Conditioned (Brewing Passion Book 3) Page 3

  Evelyn turned and motioned for me. “I found a table,” she hollered.

  At that moment, my ears seemed to open up, allowing a rush of noise that knocked me for a loop. Raucous laughter, clinking glasses, blasting music—it all hit my eardrums with the force of a thunderclap.

  Evelyn was already seated, talking with people at a nearby table and swiping the surface clean with a napkin. She was so easy-going—nothing ever fazed her. I was jealous of her on plenty of levels, but more grateful that she kept talking to me, kept trying to get me to go out with her. I jammed a smile on my face. But it must’ve looked more like a grimace since Evelyn did a double take when she glanced at me.

  “Come on, sit,” she demanded, patting the worn-down seat of the chair next to her. “I can’t wait for you to give me a tasting lesson. What’ll it be today?” She squinted up at the beer board. “I know—let’s do sours.”

  “No,” I said, hanging my purse on the back of the chair and taking a seat. “The ones we’re pouring now are garbage. Let’s compare the IPAs. God knows there are enough of them.”

  She grinned and leaned closer to me. “I knew you’d get into the spirit.”

  I sighed, opened my mouth to reply but before I could, I met the gaze of the man from the diner.

  I got that stupid, clichéd pinpoint narrowing sensation again—like I’d gotten the previous weekend when he’d been so…so…what? Hot as shit in his rumpled tux shirt, tie and trousers? Mi Dios, he had lips to die for and eyes that were somewhere between blue and green and utterly beautiful, that’s what. His tan skin was only marred by a thin line of paleness at each temple—from sunglasses, I knew. He was bald but something about it made him even sexier. He owned it, the way very few men might.

  I swallowed past the rising panic in my throat but could not stop staring at him. He was in a blue dress shirt today, with dark trousers. His eyes narrowed, then shifted slightly to my left.

  “Oh shit, it’s Trent,” Evelyn whisper-shouted in my ear, breaking into the porn loop that starred the sexy bald man that had been running through my brain.

  “Who?” I broke our stare and focused down on my tightly clenched hands. “I mean…what?”

  The bar noise ramped up again, filling my head, deafening me, reminding me that I did not belong on this side of the bar.

  “You know, the guy I’ve gone out with a few times. I told you.” Evelyn bumped my shoulder.

  “Oh, right,” I said, not recalling anything she’d said about the man that I could sense burning a hole in me with his gaze.

  Wow. I guess I did need to get out more. The clichés were coming hard and fast now.

  I cleared my throat and stood so fast my chair fell over backward behind me, making a gunshot-loud crack of noise. As I reached down to grab it, I found it already being set up for me. By him, of course. I shivered and moved away from the table.

  “Evelyn,” he said, his voice a deep, musically masculine timbre. “So great to see you.”

  She beamed up at him. And who would blame her? If anything, the man was even hotter when not in a crumpled white shirt and dangling bow tie. I kept my gaze fixed on her but my hearing went all buzzy. I watched her lips move, saw her flick her hair, lean forward, then backward—doing her mating dance.

  “I’ll get us some drinks,” I blurted out, making them both stare at me as if startled I was still nearby. The beautiful man’s eyes seemed to flicker past me, then settle back on my friend—the beautiful, sexy Evelyn. And thank God for that.

  I ran for the bar and leaned on it, catching my breath.

  “Hola, chica,” a familiar voice called out. I raised my aching head, willing myself home, away from this awful scene.

  “Hola,” I said, raising a finger to one of my fellow bartenders. “A flight of IPAs, por favor.” I glanced back at the table. The painfully guapo anglo had taken my seat, I noticed, and was practically salivating all over Evelyn. No big surprise there. But I was surprised by the rush of jealousy that turned my entire body into a million tiny nerve endings, each of them screaming that I should leave. Now. If not sooner.

  The flight of beers materialized in front of me. “Add the chocolate stout, on nitro,” I said, not even knowing why. “I’ll be back for it.”

  I carried the flight to the table, set it down, let them keep ignoring me then went back for the deep brown brew with the creamy bubbles flowing through it. “This one’s for you,” I said, more boldly than I felt, as I set it in front of Mr. Guapo.

  He grinned up at me, his teeth bright, his eyes shining. Evelyn must have agreed to go out with him. Using this manufactured fact as my shield, I sat across from him. He sipped the beer, smacked his distressingly full lips then downed half of it. Evelyn seemed a bit uptight but turned to me and declared herself ready for our beer lesson.

  The next forty minutes I spent walking her through the various taste profiles of each ale, giving her pointers on how to pinpoint certain hops used, how one of them was woefully out of balance with way too many hops versus malt and how one of them tasted like buttered popcorn—which meant it was spoiled.

  The entire time, Mr. Hot Stuff sat, watching and listening. He finished the stout I’d brought and signaled the waiter for another. As I was getting up to complain about the spoiled beer—hoping it wasn’t the beer supply lines running from the kegs in the basement to the taps above—I lost my footing at the same moment I realized I hadn’t eaten much all day. As I was preparing myself for the ultimate embarrassment—a face-plant on the floor—a hand wrapped around my arm and kept me on my feet.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, jerking myself out of his grip and heading for the bar—tipsy, yes. And drunk with lust for reasons that I would never, ever be able to explain.

  I’d sworn off men for good. What about this guy was any different from any other earnest effort on the part of other men in the years since I’d made that vow?

  “The double IPA has diacetyl,” I said to the manager, using the term for the chemical created that caused the off-flavor I’d pointed out to Evelyn.

  “No, it doesn’t,” he said, not looking at me.

  “Try it,” I insisted. “It’s like drinking a box of caramel corn.”

  He sighed, poured a small glass, sniffed it then drank. His expression was all I needed for vindication.

  “Pull that keg,” he barked at one of the bar backs. “What is this shit anyway?” He peered at our cheat sheet next to the long line of taps. “Fitzgerald? Wow. That’s surprising. They’re always good.”

  “We rep them,” I said, reaching over and pouring myself a glass of water from the beverage wand. “I’ll check and see who has the account and let him know.” Rumors of bad batches had been flying around about Fitzgerald a lot lately. I turned, putting the cool glass to my flaming hot face. When I pressed it to my exposed upper chest, seeking relief, the handsome man who’d made his way into my life twice in the last two weeks was staring right at me. His odd-shaded eyes were wide, as if shocked or horrified by what I was doing. He leaned back and finished his beer.

  As he rose, I worried he was going to come over and say something to me. Instead, and to my immediate, shocked, fury, he picked up Evelyn’s hand, kissed it, then leaned over and kissed her lips, lingering a bit too long for public consumption.

  When he broke from her, he stared straight at me, as if to say “watch me work”.

  I whirled away from him, furious at myself for caring, horrified at myself for caring so much. When I checked again, he was gone.

  I made my way to the table, my pulse racing, my heartbeat whamming in my ears. Evelyn was sipping one of the remaining IPAs and flicking through her phone messages. Her face was flushed. And why wouldn’t it be?

  I dropped into my chair—the one he’d commandeered—and slammed one of the other IPAs, barely tasting it. “I should go home,” I said, reaching for my purse.

  “No, please don’t,” Evelyn said, putting her hand on my arm. “I need to talk to somebody.”

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nbsp; I sighed and nodded, motioning for the roaming waiter. “I need something stronger,” I said. “Patrón,” I told the roaming waiter kid whose name I’d forgotten. “Two glasses. Two fresh lime wedges. Salt.”

  His grin widened. I had just ordered twenty-four dollars’-worth of shots, after all.

  “Wow,” Evelyn said, leaning back and pulling her long blonde hair up in a ponytail. “Big spender.”

  “Not really. I get a discount. And I need…”

  “I know. Something stronger.” She leaned forward on her elbows, her gaze sharp. I felt myself tense. “You are so mysterious,” she said, tapping her red-painted fingernail on the table. “Maybe if I get you sloshed on expensive hooch…”

  “My lips will remain sealed, I assure you,” I said, finishing the last IPA dregs and sensing the alcohol begin to work its magic. This brought with it a surge of panic, almost like nausea, up my spine and into the back of my throat. But I forced myself to be calm. I was with Evelyn. No one would hurt me.

  “I can’t go out with him anymore,” she said, staring morosely at her phone.

  “Oh? Who?” I knew who. And she knew I knew. She shot me an arch look. “What?”

  “I can’t go out with Trent anymore.” She pointed toward a table where Sir Hot Stuff was holding court, it would seem, with a bunch of be-suited business types. I put a hand to my throat, unable to stop myself. His rear view was lovelier than I’d imagined. He was tall—probably six foot four or even five—with a classic V-shaped body made up of wide shoulders tapering to a trim waist. His ass—I felt myself flush hot even thinking the word—was firm-looking under the well-tailored dress slacks.

  As I studied him, I marveled that a man with no hair at all would be so hot. As if sensing my gaze, he ran a large hand around the back of his scalp, then down to his neck. I heard his deep voice booming across the noisy interior but couldn’t make out the words.

  Evelyn cleared her throat. I flinched. She had one eyebrow raised at me, all-knowing, it would seem. Our drinks arrived, saving me for the time being. We clinked, touched our tongues to the salt on our hands and drank, chasing it quickly afterward with the fresh lime juice.

  The table next to ours—full of men whom I didn’t even see, now that he, Trent, had imprinted on my retinas—cheered, and offered to buy us another round.

  “Sure thing,” Evelyn said, motioning for the waiter. “Wait’ll they get the bill,” she muttered out of the side of her mouth to me.

  “Why can’t you go out with him anymore? I blurted, knowing the booze had loosened me up. “Surely he knows how to…um…show you a good time?”

  Evelyn giggled and rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes. He does. He’s into some seriously kinky stuff, though. It was fun but I’m not sure it’s my scene.”

  My face got hot again. I glanced over Evelyn’s shoulder and sure enough, there he was, sipping his beer and studying me like some germ under a microscope. We took our second tequila shots. And our third.

  “Baggage,” Evelyn said, her voice only a little slurred. “Man’s got waaaay too much baggage.”

  “What do you mean?” I bit down on the lime wedge, needing the tartness between my teeth for something that would keep me from ogling Trent’s backside. He’d been moving around the table, engaging each person at it in some form of personal conversation for the last hour. He was fun to watch.

  I made myself stop watching. It would do me no good.

  “You know!” Evelyn smacked her palm on the table to get my attention. She pointed at me, but her finger wavered in my vision. I blinked, smacked her hand away, opened my mouth to say something useful and hiccupped so loudly the table of guys next to us all turned. Evelyn burst into giggles, flopping back in her seat, her legs splayed out in front of her.

  I sensed the gazes of every man next door shoot right to her thighs. The hairs on the back of my neck tingled as I leaned over and shoved her knees back together. “I’m sure I don’t know.” My hiccups were making me lightheaded. I tried to drink water, hold my breath, everything. But nothing helped.

  Evelyn stood, gripping the back of her chair and winked at me. “I’ve gotta pee,” she said. A couple of the guys elbowed each other.

  “I’ll go with you,” I declared, glaring at the men who had the decency to look sheepish before turning back to their drinks.

  We wobbled our way to the bathroom. I hopped up onto the counter next to the sink and waited while Evelyn did her business. When she emerged, tucking her shirt into her skirt, her eyes were swimming with tears.

  I jumped down and helped her, since the shirt was all twisted up, even though I was easily as sloshed as she was. “Oh shit,” she spat out before washing her hands, making a slow, drunken show of inspecting her face then her hair before turning to glare at me.

  “He’s got a kid—a teenager.”

  I blinked trying to decide if I should pee or just get my drunk ass home somehow. “Who?”

  “Trent, you little bitch,” she said, giggling again. She leaned into my ear. “He’s hot as holy hell. No lie.” She waved a hand in front of her face.

  “I’m sure,” I said, deciding at that moment that getting my drunk ass home should be job one.

  “Teach me a swear word,” she said. “A good one.”

  I sighed and realized that my hiccups had stopped. “Me cago en todo lo que se menea!” I washed my hands for lack of anything better to do as she tried it out a few times.

  “What does it mean?”

  “I shit on everything that moves,” I said, leaning back and observing as she stood, slumped against the bathroom wall, devastating even in her drunkenness.

  “More,” she insisted as we headed back out into the ever-louder bar.

  “Hijo de puta,” I said. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Ooo, that’s a good one. I’m gonna try it out right now.” She stomped over to our empty table.

  “Nope,” I said, grabbing her elbow and slowing her down. “Not today.”

  “Aw, you’re no fun at all.” She slumped into me. “I feel like such a bitch. A…puta.”

  “You’re not. We should eat something, maybe.”

  “Yeah. I want a cheeseburger. Fuck diets.”

  “Agreed.” We sat, giggling and sipping water, then ordered our food and more water.

  “So, a teenaged daughter, eh?” I couldn’t believe I was asking. It was the tequila talking.

  “Yep,” she said with a heavy sigh. She leaned on her elbow and watched Trent as his party seemed to be wrapping up. He laughed, patted guys’ backs and shoulders and guided them all to the door. “God damn I’m an idiot. We had some good times. But something didn’t really click. But you know, sometimes you just know, you know?”

  “I know,” I said, solemnly. Which sent us both back into paroxysms of giggles.

  I’m embarrassed to admit that I barely remembered eating, even though I could see a fully decimated plate boasting a limp piece of lettuce and a few fries in front of me. My head was pounding and not in a good way. My gut roiled. Evelyn’s eyes were glassy as she sipped a beer. I blinked at my own beer, wondering when the hell we’d ordered them.

  Our Casanovas at the next table had moved closer. One of them had an arm draped over Evelyn’s shoulders and was brazenly leering down her shirt. I made myself snap to, set the beer down and drank a whole glass of water, hoping it would counteract the alcohol and knowing it was far too late at this juncture in the festivities.

  I smacked at the man’s hand that dangled like a teenager’s over Evelyn’s left breast. She blew out a puff of air, stood up fast and ran for the bathroom. We all watched, my brain accepting what was happening even as my body acted of its own accord. I stood, wavering badly, and stomped after her. I’d barely made it to the women’s room door when a hand gripped my shoulder and spun me around.

  “Come on, mamacita,” some asshole was saying, his lips too close to my face. “You owe me at least one kiss. Those were expensive fucking tequila shots.”

  �
��Get off me,” I yelped, struggling as I was tossed straight back into the void—the place where I’d drunk too much, trying to impress a bunch of girls who’d never be my friends no matter what.

  And again, not that long ago, at the hands of a man I’d trusted.

  “No!” I kneed somebody’s balls. Stepped on someone else’s foot. Shoved the heel of my hand into some other somebody’s chin. Curses filled my head. The smell of stale beer, sand and sea water filled my nose. Someone shoved me against a wall and held my wrists. We must have somehow made our way into the men’s room because the air stank even stronger of piss.

  When I sensed someone’s tongue in my mouth, I bit down as hard as I could. The pain that exploded in my head right after that centered on my nose.

  At that odd, painful moment, everything stopped. I slid to the floor, sobbing, dizzy, sick.

  Fulfilling your destiny, eh, Melody? Showing off, getting drunk and getting what you deserve. Again.

  I tried to focus on the action around me but all I heard were loud grunts, more cursing and the meaty thud of fists against flesh. Finally, someone took me by the arms and helped me up, even as I struggled against him.

  I knew it was him. That he’d seen me at my worst already.

  “Let me go,” I demanded, turning to spit blood into the dirty men’s room sink. He stood behind me, his presence soothing and irritating at the same time. I rinsed my mouth a few times, before hazarding a glance at my face. “Oh my god. I’m… Shit.”

  Trent took me by the elbow. “Let’s grab Evelyn and get you to the ER. You’re gonna need to get your nose reset.”

  My eyes stung with tears as I let him lead me out. Our asshole table buddies were long gone. Evelyn was sitting at the bar, nursing a soda until she saw us and ran toward me, making noises I couldn’t hear.

  Trent’s strong arm was around me. I leaned into him and let myself enjoy the moment. But right after I smelled the stale beer, the ocean, the moldy interior of the shed where they left me once they were done, everything went dark.