Barreled Over

by Jenna Sutton

  “There’s not a lot of creativity in your family, is there?” she asked.

  Her question, her criticism, was so out-of-the-blue it took him a moment to reply. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re all named Jonah. That’s just pure laziness.”

  He laughed. “We have different middle names. My dad was Jonah Lawson Beck. Everybody called him Law. And his father, my grandfather, was Jonah Sanger Beck. He went by Joe.”

  “And everybody calls you Beck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Always? No one calls you by your first name?”

  “No. I’ve been Beck since birth.”

  “I like Jonah.”

  Hearing her husky voice say his name—the name no one used—sent a weird thrill through him. He didn’t think he’d mind if she called him Jonah.

  “What’s your middle name?” she asked.

  That was something he didn’t want to share, so he ignored her question. “What’s your middle name?”

  “Grace,” she answered with a smirk. He slapped his palm against his forehead, and she snickered. “Now that you know my middle name, are you going to tell me yours?”

  “No.”

  She sighed gustily. “It must be really embarrassing … like Percival or Mortimer.”

  He ignored her jibes. “Do you know how to drink bourbon?”

  She stared down into the tumbler before looking back at him. “With my mouth,” she answered, her voice as dry as a creek during a drought.

  Her quip made him laugh, but it died in his throat when he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been amused and aroused at the same time. She was even more dangerous than he’d thought.

  “Bourbon is a sipping whiskey, not a slam-it-back whiskey,” he explained. “You have to take your time with it.” He gestured to the tumbler. “Hold your glass in both hands for a few seconds to warm the bourbon.”

  She immediately wrapped her fingers around the tumbler, her nails shimmering with sparkly beige polish. He wondered what those fingers would feel like wrapped around his cock, and he barely bit back a groan.

  “What next?” she asked. “Should I swirl it around?”

  “Bourbon isn’t watered-down grape juice. You shouldn’t swirl it or stick your nose into your glass.”

  “Watered-down grape juice?”

  “Also known as wine.”

  “I don’t like wine,” she said as if she were confessing a terrible crime. “I like beer better.”

  “Me too.” He picked up an empty tumbler. “Place your nose just above the rim of the glass.” He showed her what he meant. “Open your mouth a bit and breathe through your mouth and nose at the same time.”

  She followed his lead, and he said, “You should be able to smell vanilla and caramel.”

  Nodding, she said, “I smell it.”

  “Now sip just enough bourbon to cover your tongue. Part your lips slightly and draw in some air over the liquid. Hold it in your mouth for a few seconds and let it wash over your tongue.”

  She followed his instructions, and he noticed a droplet of liquid glistening on her lower lip. Her pink tongue darted out to catch it, and in that moment, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than to sip bourbon from her mouth.

  An image flashed across his mind—Ava Grace’s smooth skin drenched in Trinity, the liquor dribbling over her breasts and pooling in her belly button before trickling into the fluff on her pussy. He’d suck every last droplet off her body, starting with her nipples and ending with her clit.

  “What next?” Ava Grace asked, forcing his mind back to their bourbon lesson.

  Trying to ignore his thickened cock, he said, “Now take a swallow.”

  She raised her glass and took a drink. He gave her a moment before asking, “Did you feel it on the way down?”

  She placed her hand on her throat, just above the smooth skin of her chest. “Feels like fire,” she gasped.

  He plucked the glass from her hand. “Yeah, it could be smoother.”

  Leaning over, he grabbed a bottle of Trinity and removed the cork. After splashing some into an empty tumbler, he held it up.

  “This was five years in the making. It won the bronze medal in the International Spirits Competition last year.”

  Passing the tumbler to her, he said, “Same process.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest while she drank his pride and joy. His blood, sweat, and tears.

  His future.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Learning the proper way to drink bourbon really changed the way it tasted. Even so, the spirit would never be Ava Grace’s beverage of choice, unless it was mixed with Dr Pepper.

  “You should’ve let me try Trinity first instead of the other one,” she told Beck. “Always start with the best. That’s what I do at my concerts.”

  “What about saving the best for last?” he countered.

  “I’m kind of impatient,” she admitted. “Another one of my stellar personality traits.”

  “So you’re a nosy, impatient eavesdropper.” He shot her a teasing look. “Do you have any good qualities, Miz Landy?”

  “You’re going to have to figure that out on your own.”

  He dropped his arms to his sides, his short sleeves revealing muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. A stainless-steel watch encircled his left wrist, along with a thin brown leather bracelet. Something was engraved on the clasp, but she wasn’t close enough to read it.

  “How do you think Trinity compares to the bourbon from Jonah Beck Distillery?” he asked.

  “I definitely like Trinity more.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  What she didn’t say was both bourbons had set fire to her throat and scorched her lungs. She was afraid she’d never sing again, which would be extremely unfortunate because, one, she was good at it, and two, she made a lot of money doing it.

  “You should be proud of your bourbon, Beck. You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

  He stared at her for several heartbeats. “Are you proud of what you’ve accomplished?”

  It was an intensely personal question, one that surprised her. “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?” His eyebrows arched. “Your last album went platinum in less than three weeks, and you have five number one songs. I’d say that’s something to be proud of.”

  She shrugged. “The music business is cutthroat, and I’m not just talking about record label executives and other artists. I’m talking about the fans too. You’re only as good as your next song, your next concert, your next public appearance. It’s hard to stay on top. Everything could be gone this quick,” she said, snapping her fingers.

  A loud ding-dong filled the room, and she jumped. It sounded like the noise had come from his computer.

  He glanced at his watch. “Sorry, that’s my reminder.” He uncrossed his ankles and straightened from his perch on the desk. “I didn’t realize it was already six.”

  Her curiosity must have been evident because he explained, “I lose track of time when I’m working in the office, and if I don’t set a reminder, I’m here until eight or nine o’clock. And by then, my dog has chewed through the door.” He grimaced. “I know we were supposed to brainstorm ideas, and I hate to do this but—”

  “Maybe your dog can help us brainstorm.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “We can brainstorm at your place. I don’t mind. You can take me back to Quinn and Amelia’s when we’re finished.”

  His eyes widened, and she swallowed a giggle. She knew it was rude to invite herself into his home. She wasn’t completely lacking in manners—her grandmother had seen to that. But she wanted to spend more time with Beck.

  Leaning forward, she placed the tumbler of bourbon and the grain-filled bottle on his desk and then rose from the terribly uncomfortable chair. She made a mental note to tell him that he needed to replace these chairs and repair the cracks in the sidewalk leading to t
he front door.

  She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. Once she reached it, she looked over her shoulder. Beck stood frozen next to his desk, a bewildered frown on his face.

  “Why are you just standing there? Your dog is waiting. Let’s go.”

  Twenty minutes later, Ava Grace followed Beck down a narrow sidewalk beside his apartment building. “What is this neighborhood called?” she asked.

  “Dogpatch.”

  “That’s an ugly name for such a cute neighborhood.”

  “It’s been gentrified over the past fifteen years or so.” Beck stopped in front of a bright yellow door with a decorative metal 4 on the front. “It’s one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city. It used to be mostly blue-collar.”

  After unlocking the door, he placed his hand on the knob and glanced over his shoulder. “A word of warning: my dog is very friendly. And my loft is very…”

  She waited, but he didn’t finish his sentence. “Well-decorated?” she teased. “Well-kept? Well-organized?”

  He chuckled. “Not exactly.”

  He opened the door, and a wiggling mass of curly orange fur slammed into him, whining loudly. Beck stepped backward and grabbed the doorjamb with one hand to steady himself.

  “Hey, boy,” he crooned, dropping his hand to rub the dog’s head. “Did you have a good day?”

  The pooch closed his eyes in bliss, and she couldn’t help laughing. She’d probably do the same thing if Beck rubbed her with those big hands. She shifted, and the dog’s eyes popped open and turned toward her.

  “Sit,” Beck commanded, making a grab for the dog’s collar. He missed, and the dog darted around him.

  “Brace yourself,” he warned at the same time the large animal lunged for her, his head ramming into her crotch. She stumbled in her stilettos, and Beck caught her arm before she windmilled backward. Placing her free hand on top of the dog’s head, she gently pushed him back.

  “Sit,” she ordered softly.

  The dog immediately obeyed, his black eyes worshipping her and his pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. Beck released her arm, and she looked back and forth between him and his pet.

  “Is he a Labradoodle?” she asked, having seen one in pictures but never in person.

  Beck nodded. “Part Labrador retriever, part poodle.” He glanced down at his dog and pointed toward the interior of the apartment. “Inside.”

  The dog jumped to his feet and dashed inside. Beck caught her eye and tilted his head toward the door. “You too. Inside.”

  “Careful now,” she warned lightly. “You’re not my master.”

  He muttered something under his breath … something that sounded a lot like thank God.

  She entered the apartment with him close behind her. Slipping past her, he hurried to the French doors at the back of the room and jerked a retractable leash off a hook.

  “This won’t take long,” he promised as he snapped the leash onto the dog’s collar. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  After Beck and his dog disappeared into the courtyard, she checked out his digs. Designed as a true loft, it was completely open with no partitions except for the bathroom. Exposed metal ductwork spanned the high ceiling. Windows stretched across two walls, which were painted a soothing bluish-gray.

  A gray leather sectional and big-screen TV filled the majority of the living space. His sleeping area was tucked into a corner, a long espresso-stained wood dresser and matching armoire against the exterior wall. Two matching nightstands flanked his low-platform bed.

  She let her eyes linger on the king-size bed. It was unmade, the cream-colored sheets rumpled and the comforter pushed to the footboard. She couldn’t stand an unmade bed and had to suppress the urge to straighten the bed linens and fluff the pillows. If she got her way, someday soon she’d be naked in that bed with Beck, and then she wouldn’t care if it was made or not.

  She spotted a horizontal cabinet under the TV dotted with several picture frames. Curious about the photos, she made her way over to them. One caught her attention immediately, and she picked it up. A man and a little boy stood in front of a massive stainless-steel pot. It was an old picture, but the man looked just like Beck.

  Was this a young Beck and his father, the man everyone called Law?

  She knew bits and pieces about Beck’s life before he’d moved to San Francisco, but she wanted to know more. She wanted to hear it from the man himself, preferably over dinner.

  The French doors opened, and Beck’s dog bounded inside. He immediately ran to her, panting with doggy joy. Too bad Beck didn’t act the same way when he saw her.

  “What’s your name, sweet boy?”

  “Chicken,” Beck said.

  She bent down and scratched behind one of the dog’s floppy ears. Beck made a muffled noise, kind of a strangled moan, and she glanced up. He was staring at her boobs, his eyes slightly glazed.

  Good. That was why she’d worn the dress.

  “Chicken?” she repeated. “Why would you name him that? He looks like a stuffed animal.”

  Beck jerked his eyes from her chest. When he realized she’d caught him checking her out, a wave of red washed over his face.

  He cleared his throat roughly. “What?”

  “Why did you name your dog Chicken?”

  He smiled slowly, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Because he looks just like fried chicken. Extra crispy.” His smile widened. “Don’t you think so?”

  She eyed Chicken. His burnished orange fur was groomed close to his body, the curls springy and tight.

  “Well, now that you mention it, he does look like extra-crispy fried chicken.” She ran her fingernails through Chicken’s soft fur. “You should’ve named him Colonel Sanders.”

  Beck laughed softly. “I guess you were right when you said my family isn’t very creative with names.”

  She crossed to the sectional and sat down on one end before patting the cushion next to her. “Here, boy.”

  Chicken jumped up beside her, stretched out his long body, and put his head in her lap. As she stroked his warm belly, she caught Beck’s eyes.

  “Speaking of chicken, I’m hungry,” she said casually. “Why don’t you order some takeout, and we can brainstorm over dinner.”

  “Takeout?” he echoed.

  “I’m fine with whatever you want. Pizza. Chinese. Indian. Greek.”

  “Umm … okay,” he replied, looking dazed and confused.

  And that’s just the way I want him.

  *****

  The drive from Beck’s loft in Dogpatch to Quinn and Amelia’s house in Laurel Heights took about twenty minutes. Beck and Ava Grace made the trip in silence. It wasn’t an awkward silence; instead, it felt strangely comfortable to Beck.

  As he drove up in front of the house, Ava Grace glanced out the window. The porch light illuminated the black front door and the flower-bordered steps leading up to it.

  “I always worry the paparazzi will show up here, but so far that hasn’t happened.” She held up her hand and crossed her fingers. “Fingers crossed.”

  “Fingers crossed,” he echoed, a hollow feeling in his chest.

  Her comment was a reminder their lives couldn’t be more different. She was so famous paparazzi stalked her, hoping to get a photograph of her without makeup. He, meanwhile, could take Chicken out for a walk in his pajamas, and no one noticed or cared.

  She shifted in her seat to look at him. He got a waft of her perfume, a sweet cream-soda smell that made his mouth water.

  “Thanks for driving me home,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.” Unable to ignore the manners Miss Hazel’s School of Etiquette had drilled into him, he switched off his Jeep. “I’ll walk you up.”

  She waited for him to open the car door, and he had the bizarre feeling they were on a date. As she stepped out of the vehicle, he stared off into the distance, making sure not to look at her.

  When she’d gotten into the Jeep earlier, he’d been stupid enough t
o check out her legs. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about them wrapped around his waist, or better yet, hooked over his shoulders while he ate her pussy.

  He followed Ava Grace up the steps to the front door, keeping his distance so his face wasn’t anywhere near her ass—that tight, round ass that just begged him to squeeze it. When they reached the porch, she turned to him. The porch light created a halo around her head, glinting off her bright hair.

  “Thank you for the bourbon lesson and dinner, Beck. I had a really good time.”

  Her words sounded a lot like something a woman would say at the end of a date, just before the guy moved in for a good-night kiss. Beck reminded himself this wasn’t a date, so therefore he wasn’t going to pull her close and taste those luscious lips.

  He waited, expecting her to unlock the door, but she just stood there in front of him, a tiny smile curving her lips. As he stared into her face, his muscles tightened and the fine hair on his body lifted.

  “Would you like to come in?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Yeah, I’d like to come in. And then I’d like to come in you.

  “No,” he answered curtly.

  Ava Grace was critical to Trinity’s future, and Beck had no intention of jeopardizing the company he’d built from nothing. Trinity’s success was far more important than his personal happiness.

  Besides, he and Ava Grace were all wrong for each other. She stood in the spotlight, on a stage in front of thousands of fans. He stood in the shadows of the rickhouse, surrounded by hundreds of bourbon barrels.

  Ava Grace lightly touched his bicep, and he jerked involuntarily. “Come in,” she coaxed, “and have some pie.”

  Pie?

  “I made it myself,” she added.

  He started to shake his head, but then she said, “Bourbon pecan pie with maple whipped cream.”

  And those were the magic words. “Okay,” he agreed, because a smart man never turned down bourbon pecan pie, especially when it was topped with whipped cream.

  A huge smile lit up her face, and he couldn’t help smiling back. She unlocked the door, and they entered the big Victorian. It was the kind of home he’d like to own eventually, but Trinity was his priority right now.