Mutual Release

by Liz Crowe

  By the time they got back to Evan’s house, driven by one of the club caddies because they were both too drunk to walk much less drive, Evan was laughing so hard he almost pissed his pants.

  Jack leaned against his kitchen counter, nearly falling sideways before he righted himself. ‘That bitch throw you over today or what?” he asked, coming right to the point.

  “Nah. I just… misunderstood what we were about. I guess.”

  “You guys aren’t…” Jack stumbled over to the table and dropped into a chair.

  “I’m gonna take a break from the club, I think, for a few weeks.” Evan dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and poured a giant glass of water for each of them.

  “No, don’t do that. Don’t let her keep you from having fun. Then the bitch wins, right?”

  “It’s not about that. It’s like… I can’t keep from bonding or something with these women, then… they cut me loose. I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, I get you. But you gotta learn to fuck ’em and walk away, you know? It’s the best way.” Jack stared gloomily into his water glass.

  Evan glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “I can tell you’re so bloody happy.”

  “Oh, I am. I just… oh, fuck it, where’s the goddamn remote?”

  Evan stared at the television a while; then when he looked over to find Jack sound asleep on the couch, he got up and took a long hot shower and decided to call his parents. He had no idea what prompted it. Even before Damian arrived and upset the Adams applecart, they’d not been close. His father worked long hours supporting the family at his job as head counsel for a large insurance firm. And his mother… well, her odd combination of smothering and ignoring them had left both he and Olivia in turns ecstatic and confused.

  He sat at his desk in the small second bedroom he used as a home office and stared at his phone. When he finally dialed and put the thing to his ear, his chest hurt. He felt so utterly alone at the moment, that he was willing to reach out to people he’d been ignoring even after his mother’s revelation about Olivia’s diary.

  “Evan?” his mother answered. “Honey, is that you?”

  He put his head in his hands. “Yes, Mom. It’s me. Just… checking in, I guess.”

  “Oh Evan, it’s good to hear your voice again.”

  “Is Dad there?”

  “Um, no, he’s not. He’s in hospice.”

  “What?” Evan jumped out of his chair and paced. “What the hell, Mom? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Your father absolutely forbade it. Said if you couldn’t be bothered to stay in touch, then he didn’t care if you knew…” Her voice broke. “What happened to our family, Evan?”

  “What hospice? Where? I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  “No, honey, don’t. It will just upset him and he’s frail.”

  “I will see my father before he dies, Mom. You can’t stop me.” He was already jumping around, yanking on jeans and trying to figure out how he’d get any-fucking-where since he’d left his damn car at the country club. He sat, listening to his mother relay the story of pancreatic cancer spreading to liver and lymph nodes. His eyes burned. “Shit!” He picked up a heavy law book and heaved it at the wall.

  Jack appeared in the door, rubbing his eyes. “Whoa, man, what’s up?”

  “I need to call a cab. I gotta get over to Plymouth. Hospice. My Dad is… he’s…” Evan sat forlorn while Jack snapped to and sorted everything out.

  They got a cab to the club, and Jack climbed behind the wheel of Evan’s car and drove him the thirty miles east to sit at his father’s bedside and watch him die.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Six months later, Evan presided at a large table surrounded by the twelve employees of Big House Brewing and welcomed them to a new company – one where he would be running things. The brewers could expect new equipment, the Tap Room a complete renovation, and the building in general a spruce-up. But they were going to have to cope with a more formal mode of operation. Time clocks, production deadlines, quotas, and sales meetings were part of the new world order.

  Leland Adams had left a very clear and tidy will. His wife would have the house mortgage-free and enough money to live on comfortably for the rest of her life. Evan received the stock portfolio, three vintage Jaguars, commercial real estate valued at over four million dollars, and their condo in Vail. With Jack’s help he went on a selling spree, getting top dollar for every bit of his inheritance, and plowing it straight into buying the brewery.

  The weekend before he quit Harrison and Winter, he paid a visit to The Suite, at Jack’s insistence, to celebrate. He watched, staying in the background, as Sophie entered the room on the arm of one of the tallest, movie-star-handsome men Evan had ever seen. The man took no time in being chosen by her. When he tossed her over his shoulder, and they disappeared into the gloom Evan swallowed hard and met Jack’s eyes. His friend shrugged, mouthed “women” just as two very lovely ones crawled their way towards him.

  Evan sighed, looked down and tilted the chin up of the young woman who sat at his feet. He crouched down to be on her eye level. She was thin, too thin for his taste, but earnest and good-looking. He hated to be a jerk, but…

  “Sweetheart…” He kissed her hand and brought her to her feet. “I’m really in a bad place in my head. I would do you a disservice tonight. I’m sorry.” He gave her a hug, looked around, and steered her towards an older man who stood nearby. “Be good to her,” Evan muttered before walking out.

  He sat talking with Kyle, sipping the hundred-year-old bourbon the guy kept stashed somewhere. He listened while Kyle told him his own sob story, about the man he had loved who had left for no better reason other than to keep from hurting him. Evan knew that man was Rob, Jack’s friend from college who had moved to Chicago to put his chef school skills to work. “God damn, we are sad sacks, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah, but we have got some kick-ass booze.” Evan raised his glass. Kyle clinked it, and they chatted and waited until Jack emerged, a little wobbly, from the private rooms in the back.

  “Fuck you, bastard, holding out on me. Pour me one of those.”

  “Hell no, Gordon. I can’t have you getting drunk and hurting my subs.”

  “Damn, son, those two nearly ripped me in half. And we are all done, thanks. So pass that motherfuckin’ bottle.”

  “Fine, ya pussy.” Kyle smiled and poured Jack a portion.

  “I bought the brewery,” Evan blurted out.

  “I heard. That is really great. I’m sure it will be a huge success.” Kyle smiled and raised his glass in salute.

  “And this asshole just made his first million selling overpriced Ann Arbor houses.” Evan pointed to Jack, who held up a hand in mock modesty.

  Kyle pointed to him, still gripping his glass. “You guys are always welcome here. No charge.”

  “Oh, the hell with that. We are all entrepreneurs now. I will pay the going rate,” Evan claimed.

  “Well, maybe I was trying to wrangle some free beer out of the deal.” Kyle mock-pouted.

  “Nope,” Jack said, putting his empty glass down for a second serving. “We are men of honor. We pay our way. But listen, Kyle, I’m not sure about those two freak shows I just left back there.”

  “You make them that way, Gordon. They only turn freak-show crazy around you.”

  And now here he sat, ready to start down this new, utterly unknown path. His head was clear as he looked around at his new employees. “This won’t be easy. I’m learning as I go, but so are you. And I swear to you we will turn Big House Brewing into Michigan’s most successful commercial brewery.” He lifted his glass of dark porter, smiling when they joined him.

  He hit the first real snag within twenty-four hours. The complex distribution laws that Evan had been studying for weeks meant one thing: He needed a full-time marketing director, someone creative, forceful, and willing to wrangle extra effort out of the two distributors they had, as well as find him another one for the Detr
oit market. He shuffled through a stack of resumes, put them aside to ponder the giant bills for renovation of the Tap Room, then decided to contemplate upgrading the point-of-sale and payroll systems. Finally he gave up when it hit six o’clock, and went out to the beer bar, still half uninhabitable thanks to the ongoing construction work. The remaining half, about two-thousand square feet of converted warehouse industrial space, was standing room only on a Tuesday.

  Evan smiled, sat at the bar and relaxed, watching the bar staff work and the beer drinkers come and go, laugh and flirt and generally enjoy themselves. When he looked up a couple of hours later, Jack was there, a huge shit-eating grin on his face.

  “Holy hell, this brewery thing was a great idea, Adams.” He sat next to Evan and heaved a sigh. “What a giant, lube-free, ass-fuck of a day this was. Get me a beer, wouldya?”

  “Ever the poet,” Evan muttered into his glass.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Jack pulled out his phone to check the time. “I found your marketing director.”

  “Really.” Evan ignored him, distracted by a lovely blonde woman sitting and drinking alone. He had sworn off BDSM clubs, Dom/sub lifestyles, the whole thing. He just wanted to run his business and maybe find a girlfriend. He needed stability, not volatility.

  “Yeah, and she just walked in.”

  Evan looked up and shook hands with Suzanne Baxter, a petite redheaded woman, one of Jack’s college buddies. He liked her instantly. She was smart, facile, had done her homework about the industry and his company in particular. After a couple more beers, he shook her hand again. “You’re hired.”

  She looked startled, glanced over at Jack who laughed and pulled her in for a hug. By the time Evan looked around again, the pretty blonde had left.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Suzanne Baxter took over sales and marketing, everything changed. Evan was amazed by her boundless energy, creativity, and enthusiasm for all things Big House Brewing. She whipped their social networking into extreme shape, hired two sales flunkies, and had the brewers bitching about her in no time – just as it should be. It left him free to get his head around the actual life cycle of craft beer. He brewed several times, screwing up just enough to learn. The inner workings of city utilities, garbage collection, and other small things that become giant problems if they are not dealt with became his nightly companions.

  He worked behind the bar on a few busy nights, getting thoroughly in the weeds and finding his own way out. After one particularly grueling Friday night, he sat slumped in a seat, his feet and back throbbing. He had never felt so utterly exhausted and happy from the inside out. Even his lack of a girlfriend didn’t hurt so much. He’d had a few hookups, none of them memorable in any way. But they kept him on a slightly even keel, except for the occasional dream involving Felicia, Sophie, floggers and spanking benches. Evan believed himself firmly in control of his inner sexual deviant, although at times he missed the rough energy of a hard session with a willing submissive.

  He had even gotten to a comfort point with their potential output and was ready to bring on a metro Detroit distributor. The one he wanted – Dawson Associates – had agreed to meet with him, although the president’s assistant had left little hope he would be taken seriously. So he and Suzanne crunched the numbers and put together a killer presentation. The brewers packaged two cases of their existing products and mockups of their proposed bottles filled with exclusive tastes of upcoming brews. He was ready.

  Monday dawned bright, clear, and cold, even for an October morning. Evan ran his usual route around the west side of his newly adopted town, relishing how strong he felt and looking forward to his workday – the one where he had a tight grip on his own destiny for a change. After a long hot shower, two huge cups of coffee, and an apple, he grabbed his presentation thumb drive and laptop and headed out.

  One of the things he’d inherited from his father was a love of classic English cars. He had sold two of the three Jags, kept his favorite and bought an MG Spyder, not giving a shit at how much it cost to keep the damn thing running properly. As he sped in his sports car across Interstate 96 on his way to the far-flung Northern Detroit suburbs to sweet talk, finagle, and wow the big-time distributor, he was on top of his own personal mountain. Nothing would spoil the day. He refused to allow it.

  He pulled into a visitor’s parking spot, tucked his Ray-Bans over the visor, and smoothed his hair before jumping out and striding to the glass front doors. “Dawson” was etched in the glass, nothing more or less, as if it were a boutique law firm or ad agency. Nothing out front indicated that it was one of the most successful craft beer and domestic wine distribution companies in the Midwest.

  Tucking away a shiver of intimidation, he pushed the door open and saw a small shrine to Michigan craft beer. The front receiving area was full of faux six packs, cases, kegs, and displays representing every brand, including some that were nationally known. A single desk sat near another set of doors. Through its clear glass he could see a bustling group of people, men and women, all dressed in top-notch suits, getting ready to go out on their sales day. The place oozed professionalism, even a bit of snootiness that surprised him.

  But he shook it off, walked up to the stunningly attractive blond woman at the front desk. She sat frowning at a large computer screen. He stood for a few seconds, thinking she would acknowledge him. Finally he had to clear his throat to make her look away from whatever had her mesmerized.

  “Oh, hello. Sorry about that.” Her smile made her already gorgeous face light up and left him slightly breathless. Looking back, he figured he must have looked like a complete ass as he stood there, unable to form coherent words, his brain awash in sensations he had not allowed himself to experience in a damn long time. She arched one perfect eyebrow. He gulped, knowing he should say something.

  “Uh, so, I have an appointment?” He winced at the upturning of his sentence as if he were asking her a question. Clearing his throat, he started over, pasted on his best “Evan Adams, Charmer” smile and held out a hand. “Evan Adams, owner of Big House Brewing in Ann Arbor, here to see Mr. Dawson. I’m a little early.”

  She tilted her head, then shook his hand matter-of-factly. But he had to stop himself from stumbling backwards at the thoughts coiling up in his lizard brain at her touch. His mouth dried out and an odd yet familiar roaring sound fired up between his ears. She frowned. “You okay, there, Evan?” Her lips caressed his name, making him repress a shiver.

  “Yeah, sorry. So, anyway, I’ll just sit… over here… until Mr. Dawson is ready. You know, since I’m, uh, early.” He winced, marveling at the depth of his dorkiness. She put her elbows on the desk, eyeing him closely. He observed that she seemed a little overdressed for a receptionist but figured this place must have a strict dress code.

  “Sit here,” she said, patting the seat nearest her desk. “Keep me company for a while.”

  “Um, sure,” he said, flushing red to the tips of his ears, then moving closer to her while trying to look cool, casual, not ready to jump up and escape.

  She smiled. “So, tell me about your company. You know, while we wait for Mr. Dawson.”

  He relaxed and launched into the tale, thankful to have a reason to talk and not sound like the world’s oldest high school geek trying to flirt with the prom queen. She asked a lot of questions, kept him talking. And after about a half hour, he was laughing with her at his tale of trying to empty a brewing vessel full of wet grains and dumping about ten pounds of the stuff all over himself.

  At one point she brushed her hair back, and his breath caught in his throat at the glimpse of her long neck and the small indent between her collarbones. He had no idea what that was, that soft spot that seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. But he wanted to put his tongue there very, very badly. Allowing his eyes to flicker over her profile, the striking angles of her face, he gulped, looked away.

  Getting a grip, he pulled a business card from his portfolio and handed it to her. “I’d love t
o talk with you more,” he said, trying to ease his voice down from its high-pitched nervous whine to a sexier, more natural tone. “But since I don’t even know your name…” He looked at the nameplate on the desk. It was blank.

  She leaned back, propped her high heels on the desk in a strange move that had him instantly on edge and practically panting with horniness.

  “Uh, so,” he glanced at his watch, his nerves dancing up and down his spine once more, “if you are interested, maybe we could, you know, go out. Have a beer? Keep chatting?” He closed his eyes, unable to bear his own flop sweat another minute. “Never mind.” He slumped back in his seat. Where the “Master Dom” Evan Adams had hidden he did not know, but damned if the guy was staying there and leaving this ridiculous, stuttering loser in his place.

  The silence spun out about a minute longer than was truly polite. He finally looked up at her. She was staring at him over the tops of her shoes, her head tilted to the side as if wondering why the hell he was even cluttering up her space. Finally, the doors to his left opened and a tall, good-looking guy in a suit stood there, surprise clear on his face. “Julie,” he said. “We’ve been looking all over for you. Your nine o’clock appointment isn’t here yet but…”

  The woman held up a hand, silencing the man but keeping her eyes pinned on Evan’s. His heart sped up and that familiar, yet nearly forgotten, roaring sound started up in his ears once more.

  Julie Dawson. J. Dawson. The person he’d been communicating with through his… or her… secretary.

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  He stood, furious that she’d sat there and let him babble on like a bloody idiot for nearly forty-five minutes. “Well, that was fun,” he said, staring her down, or attempting to. But his skin was both on fire and cold at once. Something about the woman made him have to hang on to his laptop case tight, just to keep from stepping close and kissing those full red lips so hard she would be his in an instant. “Or not. Thanks for your time.”