya know? This ten-thousand-dollar suit guy. This thirty-thousand-dollar watch guy.”
She looks at my watch, which she didn’t balk at like she did my clothes, and gasps. “Are you serious about the watch?”
I shrug. “Every successful man needs to tell time, right? Why not do it in style?”
“So you are this guy then. The suit guy.”
“Can’t I have a nice watch and live up in the mountains?”
“You can do whatever you want, I guess.”
“How about you? You always see yourself as Oaklee Ryan, brewmaster?”
“I grew up in that building,” she says. “I knew how to brew beer long before I got my degree. Long before I was old enough to drink, that’s for sure. And I like certain parts of it. I like finding new yeast and discovering new flavors. I like thinking up new names and designing labels. That’s all pretty fun.”
“I looked you up online. You guys have won lots of awards.”
She huffs again, only this time it’s different. Cynicism, I think.
“But not since your father died,” I add. Because it was left unsaid and we’re both thinking it.
“That’s… not my fault.”
“What do ya mean?”
But she just draws in a long breath of air, lets it out slowly, and stays quiet.
“How come you don’t have a beer at this tasting? At this bar we’re going to?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Is this part of the game?”
“Why do you ask so many questions? I’ll let you know when you need to know, OK?”
“Fine with me,” I say. “We can talk about the meeting next week then. How about that?”
“Cool. Tell me everything.”
“So…” I begin. “You know how Home TV is built around personalities?”
“I guess,” she says. “I’m not really one of those girls who lives for renovation shows.”
“It’s not a renovation show. It’s a real-estate show, but only for the über-rich looking for mountain homes in Colorado. Like a second home in Vail or Aspen, get me?”
“I get you,” she says, the tension easing out of her body as she relaxes against the door, facing me again.
“So I’ve been negotiating this deal for like a year now and we’re finally in the final pitching stage. I haven’t met anyone yet so they’re flying to Colorado for the tour, right? I take them around, show them my idea, give them a taste of what I’m selling, convince them I’m a guy people want to see on TV and all that good shit. But Jordan—our sex-game mutual friend—mentioned that they like partnerships and I don’t have that. My business partner is antisocial. He’s refusing to do this with me even though he’d be perfect. So Jordan mentioned you as a prospect. We could be partners. And to be honest, you’re kinda perfect, Oaklee. Just the way you are. Like… this game with you is like luck
smacking me in the face. You’ve got everything these people are looking for. You’re pretty,” I say, holding up a finger. “Smart.” Holding up another. “And successful.” Ticking off number three. “But not just successful. Lots of people are successful, ya know. You’re like creatively successful.”
“So I complete you.” She laughs. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yeah.” I laugh back. “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying. You complete me. Just the way you are. Like… I can’t think of a single thing I’d change about you going into that meeting. Just be you, man. We got this. We totally got this.”
“Do I have to be on TV with you?” She wrinkles her nose at this.
“Probably. I mean, this is a real business deal, Oaks.” I don’t know where that nickname just came from, but I like it. It takes her by surprise too, because I think she’s blushing. “You have so much… color to you. They’re gonna want you. Like they’re gonna see you and think, OK, she’s nice to look at. But then they’re gonna learn about you and think, We need this girl now. Because you’re just… interesting.”
“Well.” She chuckles. “I’ve been called a lot of things and interesting has never been in the top ten.”
“What’s in the top ten then?”
“Um… well, number one is crazy. Rude comes in a close second. Flamboyant, loud, pompous, dramatic, vulgar, arrogant, tacky, and ruthless rounds out the list.”
I smile. “I haven’t seen any of that yet. Maybe a little”—I make that gesture with the tips of my thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart—“flamboyant.”
“That’s because I need you. And you don’t know me yet.”
“Nah,” I say.
“Just wait.”
“Is that a warning?”
She nods. But her body has shifted again, her back slightly towards me, her face pointed at the window like the drive into downtown Golden is the most interesting thing ever.
“There,” she says, pointing to a bar on Washington Avenue. “That’s where we’re going. The Opera House Tavern.”
“Looks like it’s closed,” I say, passing it by to find parking.
“It’s a private party for local brewmasters. Everyone who is anyone in Colorado brewing comes to this stupid party. I thought I’d have to cancel this year since Jordan was so slow at finding me what I needed. But then you showed up.”
“Like Prince fucking Charming,” I mutter under my breath.
I find parking a couple streets over and we get out. Golden is nice. Still small enough to feel like a neighborhood, but bustling with students from the School of Mines and those weird river people who think kayaking on Clear Creek is fun. It has an underground feeling of cool, like Boulder does, but without the drug culture.
Plus, the entire town smells like hops right now because the Coors Brewery is just a few blocks over. So hey, if you’re gonna throw a party for Colorado brewmasters, this would be the place, right?
We walk down the street back towards Washington in silence. I’m consumed with thoughts of my shoes. The Chucks feel good. Maybe even great. But they feel odd. Make me feel odd. It’s been a long time since I wore them. I should’ve thrown them away a decade ago but like the leather jacket Oaklee’s wearing right now—I couldn’t. They feel like a connection to my past. They feel like that’s all I have left of my youth. Of the guy I used to be. The me who disappeared years ago and never came back.
Which is dumb. I’m still in my youth. I’m only thirty. Not even thirty. Not till summer. But Oaklee kinda hit home when she asked me if I was having a mid-life crisis.
It feels like a mid-life crisis.
“OK,” Oaklee says, bringing me back to the present. “When we get in there, you’re my boyfriend.”
I try not to laugh, but I can’t help it. “Yeah. I mean that’s why you hired me.”
“I didn’t hire you,” she says. “I bought you.”
I don’t even bother to be annoyed at that. She’s in a mood and it’s got nothing to do with me. It’s this party or whatever it is. These people, probably. “So what do you want me to do? Public displays of affection and stuff like that? Brag about our fantasy sex life? Be an asshole and tell them all how much money I made last year?”
She stops walking and turns to me. “Be jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Me!” She laughs. “What else?”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“Just… you know. Be a jealous asshole. Like glare at all the men and smack me on the ass if I’m talking to one of them.” She bites her lip and looks up at the sky. Like she’s thinking hard.
“Oh. My. God. I was right. You’re here to make a guy jealous.”
“No,” she says. “No, that’s not it. Just… I don’t have time to tell the whole story and you wouldn’t believe me anyway, so just go in there and act like an asshole. Oh!” she suddenly says. Like that idea she was looking skyward for suddenly popped into her head. “I know what you can do. Mansplain everything.”
“Mansplain?”
“Yeah, you know. When men make women feel stupid by trying to explain something. Like… OK, you’re in real estate. The way you assumed I didn’t understand property values. That’s mansplaining.”
I point at her. “I didn’t do that. And I know what mansplaining is. Just… what am I supposed to mansplain about?”
She looks me up and down. Smiles. And says, “How about fitness? Jordan was right. You are very fit.” She lifts her eyebrows up as she says the word.
“Are there gonna be a lot of women in there?” I ask. “Like who am I directing this behavior towards? These guys bringing their girlfriends?”
She huffs. It’s sorta cute the way I exasperate her. “Love that you just assume everyone in there is a dude.” She rolls her eyes. “And no. Do not insult their girlfriends.”
I laugh. “So they are all men?”
“Obviously I’m not a man.”
“Obviously you’re not my target.”
“There’s only one other woman brewmaster in Colorado.” She makes a face. “Hanna Harlow. Do that to her. And,” she says, like this is another great idea she just thought of, “smack her on the ass too.”
“What? No. I’m not smacking anyone on the ass, Oaklee.”
“Just do it!” she says. “I paid a lot of money for this opportunity, Law. You need to do what I say.”
I have a childish urge to tell her she’s not the boss of me. But she kinda is. And she did pay a lot of money to have me hang with her for two weeks. So I say, “If the opportunity to smack her ass comes up, I’ll do it. But I’m not going in there with that as my goal. Give me something else here. I have no idea what we’re doing.”
“Just flirt with her, OK?”
“Her? I thought I was your boyfriend.”
“You are. Just trust me.”
And with that she turns and walks towards the door, waiting for me to open it for her.
I follow her, my hand on the door handle to pull it open. But then I stop and clarify because this makes no sense. “So I‘m supposed to act like your jealous boyfriend, mansplain biceps curls to this Hanna chick, and then be a douche and hit on her?”
“Exactly.”
But there’s no more time for talking because she places her hand over mine and pulls the door open.
Inside it’s dark and loud. Not with music, though there is some music playing on an old jukebox as we pass through the small lobby, but with gregarious conversation. Lots of men holding mugs, excitedly chatting with one another. All of them sporting beards. Most of them wearing tight jeans. A few showing off tattoos. All of them hipsters.
Hipsters, for fuck’s sake. I should’ve known this. Probably did know this unconsciously. But it never occurred to me how much I’d stand out in this crowd.
I am not a hipster. This Johnny Cash t-shirt and these old-school black Chucks can’t hide that fact.
As soon as people notice us there’s a chorus of “Oaklee!” being
shouted out from all corners of the room. She’s very popular, I guess. Of course, if the entire craft beer movement in Colorado has just two female brewmasters, that’s not surprising.
She starts introducing me to them. There’s a Rosco, a Duke, a Cormac, an Ace, a Beckett, a Bear, and a Jack.
I feel like any minute now we’re all gonna break out into song. Start singing Sugar Boats by Modest Mouse and then talk about Whole Foods and our cool vinyl collections as we complain about people who drive cars.
Until I realize Law is kinda hipster too.
Fuck.
Their girlfriends are called Beatrix, Magnolia, Tallulah, May, Piper, Frankie, and Juniper.
Oaklee fits right in there as well.
Jesus. We’re a hipster couple. I suddenly feel the need to grow a beard and buy some pot.
When I notice the guy named Rosco is wearing some old-school Chucks I feel a little better. But just a little. Because everyone else is wearing chukkas or boat shoes, or old-school Adidas, and I’m left wishing for my Burberry house-check sneakers. Because even though Rosco and I are wearing the same thing on our feet—that’s where the similarities stop. Because he’s wearing Bermuda shorts with a button-down Hawaiian shirt.
These are not my people.
And it’s very obvious because every guy in here is side-eyeing me with suspicion.
The girls though… they’re all over me. And Oaklee. They crowd around her. In fact everyone crowds around her. She is definitely well regarded in this group because from the moment we walked in she commands the entire room with her presence alone.
Everyone has something to say to her. All of them have questions like, “Where have you been?” And, “Why didn’t you come to our barista jam last weekend?” And then, of course, “Who is this?”
Which refers to me.
But that’s when the door opens again—light forcing its way into the dark room, highlighting streams of dust in the sunbeam.
And now the chorus yells, “Hanna!”
And the whole thing starts all over again.
Oaklee seems to fade to the back of the room. Almost unconsciously. Like she’s a wolf and this Hanna chick is a baby goat she wants to kill and eat for dinner.
