by Liz Crowe
“Can I help you?”
“We’d like to speak with you, Miz Fitzgerald—in private. As soon as possible.”
Elle studied his acne-scarred, thin-lipped face while Evelyn made him wait a few seconds for a response. He met Evelyn’s glare with one Elle didn’t care much for. It made her simultaneously incensed and nervous. It was a sensation she hadn’t experienced in a while and certainly not at any of her previous brewery jobs.
Men like this were one hundred percent intimidated by both her and Evelyn. She knew damn good and well that her own talent at brewing pissed him off but he was obviously resentful of Evelyn, too, if his ugly stare was any indication. Being a bully in his shriveled soul, he was eager to show off how tough and bossy he was in front of his buddies. Even knowing that, Elle was shocked by his blatantly nasty attitude, considering who he was glaring at.
Elle’s sense of indignation grew. But she tamped it down, reminding herself that spouting off to this hopped-up little jerk would not be a great way to behave in front of customers and her boss.
“Tell you what…Tim, is it?” Evelyn’s voice was flat. “Yes. Tim. Stop by Alice’s desk tomorrow and make an appointment. She has the best grasp on my schedule. Now, if you’ll excuse us?”
We must resume our she-woman, man-hating club meeting, Elle finished in her head on his behalf.
The other two men began backing away at the obvious dismissal but Tim, the jerk-face, stood his ground. His lips got even thinner as he pressed them together. “I said,” he began, before clearing his throat and perhaps reconsidering his phrasing. “I mean, I would like it if we could talk now.”
“I have a previous engagement,” Evelyn said in a stern tone.
The man’s dark gaze darted to Elle, then to the half-finished beers between them. “Fine,” he said, jamming his sweat-stained hat back down on his head. Evelyn raised an eyebrow at this but he didn’t flinch. The man was really pushing his luck, Elle thought, as the sick memory of his disgusting tongue against her lips bowled her over. A flicker of worry on behalf of her boss hit her brain.
“Beat it, already,” a female voice called out, breaking their stare down. “You heard the lady.” Melody Rodriguez, manager of the Fitz Pub, now stood across from the fuming Tim, arms crossed, her eyes flashing. “I warned you before. No harassing the customers, much less your boss.” The woman kept her voice light, as if she were kidding, but Elle knew better.
She watched as Tim’s dark eyes flickered down to Melody’s impressive cleavage, then back up to her face. Typical, she thought, wondering how in the hell Evelyn had managed to hire such a person. He blew out a breath, turned and walked away, followed closely by his two minions.
“Jesus, that guy,” Melody said, smiling at the baby. “If anybody could use a good firing, he could.”
“Easier said than done, as you well know,” Evelyn said, finishing her beer.
“You ladies want dinner? The soup today is delicioso. If I do say so myself.”
“Your corn chowder? Sign me up. And I’ll take a grilled cheese to go with it. Elle?”
“I’m sorry,” Elle said, scooting out from behind the table. “I should go.” She wanted to follow Tim and his gang, to make sure they actually left the building.
“Wait,” Evelyn said. “Hang on a minute.” The honest concern on the woman’s face made tears spring to Elle’s eyes.
Elle gnawed her lower lip and looked from her boss to Melody and back down at the floor. “Evelyn, I am very sorry. I apparently…have also caused some sort of confusion with that…with Tim as well.”
“Confusion?”
Melody’s dark eyes narrowed. Elle knew from hearing Evelyn talk about her that Melody possessed an innate desire to help others, to listen and fix things. She was the first to take in stray souls. Evelyn was always finding new employees at the Fitz Pub. People Melody claimed just needed a break to get their lives back in order. She’d hired at least half a dozen super loyal employees that way, so Evelyn and Austin left her to it.
“He is…persistent, as well.”
“Persistent,” Evelyn repeated. “He’s…bothering you too? Like Brock?”
“No, no, not like that. Brock is very sweet about it. Non-threatening. Tim is the opposite of that. He’s very much not happy with my unwillingness to join him for a beer or a blow job, which was his last invitation—in the hallway, in front of his friends.”
Evelyn’s mouth dropped open. She glanced at Melody. “You mean he—?”
“He’s a bully. But I’m used to men like this. I can handle it. You shouldn’t have to worry about—”
“Like hell,” Evelyn blurted out. “Holy shit. He’s threatened you? I mean…he’s…dear Lord. Elle, you don’t have to put up with that sort of behavior. I won’t allow it. Neither will Austin.”
“I am a shit-face magnet, it would seem. I mean, Brock is not a shit-face. He’s just a flirt.” Elle touched her neck on reflex, knowing she did it to remind herself of her earlier folly. Evelyn frowned at her. “I’m sorry. My English is sometimes not good.”
“So, my dear, what can I get for you to eat?” Melody interrupted.
“I’m all right,” Elle insisted.
“Listen, I realize you’re entitled to a private life and all that, but I’m going to have to insist that you spill it for me a little.” Evelyn rocked the seat when baby Rose bleated out an unhappy noise. “You saved my daughter’s life. I think we can consider ourselves friends.” She glanced over at Melody who was still hovering, eager to placate the general unhappiness with some of her amazing food. “Let chef fix a grilled cheese for you? His are something akin to a miracle.”
“Yes, all right.” Elle slid back into her seat. “Thank you.”
Evelyn reached across the table and grabbed Elle’s hands, startling her so much she flinched. “I want you to think of me as your friend right now. Not your boss. Not married to the brewery founder. None of that. Just Evelyn. I’ll listen, and when I’m done listening you’re going to file a harassment report against Tim, and tomorrow I will fire his sorry ass.”
“I have a difficult time…trusting people. I’ve been betrayed too many times.”
“See? Your first confession to me. I think we’re on a roll now.” She glanced at Melody. Elle was suffused with a sense of relief she’d not felt in over a decade. “Two grilled cheese, two bowls of corn chowder, and two more beers, please, ma’am,” Evelyn said, giving Elle that small jolt of jealousy at her seeming ease with everything around her.
“You got it, chica,” Melody said, snapping her fingers. “On the double.”
“Now,” Evelyn said, giving Elle’s hands one last squeeze before letting her go. “Start anywhere. I am all ears.”
Elle swiped at her eyes, offered a wan smile, and thought, Why the hell not?
Three hours later, Elle sat in the dark locker room, clutching her aching head and poring over the myriad reasons why she should not have said so much, revealed so much about her God-awful past. As if needing to touch it to reassure herself of the strict control she’d established—over her own life, if nothing else—she reached into her locker and pulled out the handgun. It felt ice cold, which was strange. Usually it felt, if not warm, at least room temperature. She set it down, uncomfortable with it for the first time since she’d purchased it—un-reassured, un-soothed, unhappy at its existence.
Exhausted, knowing she should go home and at least try to sleep, Elle pulled her legs up to her chest and gripped them closely, face pressed to her knees. She kept the gun on the bench beside her, free of its hiding place. She shifted her hips so the vertical metal bar she’d had pierced into her clitoral hood pressed into her. It felt nice, which made her feel guilty. Which was precisely the point of the damn thing.
The long talk with Evelyn had left her cored out, emptied of everything, a limp rag. Even though she’d left out most of the worst details, things she’d probably never tell another living soul they were so horrifying and embarrassing. How could
she have allowed such a thing? She knew that’s what Evelyn wanted to ask.
And she had no answer, other than to say, “I’m here now. That’s all I’ve got.”
To her credit, Evelyn never did ask. But her eyes had filled with tears more than once. Elle had stared down at her soup, unable to eat a bite as she recited the bare bones of her history to this woman, the only woman she’d ever felt truly comfortable with, for reasons she couldn’t explain to herself.
Afterward, they’d gone up to Evelyn’s office where she’d made her official sexual harassment complaint against Tim and his four buddies. “Okay, that will take care of him,” Evelyn said with grim smile as she printed it, gave Elle a copy and assured her that without a doubt, she would never have to deal with Tim again. He’d be long gone tomorrow.
She closed her eyes, but that only made things worse as the voices—His voice and her own, inner, nagging conscience—ramped up, filling her brain with their useless noise.
“No, that’s you, love. You’re the useless one. Useless to anyone but me. I’m the only one who will ever give a shit about you. Don’t ever forget it,” He said for the thousandth time.
“Elle…honey. Get up. Grab the gun. Go upstairs. Do it now. Hurry.”
With a gasp, she jumped up, not sure why her Oma’s voice was demanding she do such a crazy thing. She reached for the gun but her hand shook so much she dropped it to the sealed concrete floor.
“Calm down, girl,” she said under her breath in German. “Chill out,” she added for good measure in English.
She reached down and pulled the Glock from under the bench, flicked off the safety, and took a long, deep breath. Then she heard it—a loud shout, coming from somewhere above where she now stood. It was followed by a thump, as if someone had dropped something heavy. She walked out of the locker room, feeling like the world’s biggest fool, clutching the gun as if she knew what she was doing.
The brewery space was a cacophony of noise—the bottling line was running, and the clatter, hum and buzz of that operation filled the air, along with blaring, heavy metal rock and shouts of the staff. She hesitated, knowing she had to sneak around behind the main bottling machine with the weapon in her hand.
Gnawing at her lip, questioning her sanity once more, she flicked on the safety and stuck the thing in her front jeans pocket. It stuck out so obviously, she pulled it out. Deciding to copy what she’d seen on television, she stuck in the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back. Sweating like mad, she nodded at the various workers who called out to her, asking her what in the hell she was still doing hanging around after her long work day.
Finally, after what felt like an hour’s worth of traversing the few feet between the back hall and the metal stairs up to the Evelyn’s office, she put her foot on the first step. Hesitating, talking herself out of it even as she moved to take the second step, the distinct sound of a woman’s scream hit her ears, even over the chaos of the bottling line and music. Someone else behind her shouted but she blocked everything as she took the steps two at a time, yanking the gun from the back of her jeans, praying she wouldn’t blow a hole in her own arse as she tried to pull it free.
The office door was open, the knob seemingly stuck in the wall behind it. Elle skidded to a stop, trying to sort through what her eyes took in.
Rose, screaming like a banshee from her baby seat on the large work table.
Evelyn, screaming even louder as she flailed around on the table.
And Tim, holding Evelyn down with one hand.
Elle blinked once, then raised the Glock. She aimed carefully, as she’d been taught for all the months she’d waited for the United States government to give her permission to purchase it.
The noise from downstairs muffled almost everything. But the single gunshot that sent Tim Harris to Hell would echo in her ears for years.
Chapter Fourteen
“Hoffman!”
Ross winced at the way his name bounced around the huge room full of stainless steel. But he was pleased to note that no one looked up at the sound of it. He had the staff well-trained, Brad Jefferson did. He was eighty percent bluster, fifteen percent bullshit and five percent businessman. He’d lucked into the craft beer business by being at the right place with a giant trust fund, not too far off Austin’s story, really. Big difference being Jefferson was a shitty brewer while Austin was pretty good. Not as good as Ross of course, but not many people were.
He grinned at himself in the spotless surface of the giant kettle where thousands of gallons of Brad’s Finest IPA were brewing away under his watchful eye. Since returning to Colorado after Rose’s flu scare he’d jumped right back into his austerity measures—work, workout, sleep.
No women. No partying. No sex.
He’d toned up his body even more and had never felt better, except for the ‘no sex’ thing. He was pretty certain that he wasn’t wired for that particular life choice. But his options remained scarce since he didn’t put himself in a position to pick up women anymore, other than the ones constantly eyeballing him at the gym. So, he was going with it, channeling his pent-up energy into lifting more weights, running more miles. Hell, he’d even started reading books again.
“God damn it, Hoffman I know you can hear me.”
Ross began whistling as he waited for the monitor to flash so he could add the final ingredients to the boil. He really hated this hands-off, computerized brewing. But when dealing with batches as large as these, it was the only way.
Brad ran up to him, breathing heavily.
“You ought to lay off the beer cheese, dude,” Ross said as he shoved past the man to grab the dried moss, the ingredient that kept the wort from boiling over. As he shook the carefully measured grayish powder into the recesses of the kettle, he kept his eyes on the dark swirl of almost-beer in the tank below him. Brad waited, knowing that Ross wouldn’t pay a lick of attention to him while he was working on a batch of their best-selling brew.
“Now,” Ross said, as he tossed the pail into the large sink next to the brew house. “What can I do for you, Bradley?”
The man’s face was bright red around his brewer-hipster, carefully trimmed beard. His eyes blazed with fury. Ross raised an eyebrow, wondering what in the world would have gotten the guy so worked up.
“What did you do?” his bossed half-whispered to him.
“Not sure, other than brew yet more of this super boring, very average IPA.”
“God damn it. I mean to her.”
“To…whom?”
But he thought he knew who. And, as it turned out, he was correct.
“Holly. She just dumped me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Ross patted the man’s thick shoulder. “Want to sit and eat a pint of ice cream together?”
“Fuck you, Hoffman. I know it’s your fault.”
“Hardly,” Ross said, as he pecked out a few commands on the keyboard, setting the concoction’s temperature for the next couple of hours. The brief memory of Holly’s hot ass, tits, and mouth made a shiver run down his spine. But he clenched his jaw and forced himself to turn back to his boss. “I mean, I haven’t talked to her or seen her or anything since I got back from Michigan. Scout’s honor.”
“Your honor isn’t worth shit to me. I know it’s you. She told me.”
“Well, she lied. Big surprise there, eh, champ?”
“No, I think you’re lying.”
Ross felt a meaty hand clamp his left biceps. He glared down at it, then over at Brad’s flushed face.
“You’re a lying, cheating, woman-stealing shithead,” Brad declared, his face beet red.
“Once upon a time, perhaps,” Ross said, peeling the man’s fingers off his arm before he lost his cool and did something even stupider than he’d done so far in this job. “But you’ll have to find someone else to blame this time, I’m afraid. Or you could blame your fat, lazy, self.”
“You…are…” Brad hauled back and Ross braced himself. The guy packed a fair bit o
f muscle under his bulk and he quite possibly deserved to get decked for that last crack. But the blow never came. “You’re fired.”
“Aw, you don’t mean that,” Ross said, wiping his hands on the towel he kept tied onto his belt loop. “Don’t go away mad. Let’s get some fudge ripple and binge-watch Sex and the City.”
Brad double flipped him off then turned and stomped away, muttering under his breath. Wishing the guy had whacked him one so he could’ve laid into him and released a bit of his pent-up energy, Ross caught the eye of a few of the other brewery staff and shrugged. “Boss man’s got lady trouble,” he said.
Within a few hours, he’d forgotten the whole incident. As he was packing up to head home, his phone buzzed with a message. When he saw who it was, he repressed the urge to delete without reading it.
Man up, Hoffman. You can’t ignore her forever. He dropped into the couch he’d liberated from the employee lounge his first week as head brewer. It’s Evelyn. You like her, remember? With a sigh, he read her message.
I think we need your help here for a while. Can you manage to break away from The Diva out there for a few weeks?
Realizing that now might indeed be a great time for a break from this place, let Brad cool off and remind himself why he’d bolted from Michigan with a dose of Austin-Evelyn domesticity, he grinned as he replied.
Sure thing. I call my own shots out here anyway. If he doesn’t like it I’ll just quit again.
Or get fired.
Whichever.
He picked up the phone, recalling something that had nestled in the back of his brain ever since he’d returned. Elisa Nagel—the strange-looking fraulein with the ice-gray eyes, skinny body, and wild-ass hair. Why in God’s name an odd bird like her would stick with him as long as she had, he had no earthly idea.
What about your new lady brewer? She might not like me coming in and bossing her around.
He stretched out, staring at the screen, waiting for the reply. Waiting too eagerly, of course. Evelyn Benedict Fitzgerald always had that effect on him. When nothing came, he stamped out the tiny flame of disappointment and resumed shutting his space down for the night. The brewery ran on a twenty-four-hour cycle, so he passed by the brew house to check on things before heading out of the back door, hopping on his borrowed motorcycle and pointing it toward the house he still rented from the on-sabbatical prof.
