Lightstruck: ( A Contemporary Romance Novel) (Brewing Passion Book 2)

by Liz Crowe

  She spoke this in stilted English, giving it a formal finality he didn’t like.

  He took a breath, cleared his mind ever so slightly, and smiled over at her. “Well, why don’t we see how things progress?” he replied in German, popping a tater tot into his mouth. “Mmmm, want some?” He turned the plate around so the pile of strange potato products he loved were facing her. “I love these damn things.”

  “What are they?” She picked one up and rolled it over in one small palm, sniffed it, then took a tiny bite. “Tastes like frites,” she said, finishing it off. “Sort of. But different.”

  He dredged one through ketchup laced with hot sauce. “Try it this way.” He handed it to her, letting their fingers touch on purpose.

  Teenager! Next thing you’ll do is yawn and reach for her boob.

  “My God! That is delicious.” She grabbed another one and dunked it in the red sauce, then another. She grinned across the table at him and Ross honestly believed his heart may have skipped a quick beat. He took a huge bite of his burger to cover his discomfiture.

  Elisa wiped her lips. Ross reached over and touched his fingertip to a splotch of ketchup she’d missed, then put it in his mouth. She flushed. And his dick got hard again. So hard he felt his zipper bite into it which made him flinch and put the burger down.

  This is too weird. She is so not my type.

  He caught her staring at his burger. “Don’t you start too,” he said before taking a long swig of beer, wondering how he could politely extract himself from this before he did something truly stupid.

  “I am very sorry to break this to you, Hoffman, but I’m not quite sure that animal is dead yet. Shall I stab it for you? Just to be safe.” She brandished a knife.

  He frowned. “So, Elisa. Tell me about that tatt around your neck.”

  She froze, knife still raised in mock burger-stabbing mode. Her face, so prettily flushed, drained of all color in an instant. “This is none of your business,” she said, her voice strained. “I’ve finished my beer. Thank you for the round pommes frites. Now I must go. Oh, and it’s Elle, as you well know.”

  He exhaled, cursing his sudden inability to be subtle. “Okay, I take it back. Sit. Stay. Good girl. And why not Elisa? It’s a lovely name. Fitting.”

  He patted the table next to her beer and treated her to his best, charm-the-panties-off-’em smile. She hesitated, half-standing already. “What is this strange face? You have indigestion? Weren’t you taught to cook the meat before you put it in your mouth?”

  Ross picked up the burger and took an obnoxiously large chomp, letting the grease and hot mustard ooze out the sides of his mouth. Elisa rolled her eyes. But she slid back into her seat, even though her stance was wary again, guarded, afraid in that way that made Ross want to punch somebody. To beat them until they couldn’t walk.

  This was going to take longer than he’d bargained for. But hell, it wasn’t like he was going anywhere. The beer blogosphere had been apoplectic by his ignominious firing from Jefferson’s brewery. Brad had made sure some of the more salacious but not quite grossly explicit pictures Holly had taken of him, pissed off his keester and being serviced by two girls at once got wide distribution. He’d had to cancel his Facebook page, thanks to all the attention. Much of it from chicks who had zero qualms shooting him wet, split beaver shots in his personal message inbox.

  Bizarre and somehow titillating at first. But after a few hours perusing them, he felt sad for the women, and disgusted with himself. He’d saved some of the better tit pix of course. He wasn’t a monk after all.

  The server brought them both a stout. Elisa thanked him and asked for two glasses of water while Ross made short work of the bloody hamburger. Finally, he groaned, wiped his face with his napkin and shoved the decimated plate away from him. She kept her icy gaze on him as she sipped the dark brew. “This is very good,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking his own sip.

  “I am not complimenting you, fool. I made this batch, with Bryan, the clumsy asshole.”

  Ross grinned. “I know. I was just testing you.” Determined not to spook her again, he set his beer down and contemplated his next conversational gambit.

  A shout hit his ears, jarring him. Elisa craned her head up, trying to see around his shoulder. He turned, annoyed by the interruption.

  “Hey, Hoffman,” Melody called. “You guys are needed in the main brewery. Now.”

  They both jumped up, ran behind the bar and into the back of the pub then across the parking lot. Ross slammed the door back, taking in the chaos. An out-of-place aroma hit his brain just as he looked down and spotted the thick ooze of propylene glycol. Before he could stop her, Elisa ran past him, headed for the corner where the stuff was stored. Fitzgerald didn’t use much of it, since they only had a few lagers requiring nonstop glycol cooling. But there was enough to cause a mess, just like the one he was staring at.

  “No, Elisa, stop!” He reached for her but caught nothing but air at the precise second both of her booted feet hit the stuff. Her fall was in acrobatic, slow motion, sending her feet up and her head down. She landed hard on her butt right in the middle of the worst of the spill, and bounced the back of her skull on the concrete.

  The damn stuff was more than a little caustic, even in the low concentrations they kept, so even as he yelled for Rick to run over and turn off the power to that part of the brewery to stop the leak, he scooped her up in his arms and ran for the locker rooms.

  As he ran, he yelled orders, telling someone to call Austin, and someone else to start diluting and squeegeeing the thick liquid down the drains. She struggled, using that surprising strength of hers to try to escape. But he figured since he had eighty pounds of muscle on her, he put it to use, gripping her tighter as he shouldered his way into the ladies’ locker room. There were only a few straggling employees, mostly pub staff on a shift change.

  “Out,” he barked. They scattered.

  “Let go of me, you giant oaf,” she screeched. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. My skin…” She began to whimper in a way that freaked him out. Elisa did not strike him as a whimperer.

  “Sh. It’s all right. Hang on.” He leaned into the shower and turned on the water, then climbed in, still holding her in his arms. The water hit his face first so he turned, keeping her under its wide spray. One of the things Evelyn had demanded was an upgrade to these facilities, insisting that since so many people used them post shift or sometimes early in the morning to get ready, she wanted them to be top-notch, the level of a high-end gym. Ross thanked her mentally for that, grateful for the strong, wide swath of hot water sluicing the viscous fluid off Elisa’s exposed skin.

  She shivered and clutched his neck, keeping her face buried in his chest as they were both soaked through to the skin. He kept making nonsense sounds, trying to calm her, trying not to notice that he had a full view of her left nipple in the gape of her wet denim vest. At some point, she looked up at him, water streaming across her face so he did what he’d been wanting to do all day.

  Her lips were full, firm under his but he went slow, easy, hoping not to scare her. When his tongue found the hard, gold ball in her tongue, he groaned, turned on even more. Not wanting the kiss to ever end. But it did, leaving them both gasping. Ross looked down and saw that the small, rosebud pink nipple he could see was rock hard. His dick slammed against the back of his zipper once more. But he held on to her, sensing this was what she needed of him right now. Nothing more.

  “You’re a pretty good kisser…armleuchter,” she claimed with a small smile.

  “Oh, my heart,” he said, over the sound of the water. “You break it with your sweet talking.”

  “Then put me down,” she said, pushing against his chest. He let go of her. When her feet hit the tiles, her legs buckled so he caught her under her arms, pressed her against the shower wall, and decided to show her how good he really was at the kissing thing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Elle’s inner nag rais
ed her voice the moment Ross’ lips touched hers for the second time, striking up a distracting mental conversation.

  “Elisa Henriette Nagel, you promised.”

  “I know I promised. Now, shut up, bitch, and let me enjoy this. My God, this man… Such a man… Such a…”

  “Ja, and such a man as this destroyed you. Drove you from your home. Forced you to start all over again. Landed you here…with this man… Oh my God, he can kiss!”

  “I told you so. Now go away and let me have this for a few more seconds before you remind me that I am making another huge mistake.”

  She gasped and drew away from him, heeding the inner warning voice, even though everything else in her was urging her forward. She put her hands on his chest, gulping in air and framing her argument—mostly to herself. Realizing she had her damn legs wrapped around his hips like some of slut, which provided her with the sort of friction the lady who’d pierced her hood had promised would blow her mind. She wiggled free and stood. “I think I’m cleaned off now.” Her voice sounded weak. She hated that but had gotten used to it in the years since…since Him.

  She shivered so hard her teeth rattled. Likely mistaking it for the fact that they were still standing under the shower fully dressed, Ross cursed under his breath and turned off the water. As he turned back to her, she ducked under his outstretched arm and ran into the locker room for a towel. Her mind was spinning. Her body revved up in ways it hadn’t been for years.

  Losing control was not an option. It was what had ruined men for her. Or so she claimed to herself. Repeatedly.

  As she watched, the Viking god of a man emerged from the shower. He tugged his hair free of the tie-back and shook it like a dog, spraying water everywhere. His bright white grin shone through the red, close-clipped beard like a beacon of hope.

  “You are nothing,” a different, much harder-edged voice insisted in her ear. It was a voice she’d managed to suppress for the past few weeks. But now, it was back. And it was loud. Tears burned her eyes as she and Ross stared at each other across the locker room floor. “You deserve nothing. You deserve to sit in your own shit. To lie in your own piss. To lick the mud off my boots. Now get over here, on your useless hands and knees and suck my…”

  “Stop!” She gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth when she realized she’d screamed like a crazy person. But crazy people hear voices, right?

  Right.

  “Elisa.”

  Ross. Ross was saying her name. She opened her eyes, forgetting that she’d squeezed them shut. He was mere centimeters from her now. So close she could trace the outline of his musculature under the wet brewery T-shirt. Could almost reach out and lick the water on his neck, bury her hands in his thick hair, lose herself in him.

  “No,” she said, holding out both hands and locking her elbows. He frowned, but stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded, crossing his arms and getting that line of stubborn between his deep blue eyes. The line she’d come to recognize, respect and love.

  No, Elisa. No more.

  “I’m soaking wet and freezing. That’s what’s wrong. Are you blind in addition to being a mouth-breathing fool?” She tried to keep her tone light but her teeth were chattering so hard it made her sound scared—which she was, of course.

  They stood in their odd tableau, him pressing against her outstretched hands, both of them in dripping clothes. She could sense the frustration rolling off him in waves so palpable they were like a hot wind, buffeting her, pressing her back until she dropped to her butt on the wide wooden bench along the wall of lockers.

  “Go,” she said, her voice stronger now. “Leave me alone. I won’t do this. I can’t. You… You have to leave me alone.”

  She dropped her face into her hands, willing him gone.

  Willing him to stay.

  His hands were warm on her arms, pulling her to standing, sliding up the back of her neck, tugging her close. She resisted. God help her she did, including trying the stiff-arm thing she’d used a few seconds before. But even though he was as soaking wet as her, he was warm. He was a comfort. His arms were strong and they were around her.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered in her ear, confusing her for a second until she realized she was sobbing. Great, loud, snotty sobs that would be embarrassing. But somehow, she wasn’t embarrassed.

  She put her arms around his waist, pressed her face into his firm chest and let the tears flow. Ross made more soothing noises, crooning to her in German and English, stroking her hair, keeping his touch light and innocent.

  Finally, he pulled away and tilted her chin up. His smile made every nerve ending she possessed zing with pleasure. But it also triggered the voice. His voice. Reminding her of her basic unworthiness.

  She disentangled herself, swiping at her still-streaming eyes. He handed her a towel and she wrapped it around her shoulders, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor.

  “You are like a piece of shit on my shoe. Don’t you ever forget it. You’ll never amount to anything more than what I want you to be.” The voice—something she’d once craved like a junkie—filled her brain, drowning out everything else. “Now, spread your legs and shut up.”

  And she had. Because He’d trained her that way, the sadistic fucker.

  She turned away from Ross and glared at her reflection in the mirrors over the row of sinks. The ink He’d paid for around her neck stood out against her blotchy red skin like a scar. He’d claimed it was the sign of His devotion. That because she wore His collar permanently, she was safe, forever.

  Well, she had been safe from anyone else, anyway. After that, He’d started to isolate her, demand that she account for her every movement outside of the restaurant and their small apartment. Not long after that, He’d raped her for the first time.

  That’s not what He’d called it, of course.

  Ross’ hand on her shoulder made her yelp and whirl around. As she gripped the towel tightly in one hand she held up her other. “I thank you for that…moment. Now, you must go.”

  “I’m not going, Elisa,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Not until you tell me what the fuck that thing is around your neck and why…” He hesitated, swallowed hard and softened his glare. “Tell me why you’re afraid.”

  She dropped her gaze again. A purely involuntary gesture, but one she’d had drilled deeply into her psyche by The Monster she’d once trusted with everything. Ross stayed silent. Finally, she looked up at him. He was smiling, which put her on guard. The Monster used to smile too, while He was doing some of the worst things to her. By the time she’d run, with nothing but the clothes on her back, her passport and a whole wad of His cash in her pocket, only the very worst things would get Him hard, much less get Him off.

  A sudden surge of nausea filled her throat, forcing more tears down her face. Ross’ shoulders slumped. She shoved past him, ran for a stall and slammed the door. Pressing her forehead against the cool metal, she realized that The Monster had won. Even though she’d escaped him physically and geographically, He’d made His mark. Left His scar. And not only around her neck.

  “Go, Hoffman,” she blurted out. “I mean it. I don’t like you. I don’t want you around me.” She saw his work boots under the stall door. “God damn it, you’re an idiot. Leave me the fuck alone!” She slammed her palm against the door once, twice, so many times she lost count and her hand stung. She sat on the toilet, still dressed in her wet, cold clothes, shivering and cursing her stupid life until she heard the locker room door click closed.

  “See? Now was that so hard? You know it’s for the best. No man can be trusted. Not even that one. No matter how much you want to or think he’s worthy. You’re not worthy of him. You’re shit. You’re a whore. You’re useless.”

  “Shut up,” she whispered, as she rocked back and forth, arms wrapped tight around herself. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”

  “Elle?”

  The actual voice coming from the other side of the bathroom stall door startled he
r out of the semi-trance. A soft knock made her jump up and wipe her eyes. She had made a complete mess of this place. She should go and leave these nice people to their normal lives.

  “Elle, open the door.” The Spanish accent came through, revealing the nosy parker as Melody, the pub manager. “Come on now.” The door rattled.

  With a sigh, Elle opened the door. It creaked open revealing the attractive, dark-haired woman. “Mi Dios, come on.” She grabbed Elle’s hand and pulled her out. “Do you have spare clothes?”

  “Y-y-y-yes.” Elle pointed to her locker and gave the combo. Melody opened it, poked around and emerged with a clean pair of jeans. “I don’t have a clean shirt, I don’t think.”

  Melody looked around, then grabbed a Fitzgerald branded sweatshirt draped over the bench nearest the door. “Here, I had this on earlier. Get out of that wet stuff. Do you have undies?” She stuck her head back in Elle’s locker and pulled out a small bag Elle usually kept hanging on the hook that contained her extra underthings.

  She took the bag and stood there, feeling sheepish. Melody stared at her, then slapped a hand to her forehead. “Sorry. I’ll wait outside.”

  “Thank you,” Elle said, unable to even comprehend any of this—of her near-visceral reaction to Ross’ earlier kiss, of the wrenching reality of her life, of anything that had happened to her in the past few weeks.

  Her mind flew to its usual perch, worn down by her mental workings of it. The gun she kept—that she’d bought in a pawn shop with the last of her cash. The gun she’d use to kill The Monster when he found her, because He would find her. Of that, she had no doubt. If He snuck up on her and snagged her, she’d use the gun on herself. Death would be preferable to what passed as life as His emotional prisoner.

  The stupid gun that had come in handy, as it turned out and that she no longer owned, thanks to what she’d done.

  With a groan, she slumped on the bench, taking deep breaths and forcing Ross—his hands, his lips, his arms, strong chest—out of her mind for good.