A Slippery Slope

by Tanya Gallagher

  “Before we talk about the product, I’d like to hear a little about your company,” the CEO says. “We’re just getting into making custom formulas and I want to make sure we have a good fit before we move forward getting you a price quote.”

  “Of course,” I say. “As I mentioned in my email, Penchant is looking to order a batch of custom silicone lube. We’d sell primarily online and in a few regional shops. We’re hoping to have an order placed within the next few weeks and to have product launched as soon as possible.”

  “We’re looking to launch with one hundred units,” Jackson chimes in, reciting the number we’d agreed on. “We’d then ramp up once we’ve tested the product with our market. We’d expect to order lot sizes of two thousand five hundred units from there.”

  I need to start small with this—not only do I not have the money to fund a bigger order, I want to make sure this will work before I make an investment I can’t come back from. Still, the numbers make my head spin. If we can sell each bottle for twenty dollars, that first order could give us back two thousand dollars. It’s more than I make in a single month as a barista. And two thousand five hundred units? That’s fifty thousand dollars. Even when I subtract the cut I’ll pay Amazon and Jackson, it’s more than enough to get me back to Boston. If we can make this work and I can keep selling beyond the twenty-five hundred units, I can pay my rent and not have to get another job. I can write my book and get my life back. If, if, if. But first the CEO has to say yes.

  “I like the look of you guys,” the CEO says. “You know, I’m just a regular guy. I started my business when my wife sent me to buy lube and I realized how much crap is in the ones out in the supermarkets. Lots of ingredients that aren’t great for your body. And my dad, he was a rocket scientist, so I figured, I can use science to make a great product, too.”

  I have no idea what the hell this guy’s rocket scientist dad has to do with lube but I nod along anyway. Beside me, Jackson’s body vibrates as he tries to hold back a silent laugh. I step on his toes and smile sweetly into the camera.

  The CEO clicks a pen open and shut. “I have to let you know, though, that we can’t do an order for less than twenty-five hundred units.”

  The smile falls off my face. “Why not?” I ask as carefully as possible. Why would they have minimums? There’s no way I can afford twenty-five hundred units. I haven’t seen pricing yet, but I can’t afford twenty-five hundred units of anything.

  My skin flushes and I can’t catch a full breath of air. I can feel Jackson looking at me out of the corner of his eye and I try to squelch down my panic.

  Click goes the pen. “The margins aren’t there for us with a hundred bottles. The set-up cost is more expensive than it would be worth. You know.”

  Jackson saves me from having to respond. “No problem,” he says, squeezing my hand. I stretch my lips back into a forced smile and the CEO spends another thirty minutes talking about lube.

  After the CEO tells us about his rocket scientist dad yet again, Jackson leans closer to the computer. “Do you think we can move forward with a price quotation?”

  The CEO rubs his beard and smiles into the camera. “Sure. I’ll have something for you by the end of the week and I’ll get more samples in the mail for you today.”

  I hold my breath until the call goes dark, then I close the laptop screen just to be sure no one can hear us.

  “You okay?” Jackson turns to me. “You looked green there for a minute.”

  I blow a strand of hair out of my face. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just the minimum is so much higher than I was hoping for. I want to be legitimate, but man.”

  He nods. “I guess this is a chance for you to put your money where your mouth is.”

  I gape at him, not believing he just said that. If I had that kind of money, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.

  “Don’t worry,” Jackson says at the look on my face. “Let’s just see what the quote says. The important part is, he took us seriously.”

  That part, at least, makes me feel a little better.

  “He did, didn’t he?”

  “As serious as rocket science.”

  “Oh shut up.” I grin and elbow Jackson in the side.

  I feel better—still breathless, but happier. The more anyone takes us seriously, the more I take this venture seriously, too. It’s going to work, this business. All I need is one yes and we’re already halfway there.

  “You know,” I say thoughtfully, looking over at Jackson, “I think the glasses give you a whole Clark Kent/Superman vibe. Except it’s more like Jackson Wirth and Skippy Sawmill.”

  “Again with that name,” Jackson says.

  “Again. It’s gonna happen whether you like it or not.”

  “Glad it makes you so happy. I guess it’s better than having you run away from me.”

  Oh crap. I don’t want to talk about the first night I saw Jackson. I don’t want to talk about the reasons I ran away or why my instinct was to hide in the grubby little bathroom at Hooligans. I don’t want to ruin today’s victory by thinking about the past.

  “So what do you think your dad would have said about all of this?” I ask. Change of subject in T minus five, four, three, two, one. But, actually, I kind of want to know.

  I imagine Mr. Wirth would like the adventure of it all. The entrepreneurship and the challenge. “Spit and mettle and elbow grease,” like he always used to say.

  Instead of the default grin I expect to see, something like longing flashes across Jackson’s face. He takes off his glasses and sets them on the table before rubbing a hand across his eyes. “I guess you can say I’m doing this for him.” I hold my breath, waiting for him to go on. Jackson drums his fingers against the edge of the table before he continues. “When he died,” he says at last, “he was in the hole. Dad had a silent business partner, and given the money situation, his partner—this Jim Boyle guy—wanted full rights to the business. He basically blocked me out except for a small share.”

  “What about your mom? Couldn’t she help?”

  Jackson shakes his head. “She was a mess after Dad died, she and Conor. They had enough to worry about. So I’ve been saving cash for a while now.” He nods his head between us. “The money from this endeavor is going to help me buy back my dad’s share. Eventually I’d like to totally buy the guy out.”

  That knocks the wind out of me. All this time I’d thought Jackson wasn’t running the business because he was just being lazy. And here it was because he couldn’t, because it was so far out of his control.

  I’m the biggest asshole.

  Tears prick at my eyes and I want to cry. For Jackson who loved his dad, and for Mr. Wirth who put on a brave face to spare his family the worry.

  “Jackson, I had no idea.”

  Jackson gives me a tired smile. “I thought one day I might buy the business from my dad. I never thought I’d have to buy it from someone else.”

  The hole of things left behind, the ragged edges and the future you said goodbye to. Before I can think about the consequences I cover Jackson’s hand with mine. For him, but also for me. “We’ll get it back for you, Jackson.”

  He nods, a muscle going tight in his jaw. “I know. Skippy Sawmill always delivers.”

  I rub the edge of my thumb over the back of his hand, and Jackson catches my fingers with his. He flips his hand so our palms meet, lacing his fingers through mine. A hundred thousand volts of electricity shoot through me and the whole world stops moving. Oh god.

  I offer Jackson a shaky smile. “Would Skippy Sawmill like a beer?” I whisper.

  He squeezes my hand and drops it. “That he would.”

  I walk to the fridge on weak legs and grab a beer for Jackson. On second thought, I grab one for me, too.

  I crack open my drink and let a cold swallow warm me up. It feels good to share secrets with Jackson. I’ve missed it.

  But then I catch myself.

  Don’t get attached, I tell myself. He’s no good
for you. And anyway, you’re leaving. Right after we launch this product and Jackson buys back his business, I’ll head back to Boston. By the end of summer, this partnership will be over and I’ll be gone.

  Chapter 17

  Jackson pushes aside my spreadsheet to plop two tomato, basil, and mozzarella sandwiches on my kitchen table.

  “Look at you with your fancy chart,” he teases, sinking into the chair next to me.

  The page in front of me lists the lube judgement criteria that we’ve deemed most important: friction and stickiness and how long an application lasts. Lead time is on there, too, along with cost.

  Yesterday I squirmed on my dad’s couch, picking at the rip across the knee of my jeans while I watched him write a staggeringly high number in his checkbook.

  “What classes are you taking, again?” he asked, clicking the pen shut. He ripped out the check and I pocketed it quietly.

  “World-building in fiction and online marketing.” The lie burned through me. I dropped my eyes to study Gayle’s rug, convinced that if I looked at his face for a minute more I would blurt out the truth.

  My dad rested his hands on his knees, leaning forward. “I’m so glad you’re taking another stab at school, Natalie. I hope you know we’ll always support you.” I sincerely doubt my dad would support me buying lube instead of course credits with his money, but I only had enough rainy-day savings to fund part of the order on my own. The fact that he’s so proud of me for going back to school just makes me that much more ashamed of dropping out in the first place. And feel that much more guilty for not being honest about why I asked for the cash.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. At least I’m setting aside part of my weekly Holy Grounds paycheck for him. I will pay my dad back. Hopefully before any damage is done.

  I push the image of my dad’s smile out of my head and glance at the chart in front of me. “It’s for science,” I say, and Jackson laughs. After a week of receiving quotes and custom samples from different suppliers, today’s the day we’re actually going to test the damn things. On our hands.

  “Whatever you want to call it, babe.” My breath catches on that word. Babe. Jackson continues without mentioning it, opening up his sandwich to take a bite. “Is it me,” he asks around a mouthful of cheese, “or did your tree move?” He nods his chin toward Precious, who’s now languishing by a window close to the bedroom door.

  “Yep, it totally walked across the room last night. Never seen anything like it.”

  Jackson gives me an indulgent smile. “Next time try to videotape it. You could make a fortune on YouTube.”

  “It’s my backup plan. In case Penchant doesn’t pan out.”

  In truth I’ve been dragging the fig tree from window to window in my latest scheme to nurse it back to health. For about a week now, I've been moving Precious during the day, letting it follow the sun from corner to corner. To me it’s starting to look better. To anyone else it probably still looks like a lost cause. But dammit, I’m trying.

  Jackson and I sit in companionable silence and polish off our food. When we’re done and have thrown the sandwich wrappers in the trash, there’s nothing left to do but do the thing.

  “Okay.” Jackson removes the safety seal from the first bottle. “Option number one is from ‘Did you know my dad’s a rocket scientist, Inc.’”

  I roll my eyes and hold out my hands.

  Jackson squirts a small amount onto my palms, then lubes up his own. The liquid warms up quickly in my hands and I try to imagine how it would feel…other places. My face heats and I squirm. I hope to god that someday when Penchant has a product out in the world that people apply it to their intended zones. Not that my hands aren’t extremely well moisturized at this point.

  Jackson and I stand at my kitchen sink, rubbing our hands together and grinning like fools. This is ridiculous and hilarious and I’m loving every moment of it because who would have thought this of me? I’m not a college dropout barista with a shitty ex-boyfriend. I’m Delilah Overbrook, lube-business owner. I’m CEO, bitch. This is my game to win.

  I’m washing my hands between the third and fourth bottles when my phone rings and Abigail’s name flashes across the caller ID.

  “Lube central,” I answer the phone.

  Abigail laughs. “Good to know?”

  “It is good to know, lady. There’s nothing like the smell of lube at lunchtime. What’s going on?” Across the room Jackson eyes me and I motion for him to open the next bottle.

  “Is there any chance you can watch Nico tonight? My sitter got food poisoning and had to bail, but I have plans.”

  I bite my lip and look across the room to see Jackson twisting off the bottle cap. “I was planning to work tonight.”

  “At the coffee shop?” Abby asks.

  “Lube stuff.”

  “Please Nat? It would be a lifesaver.”

  I pause. It’s probably the first time in a long time she’s asked me for anything. Since landing back in Swan’s Hollow I’ve been the one who needed a shoulder to cry on. It’s been Abby helping me instead of the other way around.

  How could I be so selfish? I shake my head. A few missed hours of work aren’t a huge deal, especially if it means I can hang out with my godson. “Tell you what, Ab. If you don’t mind bringing him here I can just work after he’s asleep.”

  “It’s a deal,” she says. “See you in a bit.”

  I rejoin Jackson at the kitchen table and to his credit he doesn’t ask about the call. For some reason, though, I feel the need to explain.

  “I’ve got to stop at five,” I say. “Godmother duties.”

  “That makes you sound eighty.”

  “I may be eighty, but I can still hang with the five-year-old crowd.” I stick out my hand. “Now give me some lube.”

  Jackson obliges with a smile. “I love when you talk dirty to me.”

  “I know, you perv. Now let’s get back to work.”

  Thirty minutes later I scrawl the last note on my spreadsheet. We have a close tie between two favorites and have added a few new categories to the spreadsheet, including smell. The things I never thought I’d have to consider.

  “Why don’t we take a break from your assessment?” Jackson suggests. “Look at how some of these products are actually marketed?”

  I look up to catch the heat of his gaze. I swallow hard. “What did you have in mind?”

  Jackson flashes me a wicked grin, playful and dead serious all at once. “We’re going to look at porn.”

  Chapter 18

  Umm, what?” I blink at Jackson. Surely he’s not serious. No matter how much lube we just rubbed on our hands, there’s no way I’m looking at porn with him.

  Jackson reaches for my laptop and sets it in front of me. “We’ve been looking at all this stuff in a vague way, but we need to know how the nuts and bolts of how we’re branding it. Our marketing needs to be sexy. So we’re going to go where the sex is for ideas.”

  He nods for me to open the device and stands behind me to look over my shoulder.

  A fine layer of sweat breaks out on my chest. “I’m pretty sure my computer is going to explode,” I tell him. “Is that a thing that happens when you look at too much porn?”

  “You’re fine.” He bends down next to me and types “porn” into the browser. A list populates but I can’t think because Jackson’s shoulder is pressed against mine and he’s solid and warm and we’re about to look at porn together. Oh my god.

  The idea of looking at these images with Jackson makes me feel naked, like I’m showing him part of myself that only Matthew has ever seen. We’re about to go down a naughty, dangerous road. We’re about to see skin and sweat and lust all splashed across the screen and it’s going to make us both feel things and I don’t know if I can be in the room with Jackson and handle that right now.

  It’s not that I’m so prudish—I’ve looked at plenty of websites doing research on this lube idea and, hell, I thought of lube as a business in the first p
lace—but it’s a very different experience to look at these things with someone else in the room.

  Even with Matthew, we never looked at porn together. Sex is something we did but we didn’t really talk about it. He was my first and only partner, so I don’t have a whole lot to compare the experience to. And Jackson is…Jackson, and every complicated thing that means to me.

  The cursor hovers over the first website on the list.

  “Wait.” I take a deep breath. But because he’s Jackson, he clicks the link.

  The screen loads and my room—my tiny guesthouse fifty feet away from my dad’s back door—fills with the sounds of groaning and panting. On screen, a gif of a couple pounding away doggy style repeats again and again as the couple moan and grind and come together. There’s no hiding what’s going on.

  “Oh my god, Jackson!” I scramble to mute the computer.

  He grins. “What have you been doing with the volume turned up?”

  “Listening to music.” I glare at him. “Not watching porn.”

  “Riiiight.”

  I don’t dignify that with a response. I just scroll down the screen, making note of keywords I find on the page. I’m going to make SEO my bitch, just as soon as I get through this.

  “Count the advertising slots,” Jackson advises, leaning over my shoulder.

  I create a new spreadsheet on my computer and label the columns with Domain Name, Type of Site, and Advertising Ideas. Then I try not to squirm as I count advertising slots. I focus on filling out the numbers on my new page, scrolling past fifteen couples having sex in various positions. I keep my eyes glued to the page as we work, not wanting to know if Jackson’s breathing just as heavy as I am.

  This is my life now. Holy shit.

  Unfortunately, the scroll to the top of the page makes me agonize just as much as the scroll down. So does the next website. And the next. But we carry on anyway, in the name of science or marketing. Or something.