The Boyfriend Experience

by JA Huss

  Eventually.

  Some day.

  Maybe.

  It could happen.

  We have a connection, I think we both feel that. And we had so much great sex last weekend, it was like an avalanche of orgasms.

  So we definitely know we’re compatible.

  I stop pacing and look out my window at his terrace.

  God, I’m fucking insane. I should’ve never let him take this job. And I should’ve never agreed to be his partner. Because now we’re all mixed up in business. I’m practically having a workplace affair.

  My office phone buzzes on my desk, so I walk over and pick it up.

  “Oaklee,” I say. It’s someone from down in the brewery since this is a dedicated line.

  “Um… Oaklee? This is Dana? From the bar?”

  “Yes, Dana?” She’s been with me for three years as the daytime bar manager and she still says this every single time she calls my work phone.

  She sighs. “OK, everyone told me not to say anything to you, so don’t tell anyone it was me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” And she sounds like a Valley Girl so every sentence sounds like a goddamned question.

  “The news, Oaklee. I know you’re upset about that Buffalo Brews woman. Haley or something?”

  “Hanna,” I growl.

  “Yeah, her. Well, she’s on the news right now telling people she’s got the number one craft beer in Colorado.”

  “What?” I say, getting hot with anger. “Everyone knows that’s not true. Bronco Brews is still number one.”

  “I know, but there’s an article out on the Westword website today. About next weekend’s festival and all. And they have already declared her the winner because she has some secret beer, and she gave them a sample to try.”

  “She has a secret beer?” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit. OK, well, thanks for telling me, Dana. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone it was you.”

  “Thank you!” she chimes, then hangs up the phone.

  I reach for the remote on my desk, turn the TV on, then start flipping through the local channels looking for Hanna Harlot’s face.

  “I can’t tell you what it’s called,” Hanna says to the camera on Channel Five. “Not until next weekend. But Westword has already—”

  I turn it off. I’m too pissed to watch.

  Online I find the Westword site and yup. Sure enough, there’s Hanna’s stupid face. If they’re already talking about her on Monday’s Featured Brew column, and the new print issue doesn’t come out until Thursday, they are probably going to give her the fucking cover this week.

  That stupid bitch!

  I just stare at the article. Read some of it, but her bragging is so over the top, I just can’t stand it. How she came from nothing. How she bootstrapped herself up the ladder in a man’s world. How no one helped her and she did it all herself.

  I want to barf. I want to scream—“She cheated off me!”

  I want to strangle her.

  And tonight, Oaklee, she’s having dinner with your boyfriend. Because you told him to do that.

  I’m dumb. Very, very stupid. Because clearly Hanna is playing a game I have no knowledge of. I don’t know the rules, or the plays, or the pitfalls—or anything. I’m clueless.

  And—I reluctantly admit—I’m losing.

  She’s talking about her secret beer, I’m not. Score one for Hanna.

  She’s on TV, I’m not. One more point for my nemesis.

  She’s the Featured Brew in today’s Westword Online. They’re calling her beer the best in Colorado and the contest isn’t for another six days!

  And… she’s having dinner with my boyfriend right now.

  I can’t. I can’t let her do this. She has broken my life up into little pieces and now it’s time I put all those pieces back together again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - LAWTON

  Boulder is tucked up against the foothills of the Rocky Mountains about thirty miles northwest of Denver. But once you get there it’s immediately clear that Boulder and Denver, while connected via sprawling suburbia, have almost nothing in common.

  Denver has a view of mountains but it’s not in the mountains. Boulder is where the mountains begin, and the large rock formation to the west of the city, called the Flatirons, is the iconic symbol of Boulder.

  It has a small-town feel, it’s a college town—the University of Colorado campus takes up a significant portion of the valley—and it’s best known for its 420 activities, the unofficial-official day where everyone gets together and smokes pot on campus. But the football team—the Buffalos, of Buffs, as they are called around these parts—aren’t bad either, and the science departments are top-notch.

  Pearl Street, where I’m headed to meet up with Hanna, has its own culture. Just as Denver has the 16th Street Pedestrian Mall, Boulder has the Pearl Street Pedestrian Mall.

  If you’re going to be a craft brewer in Boulder, opening a brewery on Pearl Street isn’t a bad idea. Hipsters and families alike flock to the four square blocks of downtown trendiness every day.

  After fighting the evening traffic on the Boulder Freeway, I finally make my way into downtown, pay for parking, and walk the two blocks into the shops.

  And while Oaklee kinda prepared me for who and what Hanna Harlow is—I am not prepared for what I see when I walk up to the entrance of her brewery.

  It’s three stories tall, red brick, historical and… there’s a giant buffalo head painted on the front.

  The balls on this woman are almost unbelievable. Not quite, because I’m seeing it with my own eyes, but she’s got stones most men would kill for.

  I sigh, wanting very much to just turn around, go back to Oaklee’s place, and fuck her all night.

  But I go inside anyway. Because it’s my job.

  It’s a lot smaller than Bronco Brews. Just a very tiny reception area where people are crowded against the walls as they wait for a table or a seat at the bar to open up. And just one hostess, who looks a little overwhelmed staring down at the seating chart on the small podium.

  “Excuse me,” I say, leaning over to make sure she can hear me over all the noise. “I’m here to see Hanna Harlow. I’m Lawton Ayers.”

  The girl, who can’t be a day over nineteen, looks up at me with a frazzled expression as she tried to make sense of my words. Then it must all click together, because she smiles and yells, “She’s waiting for you upstairs. Just go on up.” I look around for the stairs, then the girl points. “Over there!”

  I thank her, but she’s already looking down at her seating chart again. So I push past servers, and customers, and people waiting for a table, and pull the door to the stairs open, sighing with relief as the noise level falls when the door closes behind me.

  Of course she’s upstairs. Because that’s where Oaklee would be.

  This whole thing is creepy. Like, what is wrong with this woman? Why is she so obsessed with Oaklee? And why can’t anyone else see it but us?

  When I get to the top of the third floor, the door is locked. But there’s a buzzer next to it, and when I push it, one of those industrial bells rings for several seconds on the other side.

  The door opens before the bell even stops—and there she is.

  Hanna Harlow looks so much like Oaklee in this moment, I take a step back. Her hair, her makeup, her clothes… all of it. Oaklee.

  A chill runs up my spine.

  “You came,” she says in a soft voice.

  “You invited me,” I say back.

  We stare at each other for a long moment, her eyes meeting mine. Then she steps aside and says, “Come in. Please.”

  I take a deep breath, tug on my suit coat, and enter.

  Her apartment isn’t on the top floor of a downtown Denver building and it’s got no views of the mountains, but everything else… God. It’s all the same.

  How is that possible?

  Same floor-to-ceiling windows. Same open-loft la
yout with the kitchen in the center. Same stairs, same catwalk surrounding the perimeter, and there’s even framed beer labels on the walls like Oaklee has.

  I let out an incredulous laugh.

  “Yes,” Hanna says. “It’s eerie, right?”

  I just turn to look at her. Wondering how she can stand there, letting me see her for what she is, and still remain calm. Like this is all normal. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Hmmmpph,” she says, blowing air through her nose. “You know, I figured you were a smart guy. A millionaire by the age of thirty. A guy who came up from nothing, just like me, and made it. That says a lot about a person, ya know. So I made some assumptions. But maybe I gave you too much credit?”

  It’s my turn to huff. “Well, I certainly didn’t give you enough.”

  She stares at me, silent for several painful moments as the animosity between us builds. Then she says, “So you’ve made up your mind already? Or are you interested in the other side of the story?”

  “What other side?” I laugh. “I mean…” I pan my hand to her. Then to her apartment. “You even have a fucking buffalo painted on the front of your building.”

  More silence from her as she watches me. Then, “So you’re going to stay and hear me out? Or you’re going to leave and take all your preconceived notions with you?”

  “Whatever,” I say, taking a few steps further into the apartment. “Talk then. But I’m pretty sure there’s nothing you can say that will explain”—I hold up both my hands—“this.”

  “Well,” she says, walking over to the countertop where there’s two bottles of Buffed Up waiting for us. She uses a bottle opener to pop off the tops, then turns, hands me one—which I take on instinct—and says, “You’d be wrong, Lawton Ayers. There’s twenty-eight years to this story that you have no clue about. Because none of it fits into the bullshit narrative that Oaklee Ryan sold you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - OAKLEE

  Shrike Bikes is closed by the time I get over there, but Sick Girlz is open and there’s a side entrance though the alley, so that’s where I go in. The shop is busy. Buzzing from the back tells me that there are several artists working tonight and there are two groups of customers sitting on various couches and chairs waiting for tattoos.

  But Vivi is at the front desk, filing her hot-pink nails, when I walk in. “I’m ready,” she says, jumping up off her stool and coming around the counter holding a black, drawstring bag.

  I nod, then turn around and walk out, my pink-haired friend at my side. “You’re sure about this?” I ask her.

  “Nothing to it,” she says, walking over to my car and getting in the passenger side.

  I get in too, then look at her, unsure if I should really go through with this. “The last time you said that we ended up in jail.”

  She shrugs. “Hey, that’s the price you pay when you need things you don’t have.”

  “Vivi—”

  “I got this, OK? We’re good. She’s not gonna know. And you’ve got Lawton over there, right?”

  “Yes, he’s probably with her right now.” God, I’m so angry about that.

  “Then at least we know she’s busy. Trust me. You absolutely need to do this.”

  I do trust her. Mostly because Vivi is badass, but also because she’s well connected here in Colorado. If we do get in trouble like we did last time, she has ways out of things. She has people who will swoop in and take care of shit.

  So I take a deep breath, start the car, and pull out of the alley and make my way up towards the freeway.

  She talks about all kinds of things as I drive, like this is no big deal. I just listen, say nothing, and chew on my thumbnail as we enter Boulder and I find parking a good six blocks away from Hanna’s Pearl Street storefront.

  She takes off her leather jacket as we get out of the car, hands me a pair of leather gloves, and once we put those on, we’re both dressed in black from top to bottom.

  “I feel like a cat burglar,” I say as we walk. Vivi is swinging her little black drawstring bag like we’re just out for a stroll.

  She looks at me. I catch a brazen gleam in her eyes. A glint of light reflecting under the yellow street lamps. “Meow,” she purrs. And then she hits me in the shoulder and says, “Relax. You need proof, Oaklee. And that’s what we’re going to get tonight. My plan is perfect. Nothing’s gonna happen and even if it does—”

  Here it comes, I think to myself.

  “—I’ll just call my cousin Oliver and he’ll fix it.”

  I decide to agree with her. Because what choice do I have? I need to put a stop to Hanna Harlow before she ruins me for good.

  We don’t bother entering Pearl Street like all the other pedestrians because we have no intention of walking through the front door. No. We head straight to the alley and a few minutes later we’re standing under a fire escape attached to the Buffalo Brews building, looking up at it.

  “OK,” Vivi says. “This bitch uses a subsidiary of my cousin’s security company and I worked there for three years as a teenager and know all the backdoors. So it was super easy to hack while I was waiting for you to show up. Now all you gotta do is boost me.” She makes two fists around the bars covering the alley windows on the first floor and says, “I’ll grab it, get it down, and then we can go up together.”

  “That’s gonna make a shit ton of noise,” I whisper.

  “That’s why I have this,” she says, opening up her bag so I can see the can of WD-40 inside. “Trust me. This is not my first fire-escape rodeo, Oaklee.”

  And for a second I wonder what Vivi Vaughn does in her spare time? Is breaking and entering just another Monday night to her?

  Questions I probably should’ve asked myself before I agreed to her plan, but it’s too late now. I crouch down, she puts her foot on my shoulder, and then she’s climbing up the side of the building like a monkey. Two minutes later she’s on the second-floor landing, spraying the hell out of the fire escape with WD-40.

  “OK, I’m gonna ride it down, you get on, and we’ll climb back up. Ready?”

  And before I can say anything in reply, she’s on her way down.

  It makes noise. No doubt. But it doesn’t squeak. When she reaches me, we both look up, then around. Just to see if anyone heard and will come see what the fuck is going on.

  I almost wish someone would see us so we’d have to run away, probably laughing like girls gone wild, and forget this whole crazy plan.

  But none of that happens, because if anyone did hear the fire escape come down, they don’t bother looking.

  So I take a deep breath, climb up after her, and resign myself to the insanity of Vivi Vaughn because this is the first step in getting my life back.

  When we get to the second-floor landing we both look in the window. It’s dark in there, too dark to see anything.

  I try to open the window, but it doesn’t budge. “Locked,” I whisper.

  “No problem,” Vivi says, fishing through her bag of tricks for something else. And then, like she’s a spy in a Mission: Impossible movie, she removes a glass cutter, fastens it to the glass, and pivots the arm around in a circle. It makes a little bit of noise, but I’m surprised at how fast and quiet the whole act of cutting through a window actually is.

  A few taps later and the glass circle she traced is now a hole. One more second and she’s got her hand inside, flipping up the lock, and then I’m staring at an open window.

  “Let’s go,” she whispers, taking one last look around the alley before she sticks her leg in and enters.

  My heart is beating so fast, I have to take several deep breaths to calm myself. But then I hear voices down below. People are coming down the alley, so I have no choice.

  I slip my leg in after her, and disappear inside Hanna’s building.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - LAWTON

  “No?” I ask Hanna. “So everything she’s told me about you is wrong, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Look,” Hanna sa
ys. “Every story has two sides, OK? And whatever she told you, I’m sure you think it’s all real because you think you know her. Or, at the very least, you met her first and only got her side, so naturally that’s the one you believe.”

  “Right,” I say, blowing out a laugh with the word. “OK, so tell me then.” But just as the word comes out of my mouth, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out and look at the screen.

  Oaklee: Take her downstairs to the bar. Or dinner. Take her anywhere but her place. And do it quick.

  I look at Hanna and say, “Excuse me a minute. I have to answer this text.”

  “Sure,” Hanna says. “Take your time. I’ve got all night.”

  So I text Oaklee back. What are you talking about?

  Oaklee: Just do it! I need her to be out of her place like now.

  Me: Where are you?

  Oaklee: I’m in her apartment. I’m watching you two talk right now.

  Me: WTF Oaklee!

  Oaklee: I have to find proof. Vivi is here with me, so don’t worry. We’ll be fine. Just get her out of there!

  I turn back to Hanna, who is sipping beer from the bottle of Buffed Up. “Everything OK?” she asks.

  “Sure. But… I’m hungry. So how about we go grab some food while you tell me all about how I’ve got you wrong?”

  “I can order us something from downstairs—”

  “No,” I interrupt her. “I haven’t been to Boulder in a long time. Let’s go somewhere. Somewhere nice.”

  She eyes me suspiciously. And she should, right? Because Oaklee and Vivi have broken into her apartment and are about to steal things and they are probably like twenty feet away from where we stand right this moment.

  “I’m starving, Hanna. And I want something good in a place I can relax. Because I ate a burger in my car for lunch today and bar food just isn’t gonna do it for me tonight. So you can come with me, or not. But I’m gonna go eat.”

  She stares at me for another long moment, then sets her beer down on the counter and says, “Fine. We’ll do it your way. How about Joe’s Italian? It’s got wine and white tablecloths. Will that suffice?”