A Slippery Slope

by Tanya Gallagher

  Jackson smiles at me when I finally slide into the passenger seat. “Took you long enough.”

  “Some things are worth waiting for.”

  Something unexpected flies across his face and the air goes charged and hot. A muscle in his jaw ticks and his voice comes out low and thick. “You’re absolutely right about that.”

  I blush and try to pay attention to the scenery as we drive. It’s mostly rolling hills and swathes of corn and green farmland punctuated by small patches of forest. Jackson squeezes my hand and all thoughts of barbecue fly out of my mind.

  Eventually we park on the side of the road a few miles out of town and follow a hand-carved sign toward a dense wood. It looks promising, but it only takes a few minutes for me to seriously regret my decision to let Jackson pick the place to walk. I hadn’t planned on quite so many hills. Or quite so much sweat. We’ve probably made it half a mile and I’m red faced and breathing heavy.

  I pull my shirt away from my body and let it fall, a billow of air fanning my torso and face. I’ve switched my stance on the Massachusetts weather to two thumbs firmly down. Still, Jackson looks around and smiles at me like he’s admiring more than just the trees. I have to admit I like it.

  I dodge a tree root and study Jackson’s face. “How’d you find this place?”

  “I like finding new running routes.”

  I grimace, the relentless climb still fresh in my mind. “Don’t tell me you run here.”

  He winks at me. “I won’t say a word.”

  “You are one strange creature.” Jackson shoots me a proud grin. Energy radiates off of him and it’s kind of nice, seeing him in his element. Who knew he was one part mountain goat?

  Jackson reaches out his hand to help me over a large rock. “You know, we’re going to have to think about the launch.”

  I accept his hand and squint at him. “Isn’t that why I pay you the big bucks, O Marketing Guru?”

  “That and my charm.” When I roll my eyes, all it does is make him turn on the full wattage of his smile, teasing and way too attractive for my own good. “I can see I have quite the effect on you.”

  Actually, he does. Already my pulse is picking up at the suggestion in his voice.

  “Hiking has quite the effect on me.” I give up on this exercise thing and plop down on a nearby rock. God, this place is full of rocks. And dirt. And green, growing things.

  The trail continues in front of me, dense with ferns and dogwood trees and small purple and white flowers. It’s pretty, if you can get past the effort it took to get here. “So what about the launch?”

  Jackson sits next to me, there in the middle of the trail, and we can only just fit on the rock together. His body presses up against mine, solid and strong. I can feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes. “Well, we want to make an impact with our launch, right? Get a lot of momentum going at the start?”

  “Right,” I say. “Which is why I’ve got a bunch of bloggers signing up to review this thing.” This past week, I added Oh Boy Sex Toy and The Critical Clit to my list of reviewers. Points to them for their blog names and high follower counts. “I just keep feeling like we need to aim bigger.”

  “I agree.”

  I sit for a minute, thinking back to the kind of branding we had designed for Penchant. Upscale, classy, like other kinds of expensive liquids. Like liquor. “I’ve got it.” I sit up straighter. “What do people like even better than an online party?”

  “A real-life party?”

  “Exactly.” I brighten as my brain whirls. “If alcohol companies can promote their products at a bar, why can’t we promote our products at a sex shop?”

  Jackson nudges me gently. “I like where you’re going with this. It’s really damn sexy to watch your brain work.”

  I blush. “Thanks.” The more I think about my plan, the more excited I get. “This could be really awesome.” I ignore the heat in Jackson’s eyes and keep talking. There’s too much work to do to get distracted. “We could pass around ‘Better than Sex’ cupcakes.”

  “And serve ‘Sex on the Beach’ cocktails.”

  “Holy shit, yes.” I turn to Jackson with my eyes bright, my skin flushed. “Let’s make this a thing.”

  “A lube party,” he says, testing it out.

  I hop off the rock and start walking. “Down the mountain,” I call over my shoulder.

  “We just got here.”

  I look back at him and smile. “Come on Jackson, there’s work to do.”

  Chapter 35

  I clutch my cell phone to my ear, certain I haven’t quite heard right. “Oh my gosh, really?” The thirst in my voice makes me cringe, but after eight phone calls and eight resounding no’s, I don’t quite believe it. Way to sound professional, Natalie. My heart thumps as I hold my breath.

  The sex shop employee on the other end of the line chuckles, her voice kind. “Yes, you can absolutely come in to discuss a launch party. We like working with local manufacturers.”

  I try to muffle the sound of my happy dance. Elbows and toe taps and head bobs, oh my. “Thank you,” I say before hanging up. Squeezing in phone calls after my Holy Grounds shift has finally paid off. It may have taken me eight phone calls to finally figure out how to pitch my idea to the bored employees and busy owners of the sex shops of Boston, but at nine thirty at night I’ve finally gotten the answer I’m looking for.

  Delilah Overbrook always comes through.

  I push back from the kitchen table, my body buzzing. Shadows crawl across the room and all I can think is that I’m glad sex shops stay open so late at night. I needed this victory, needed to go to sleep with a smile.

  “See that?” I ask Precious, dumping a capful of vitamins into its pot. “Gayle doesn’t know jack shit. One freaking foot in front of the other. So to speak.”

  Great. I’m now officially the crazy lady who talks to her plants. I laugh at myself and sweep my hair into a bun. Should I call Jackson? He’ll almost certainly appreciate this news more than my tree, but so far we’ve talked mostly through text messages. Calling him now, after the sun has set, seems strangely intimate. Still, I’m bursting with my good news, and I already have my phone in my hands. I dial his number.

  After a few rings, the line goes to voicemail. I glance at the clock and frown. Jackson’s probably working, but disappointment still knocks into me when he doesn’t pick up. Don’t read into it. I hang up without leaving a message.

  I brush my teeth to distract myself from the silence, pacing from one end of the guesthouse to the other. I stop only to spit out my toothpaste, then I keep going. I need to keep this bubbling energy at bay. Maybe there’s something to Jackson’s fitness thing after all, because my mind keeps whirling, keeps spitting out more and more ideas for this launch. Maybe I should do this more often when my nerves kick up in my chest—just walk my way through it. Maybe the physical release will also help me let go of the emotions that rattle around inside of me so much. It’s worth a try. Somehow right now being on my feet feels necessary, despite the fact that my muscles still scream in protest after yesterday’s hike.

  Jackson finally calls as I’m jotting my thoughts in a notebook, and the sharp noise of the phone makes me realize how quiet it’s gotten outside. The lights in my dad’s house are off, streetlights winking through the branches of the trees outside. It’s the witching hour and Jackson Wirth is on the line.

  I walk into the bedroom and crawl under the covers. I feel like a teenager hiding out to make an illicit phone call. I guess it’s not that far off.

  “Skippy Sawmill, at your service,” he says when I pick up. I give a little squeal of delight and Jackson laughs on the other end of the phone. Bar noises echo in the background—drunken laughter and the sounds of music and clinking glass. Someone at Hooligans is having a good time. “Guess that was the right thing to say.”

  “It was,” I tell him. “Because number one, I told you I was making Skippy Sawmill a thing. And number two, I have a special request for S
kippy.”

  “Oh yeah?” The noise around him gets quieter, like he’s moved into a back room. I can picture the shirt he’s wearing, the stubble on his jaw. I would never admit it to him, but his voice rumbling in my ear makes me crave his touch.

  I puff out a breath of air, scattering my thoughts. “Can you clear your schedule for Tuesday? I need you for the whole day.”

  Dammit, I didn’t mean to say that word. Need. I don’t want him to think I need him. Just, it would be nice if he was there.

  Luckily Jackson doesn’t comment on my choice of words. Probably he doesn’t overthink things like I do. For him it’s all rolling with the punches. “Are you propositioning me?” His voice sounds like he’s smiling.

  “If you’re lucky.” I keep my voice light and flirtatious before I deadpan: “But probably not.”

  Another laugh. “Ok. I’ll make it happen.” He drops his voice dangerously low, sending a shiver through my body. “Any other requests?”

  “Actually, yes.” I smile up at my ceiling. “Wear something sharp, ok? Skippy Sawmill needs to look damn good.”

  “Anything for you,” he whispers into my ear. I rub my feet together under the covers to divert my attention from his words. He needs to stop saying things like that. He needs to stop sounding like I mean so much to him. There’s no way it’s true. “Where are you, anyway?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Why aren’t you here with me? You have an open invitation.”

  “Of course I have an open invitation,” I tease. “You work at a public bar.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I do. I wriggle deeper into the sheets. “I’m at home.” Let’s see if Jackson will put his money where his mouth is. “I’m in bed.”

  Jackson sucks in a sharp breath. It’s a very good reaction. “Jesus, Nat. You can’t just say that to me.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because I’m imagining being in bed with you. And the things I would do to you.”

  Yes, please, all the things. Heat pools between my legs. “Tell me a story,” I whisper.

  He chuckles quietly. “Okay. What are you wearing? Help me set the scene.”

  Oh my god, are we really doing this? My face burns. “Sleeping shorts and—”

  “Wirth!” someone shouts on Jackson’s end of the line.

  He groans. “Gotta go. To be continued.”

  Darn. That night, there are a lot of reasons I can’t sleep.

  Chapter 36

  Oh my god, do I look okay?” It’s not the question I meant to ask, but in my nervousness it’s the one that falls out of my mouth.

  Jackson smiles at me, the late afternoon sun forming a halo around his head. We’re standing on the sidewalk in Boston in front of Aphrodite’s Closet, a sex-positive, female-run sex shop. Some of the mannequins in the window wear crotchless underwear and neon silk thongs, while others dangle fluffy novelty handcuffs from their plastic wrists. When I look at them I feel remarkably overdressed and in way over my head.

  Jackson’s eyes take an appreciative pass over my body, slow enough to make my face flame. “You look great. In fact, if we didn’t have a meeting, I’d take you home and—”

  “Jackson!” I cut him off. I glance down at my dress and booties. This morning, as I stood in front of my boxes and suitcase, I had a small identity crisis. What the hell does a lube CEO look like? I decided to go for stylish and professional, but I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard. And I’m still not sure I’ve gotten it right.

  Jackson catches my hand and squeezes. “Anyway, they don’t care what you’re wearing. They want to know how our lube and our party can bring in revenue for their shop.”

  Easy for him to say. As usual, Jackson looks gorgeous. I had to tell Jackson where we were going, in the end, and he showed up for the drive to Boston wearing a crisp, hunter-green shirt that makes his eyes pop. He’s shaved the stubble, too, but his hair’s still styled with rebellion, the brown strands of it trained into the just-fucked look he wears so well.

  Okay. I squeeze his hand back before dropping it. I can do this.

  I’m here in Boston, a million miles away from Swan’s Hollow, and my secret is safe. I have bigger things to worry about, like impressing the store manager, Honey. I’m fine. I force a smile on my face and open the door.

  Aphrodite’s Closet is a treasure chest of adult novelties—things I’ve only seen or read about online—and I leave Jackson by the cash wrap as I try to locate an employee. Since everyone looks pretty casual it’s hard to tell who’s who in the store, but finally I notice a name tag on a girl standing near a row of vibrators.

  I introduce myself and ask for Honey. The girl, whose tag says “Bella,” nods toward the back of the store, a small stud glinting in her nose. “Honey’s on a call but I’ll let her know you’re here. Feel free to browse around while you wait.”

  As I walk around, it becomes clear that the front of the store was the tame section. Toward the back, BDSM gear is displayed tastefully—silk eye masks hang on twirling racks and shiny nipple clamps glitter like polished jewels in a glass display case. A month ago these things would have made me squirm, but now they’re part of my everyday experiences. I’m totally fine. That is, until I hear the noises.

  Over the low, calm music in the store comes the methodical sound of something heavy slapping against skin. Sure enough, I turn the corner to see a couple standing in the aisle—fully dressed, thank god—the man holding a leather flogger in his hand. It’s surreal how distinctly normal they are. She could be a librarian and he could work for the post office, but they’ve got this private life that’s the stuff of erotic novels. Will my lube ever find its way to their bedside table?

  “I don’t know,” the woman says to the man. “I think maybe something heavier?”

  I hurry into the next aisle to give them privacy and pretend to be keenly interested in a leather bustier.

  “You must be Delilah.” The voice comes over my shoulder, making me jump. I turn around, guilty, as if I’ve been exposed as a voyeur.

  “That’s me.” I shake the woman’s hand with a smile. Please consider me professional. Please say yes.

  Honey looks exactly the way she sounded on the phone—a beaming black woman with a smile as sweet as her namesake and a chest so voluptuous she puts Abigail to shame. Jackson looks at me over Honey’s shoulder with an eyebrow raised and a smirk on his face, nodding his chin in the direction of the flogging, which has resumed. I have to ignore him or I’ll never be able to focus on this meeting.

  “Glad me and Mr. Overbrook found you.”

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Mr. Overbrook. It might even be better than Skippy Sawmill. Jackson’s not going to hear the end of this.

  Honey leads us to the back room, just a tiny desk and a few folding chairs. “Sorry about the tight fit,” she apologizes as we take a seat. “We tried to keep more floor space for the inventory.”

  “That makes perfect sense.”

  Honey smiles. “So what have you brought me?”

  I hand Honey a sample bottle that our new supplier sent to me. Just like the first time I saw it, it gives me a thrill. There’s something kind of surreal about seeing Penchant’s name printed on a label, crisp and clean. We added a fig leaf logo to our branding after our designer suggested a pop of color, and the green image feels fresh and hopeful. The rest of the bottles will be shipping from my supplier soon, and the idea of a whole pallet full of them makes happy goosebumps rise on my arms.

  “These will be available in a retail box,” I explain to Honey, showing her some images that our graphic designer worked up. “So we’ll have everything ready to go for the party.”

  Honey opens the safety seal and rubs some lube on her hands right there. It makes me smile, remembering the way Jackson and I did the exact same thing at my kitchen sink. It feels like a million years ago, but I also know this whole process is just starting.

  Honey re
aches across the table for a baby wipe, listening to me explain what we love about the lube.

  “Not only is this one hypoallergenic, but it lasts forever, and doesn’t get sticky or have a weird smell.” I feel breathless and amped up, my excitement for this project spilling out of me as I talk. “Part of our business is also sex education,” I tell her, diving into the outcome of my latest brainstorming session. “We’ll have weekly blog posts and we’re aiming to feature interviews with other sex educators. We want to be a resource for people.”

  Honey nods along as she cleans her hands. “Okay, I like the lube and I like the packaging. Very sleek.” She smiles. “I like what you guys are doing here. We’ll take twenty for the shop to start, and we’ll sell them at the party.”

  It’s all I can do not to hug her.

  “Thank you so much,” Jackson and I both say. I don’t know if Honey realizes how much of a chance she just gave us, but I’m not going to let her down. Jackson and I spend thirty more minutes with Honey finalizing the details of the launch party before we head back out into the afternoon.

  Outside, it’s started to rain—fat, warm drops that speckle the pavement.

  “Let me pull the car around for you,” Jackson offers.

  I agree and wait for him on the sidewalk, smiling. In a little over two weeks I’ll be back here, sharing Penchant with the world. I’m so, so ready to do this, to let this little business have wings. I’m so ready to be back here in the city, back with the bustle of people, with the Boston Public Library and a hundred coffee shops at my fingertips. I’m ready to reclaim my spot, to prove that, while I may have run away from my cheating boyfriend, it was only to come back stronger.