Turning Point Club Box Set

by JA Huss

  “Wait,” I say, putting up a hand. “We had a deal. I need a girl—”

  “I know all about your needs, Mr. Ayers. That’s the only reason I said yes. It was… intriguing. But I just don’t know if you’re up to this.”

  I laugh. “Up to what? Treating you nice, bringing you flowers, opening the door and pulling out your chair? I can handle it, I assure you. And I can handle the beer too. What do you need? Should I taste each one and tell you which one I like best?”

  I walk over to the beers, pick up the bottle opener, pop the first cap off, and pour it into the glass using proper beer-pouring technique. It’s a dark beer. Like fuckin’ mud. Not really what I go for. And now that I read the label I see it’s called Mountain Mud. Which should’ve been my first clue. But… fuck it. In for a penny, right?

  I take a sip, the foam collecting on my upper lip, then swallow it down and think for a moment.

  Oaklee has her arms crossed in front of her very nice breasts, her mouth not quite smirking, but definitely not smiling, either. “Well?” she says.

  “Nutty,” I say, wiping the froth off my lip. “And thick. Maybe a hint of vanilla too. It’s a brown ale? Or a stout?”

  “Brown,” she says. And maybe… just maybe, she smiles. “So you’re a craft beer guy?”

  “Not really. But this is Colorado. There’s a craft brewhouse on every corner these days.”

  “Yes.” She sighs. “Which is part of my problem.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t need to. Yet.”

  “OK, wait a minute. Let’s back up. Jordan told me you bought the Boyfriend Experience. What’s that got to do with beer?”

  “Everything,” she says. “But I’m not going to waste my time explaining if you’re not the right man for the job.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “Boyfriend Experience,” she snaps.

  “I feel like we’re talking in circles. So again, what’s that got to do with beer?”

  “Just taste the next one.”

  “Fuck it,” I mumble, popping the top off the next in line. This one’s called Anarchy Orange IPA and the label is the pink punk rocker on the artwork I noticed earlier. IPA is more my style, so I pour and take a long sip. “Hell, yeah. This is great. Citrus with a lot of hop. Dig it.”

  Now that was a smile.

  “See,” I say. “I’m the right guy.”

  “Next.”

  “You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you? So you can take advantage of me later. I’m on to you, Oaklee Ryan.” I shoot my finger at her and wink.

  “Just taste. Your flirty jokes are wasted on me. I’m all business.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble. I’m trying to be friendly and she’s just… not. Like I’m not good enough for her. Like she’s not interested in me at all.

  She’s lucky I need her or I’d walk out.

  I pop the top off the next beer—which is called Assassin Sour Saison and has a red ninja on a black label. I pour the light brew into the glass. It’s very bubbly. I take a sip as she watches. “Nah,” I say, setting the glass down. “Maybe some people like that, but I’m not one of them.”

  She shrugs. “To be expected. Not everyone likes a sour, and this saison has so much carbonation it’s more like champagne than beer. It’s my favorite.”

  “Figures,” I say. Because I get the feeling that’s how this is gonna go. Regardless of how much I like her kitchen design, her view, and her faux cowgirl-esque décor, we are opposites. “So did I pass, or what?”

  “You might do. At least you’re honest.”

  “So… tell me more about you.”

  “No.” She snorts. “This is a job, Mr. Ayers. I paid for you and in return you do as I ask.”

  “Wait, there’s something in this for me too. So don’t get too bossy, partner. I need you to be on your best behavior next week for my meeting with the Home TV people. Jordan explained?”

  “He did. And that’s fine. I clean up nice.”

  “I’m not talking about your looks. You look just fine. I’m talking about your attitude, which definitely needs adjusting.”

  “You don’t get to adjust me.” She snorts. “I paid seventy thousand dollars for you.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Are you serious? Who the hell pays that much for a sex fantasy?”

  “It’s not a sex fantasy, it’s the boyfriend experience. There will be no sex, Mr. Ayers. Not between you and me anyway.”

  What’s that mean? I wonder to myself. ‘No sex between you and me?’ Does she have a boyfriend already?

  And I know it’s irrational—I mean, I don’t even like her, for fuck’s sake—but if she has a boyfriend… well, that might piss me off. “Call me Law, OK? No one calls me Mr. Ayers, not even my clients.”

  “Fine. Law. I have very specific needs, OK? You might even call them… tasks. That’s what I’m paying for, so are you agreeable to that? Or what? Because I’m in a hurry and I need this game to start immediately. I’ve been patient with Jordan, but I’m not really a patient girl. So you’ll do. And in return for your signature on my contract I will be your… whatever it is you need for that meeting next week.”

  It occurs to me that I should be getting paid for this. And for like two seconds I consider hitting Jordan up for a percentage of the profits.

  But one more look at Miss Ryan’s scowling lips and I reconsider. She’s obviously wealthy, she’s professionally successful, beautiful in a way that’s hard to describe, smart, probably ruthless, and she’s one hundred percent local. In like every way. She’s the total package as far as my needs go. So I set my ego—and my sexual expectations—aside, and say, “I’m in. Where do I sign?”

  CHAPTER THREE - OAKLEE

  Lawton Ayers is exactly what I expected from Jordan Wells. Which is both good and bad. Good, because he’s handsome in a way that threatens other men. Rich—also threatening to other men. And smart. Which most men don’t care about one way or the other, but I do. I like a smart man. Means he can think on his toes. Change tactics mid-stride and see opportunities a dumbass might miss.

  And believe me, that’s gonna come in handy.

  But he’s also… well, how to put it. Arrogant? Yes. Just like Jordan. He’s one of those guys who has everything, which means there’s a chance he’ll bow out at the last second and leave me hanging. Like… maybe he’s too good for a job like this, ya know?

  But that contract is iron-clad. I made sure of it. And even though Jordan Wells is a pretty damn good lawyer, he wrote it up under a false presumption.

  “We need to get rid of the suit,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Like… don’t you have jeans? And a t-shirt? I mean, I can take you shopping if necessary, but I’d rather use what you’ve got.”

  “You? Take me shopping?” He laughs.

  “Why is that funny?”

  “I think it’s supposed to be the other way around, right? You want the whole Pretty Woman experience.”

  “She was a prostitute, Mr—”

  “Law,” he snaps.

  “I’m not a prostitute, Law. I don’t need your credit card. I don’t need to be taken to a fancy luncheon on a polo field. I need. A man.”

  “I’m a man.”

  “Indeed you are. I have doubts about this, I’d like to make that clear up front. So if you have doubts, you should probably leave now. Because once we sign this contract, you’re in. There’s no going back. I own you for two weeks.”

  “Can I at least read the contract?”

  “Of course. It’s in my office and I’ll get it now. One moment.”

  I turn away and walk around a wall partition to my office. The contract was drawn up by Jordan over a month ago. There are enough details in there to make it clear what I need, but it’s vague enough to keep a good lawyer like Jordan from asking too many questions. I don’t think Law here will be a problem, but… there’s always a chance he’ll catch on before he signs.

  I
’ve interviewed several men since Jordan drew it up, but none of them got past the beer test. If Lawton Ayers has one thing in his favor, it’s that. So despite my hesitations, I grab the file off my desk, snatch up a pen, and walk back out to the living area. He’s opened another bottle and he’s pouring it into the glass.

  “I’ve had this one before,” he says, after taking a sip.

  It’s our signature beer called Bucked Up and has the iconic bucking horse on the label.

  “Do you like it?”

  “When I drink beer, I get this out of habit if it’s on tap. So yeah, I guess you can say I like it.” He pours a second glass, presumably for me, and then turns, both in hand, and says, “Let’s drink.”

  “First the contract,” I say.

  “Buck the contract.” And then he laughs. “Get it? Buck instead of—”

  “I get it, Law.”

  “God, for a hippy chick you’re pretty uptight, Oaklee.”

  “Nobody says I’m a hippy. Who said I was a hippy?”

  “You know,” he says, taking a long drink from one of the glasses. “That whole ‘save the mansions’ campaign you had going a while back.”

  “It had nothing to do with free sex and flower children. I was trying to preserve the neighborhood.”

  “Is that why you renovated your historic building?” He’s smirking at me now.

  “I took great care in preserving the historical elements when I updated, thank you.”

  “You’re changing the façade. How’s that preserving?”

  “I’m not changing the façade. I’m having a bucking bronco painted over the brick.”

  “Oh.” He laughs, then takes another sip of his beer. “Excuse me. Defacing the façade. My bad.”

  “This building had a bucking horse painted on it back when it was built in nineteen twelve. It was home to a place called Mustang Grocers. The new mural will look a hundred years old by the time we’re done next week and from the outside, my building will look exactly the way it was in nineteen twelve. So don’t worry. It’s going to add a lot of value to the neighborhood. I hired more than a dozen consultants before I made any changes and the property values on this block have all gone up in the last six weeks.”

  “I know,” he says, finishing his glass of beer. It’s a sample glass meant for tasting, so only five ounces. But still, the alcohol content of Bucked Up is eight point eight percent.

  I’m not sure he realizes that. I’m not sure I should tell him. In fact, maybe getting him drunk will loosen him up. Make him more agreeable. I’m almost out of time. And Jordan did say he wasn’t going to find me another prospect. It’s this guy or nothing.

  I need him, I decide. He’ll have to do.

  “I own a penthouse just over there,” Law says, pointing. “You can see my terrace from here. I bought it last year and now it’s almost worth double.”

  I stare out the window, looking in that direction. Interesting. The fact that we’re neighbors. And convenient too.

  Then I turn to face him and smile. The first real smile I’ve unleashed on him all evening. “See?” I say. “Like I said, property values are skyrocketing.”

  “What do you know about real estate?”

  “I know enough, but it’s not the point.”

  “Well, to me it is. I have that meeting next week. And if this all works out you and I could be partners in this TV deal. So I’d like to know if I’m wasting my time here as well.”

  He tilts his head at me, eyes shining with what? Mischief? Daring? I don’t know but it’s kind of adorable. They aren’t special eyes. Just brown, and not brown like mine. Just boring brown. But that damn twinkle in them does something to me.

  And you need him, the inner monologue says. At least as much as he needs you. So don’t get distracted by his dreamy eyes.

  So I say, “LoDo real estate has been steadily climbing since two thousand twelve. The gentrification of Five Points just east of here has property values hitting half a million for the first time in the history of that neighborhood. The average listing in LoDo is seven hundred thousand. This building is now worth in excess of seven million dollars without my penthouse apartment. And when I’m done renovating the other floors and put the condos up for sale it will top seventy-five million. So you tell me. Are you wasting your time here, Mr. Ayers?”

  He smiles. No. He smirks. Pleased with my outburst. “Law,” he says in a low voice. “And no, I think that will do, Miss Ryan.”

  “Oaklee,” I say, playing his game.

  “Do you need an agent?” he asks.

  “For?”

  “Your building? The condos? I’ve been watching this place. Waiting for the listings.”

  Well… that’s interesting. I should’ve thought of that. Should’ve opened with that. And the fact that I missed an opportunity to bait him with the lure of being the listing agent for my new condos instead of agreeing to be his stupid TV show partner… well, it disturbs me.

  It’s a sign of how distracted I’ve become with my little… problem.

  “You haven’t passed my test yet, Law. So why don’t we start with my business and we can talk your business later.”

  He stares at me for a few seconds. I can practically see his mind racing with possibilities. Calculating how many units I have here—thirty-five—how much they might go for—starting price of four hundred fifty thousand and capping out at nine hundred for the fifth floor—and what his take-home might be on that.

  Almost six million dollar signs flash in his eyes. “Bring it, Oaks. Test me all you want.”

  I place the contract on the kitchen counter, go to the fridge, bring out a new flight tray of testing beers—this time with the labels all hidden with brown paper wrappers—and set it down in front of him.

  “A blind taste test?” He chuckles. “You really take this shit seriously.”

  “Afraid you’ll fail?” I ask, tilting my head and smirking back at him.

  “Not in the least. Let me guess. I gotta pick which is which.” He nods his head to the now empty flight tray. “I think I can do that by color alone, Oaklee.”

  “Perfect,” I say, popping the top off the first beer. “Then we should be good to go in about two minutes.” I pour the first beer into the tasting glass and hand it to him.

  He does a fake cheers gesture with the glass and takes a sip. “Bucked Up. No doubts at all.”

  I grit my teeth, pop the top off the next one, pour, and hand it over.

  He says, “Anarchy Orange, bitches. Love that one. I might need to take a case home.”

  Which makes me wilt a little. No. Not a little, a lot. But I pour the last one, even though he’s saying Mountain Mud before he takes a sip. After the sip, after he wipes the nut-brown froth off his lips, he says, “Did I pass?”

  I nod. Sad. “Yup, you did. Do you want to sign?”

  He stares at me for a few moments, trying to figure out the change in my mood maybe. But then he nods and says, “Yeah. Sure. Let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER FOUR - LAWTON

  That test.

  I can’t stop thinking about it. We signed the contract. I wrote in the part where she agrees to be my partner for the TV show and she initialed that addendum without comment. But there’s something wrong here. I can feel it.

  That test was way too easy. I mean… she should’ve picked several of the same type of beer, not three that can be identified by color and smell alone.

  I’ve got her website open on my laptop as I lie in bed, absently looking between the lights of her penthouse from the view out my window, and her site.

  She’s got several IPAs. Several citrus ones, in fact. Why didn’t she line all those up and make me figure out which one was Anarchy Orange? And she’s got three dark beers. Two stouts and that brown Mountain Mud. She could’ve lined those up and made me choose. I don’t see any other saisons on her menu, but that one wasn’t even one of the tests. And Bucked Up—hell, anyone could identify Bucked Up. It’s as common as Coors i
n this town.

  It makes no sense.

  And then she got all quiet after the blind taste test. Like she was… upset.

  But about what?

  That I passed her stupid test?

  How could I not pass?

  Which makes me wonder about the other men she’s interviewed for this contract. How could they have possibly fucked this up?

  Unless it was her. Right? Her attitude. Her money. Her confidence.

  I mean, there are a lot of men out there who hate a successful woman. Maybe that was it? Or maybe she’s just too… unpredictable for them?

  She’s definitely a wild card.

  But her knowledge of the real-estate market is impressive. She’s perfect for these TV people. I mean, total fucking knock-out, number one. Smart. And she seems like a ruthless businesswoman.

  But that test.

  And her take-no-prisoners Wild West persona.

  I do a search for Oaklee Ryan and find several local news articles about her on page one. Mostly about the brewhouse. Her father’s obituary several years ago. One article in Westword about her new renovation project, two about the mural going up on the front of the building, and many—like dozens—about the awards her craft beers have won over the past several decades. Several international ones too.

  Except… none of them are recent. She hasn’t won an award in three years. Not even the Denver BrewBest Fest last month.

  Not since her father died, I realize.

  Maybe she needs a beer guy to help her come up with a new idea?

  But then why the boyfriend experience?

  It just makes no sense. None of it.

  So I stare at all the pictures of her online. She’s got a look. Urban cowgirl. Lots of them feature her wearing short flowing skirts with old cowboy boots with t-shirts bedazzled with rhinestones. The kind you see women wearing at the rodeo. Some of them have her in jeans—toes of her boots peeking out from under the hem. And only one has her dressed up in something I’d call socialite elite.

  That was for a party her father threw just a year before he died to celebrate the opening of an art gallery dedicated to western artists. He was a handsome man. White hair, fit body, well-groomed short beard and the same don’t-fuck-with-me look in his eyes.