Mutual Release

by Liz Crowe

  But she knew now it was a brewery issue, even though her key salesmen on this very important account could have been paying a bit more attention to the grumbling. She stood, wincing at the soreness in her shoulders, hips, and thighs from her ramped-up workout program. All eyes went straight to the giant, obvious stain on her light blue skirt. Julie wished at that moment she could kick them all out and call her friend Amy who would listen and remind her that a guy as good-looking as Evan Adams would stick with you, might even make you a little bubble headed for a while, and that she was fucking normal. Amy, with her two-point-five kids and suburban life, married to Tom the de-flowerer and now successful automotive engineer, was her touchstone, but Julie didn’t call her much, not willing to admit how much she needed the support.

  “Okay, I’m pretty sure this meeting is over. Go and talk to the Meijer and Spartan buyers. I’ll make the call to Jackson.” They nearly fell over each other leaving her office at her clear “get the fuck out” message.

  The day dragged on, seeming to get perversely longer by the minute. She went through her mental and physical to-do lists, signed off on payroll and commission checks and other assorted busy work before picking up the phone to make the hard call to Kevin Lancaster. As expected, he spluttered, ranted, and raved, insisting she didn’t know shit-all about beer and had no business accusing him of bad quality. She sent him an email with links to the blog with over fifty comments, the majority of which agreed the last Jackson Brewing beer they had was either “skunky” or “tasted like Band-Aids.”

  By the time she hung up, Julie felt like she had been through a wringer. She flopped back in her chair, tugged her shirt out of her definitely ruined skirt, and unbuttoned her sleeves, her skin hot from the confrontation on the phone. Her feet ached and her calves were starting to cramp up when she remembered she had skipped lunch.

  “Paul! Go grab me a sandwich down the street, will ya? I need to stick here for at least another hour.” She kept her chair turned away from the door, kicked off her shoes, and started rubbing the arch of one foot.

  “Hey.” The voice she heard was most definitely not Paul’s. As a matter of fact, it was the voice she had been spending the better part of the past week trying to shove out of her head.

  She shut her eyes, kept her chair turned from the door realizing she looked wilted, coffee-stained, and probably smelled bad. But her skin pebbled, and a strange humming noise had started in her ears which made her even madder and more inclined to ignore his sexy, low, bedroom voice.

  “What do you want?” She thought about tucking her shirt back in, pulling her hair out of its lame ponytail, and sticking her feet back in her shoes. For about three seconds. “My week-long silence not enough to convince you I’m not interested? I mean, in your brewery?” She closed her eyes and willed him out of her office.

  “I brought you something,” he said.

  She turned slowly, her heart pounding so hard she thought she could see her shirt move. “I don’t want anything you have.” Deciding to keep the whole conversation dialed to double entendre just to show him she could handle it, she leaned on her desk, knowing full well that he could see the tops of her D-cups down her shirt. But he smiled in a calm way that made her repress a shiver and kept his eyes right on hers. “Spare me the country club charm, Adams. What is it? I’m busy.”

  “May I?” He indicated the seat across from her desk.

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. He took that as a “yes” and walked in. Evan Adams was dressed in a way she’d remember today – his charcoal gray suit was accented by a deep blue shirt and nearly identically colored tie. His black wingtips shone, and she noted with admiration the splash of brightness in the form of a snappy blue silk handkerchief in the suit pocket. Her knees shook until she put her palms to them making herself be calm. The man looked positively edible. But the look he shot her told her he knew it. And that brought a soothing, familiar bite of cynicism to her overwrought brain.

  He plunked two six-pack carriers on her desk, one his, and the other emblazoned with none other than the Jackson Brewing Company’s logo. She leaned over and pulled up bottles of each, noting there were three different types of beer from both his and Jackson’s brewery in his offering.

  “I’m not in the mood for a drink, but thanks anyway.” She pushed back from the desk and put her bare feet on it daring him to comment. Her legs were bare and her skirt short. To his credit he did not rise to her bait.

  Keeping his eyes pinned to hers, Evan reached down and opened first one of his, then one of Jackson’s bottles. The tempting hops aroma filled the space between them. She watched as he set small clear plastic cups next to the sixers. He poured some of each brew into two of the cups and pushed them in front of her before leaning back, his gaze intense.

  She raised an eyebrow at him, then decided not to remain obtuse and tasted first Jackson’s then the Big House version, which she had never tried. The difference was astonishing. But she was not about to let him know that. “Okay, thanks for the taste test. You can go.”

  “Hang on. Not done yet.” He popped open the next bottles, both classic American stouts, poured her a portion of each and stood so he could place them closer to her.

  She frowned, then shrugged and tasted them, coming to the same shocking conclusion. But she kept her face neutral, bored – although the longer he stayed in her space, the harder it was not to match his smile. The final two brews were the most challenging: trendy black IPAs, which in her opinion were roastier versions of the same-old, same-old, heavy-handed, over-hopped trendy bullshit. Jackson’s version was exactly that. But the balanced and less dense version from Big House finally made her sit up and take notice. She stared at it, took another taste. “You filter, eh?”

  “Yep.” He leaned back, propped one ankle on the opposite knee, making her have to recite an inner mantra to keep from looking right at his crotch. She knew he was showing off what was a near-perfect male physique. But two could play at that little game.

  She smiled, tugged her hair out of the holder and shook it, letting the waves cascade down her back and around her face. Then she stood and took a few steps over to the large window overlooking a tidy courtyard. The late October afternoon eased towards evening. She held on to the last cup of beer, still marveling at its perfection, and turned, leaning against the ledge and letting the late sunlight shine right through her blouse. Sucking back the last drops of the small sample, she made a noise that she knew damn well could pass for distinct, very personal pleasure, and looked right at him.

  “Impressive. I will give you that. And ballsy, coming in here without an appointment to make me drink beer I didn’t ask for.” She allowed herself a moment to rake her eyes across his shoulders, down his torso, and right at his zipper.

  He blinked, no longer sporting his Mr. Perfect grin. She put her hands on the ledge and leaned in towards him again. The power bloomed in her once more, making her mad this time when his eyes fluttered down, for a split second, into the top of her blouse. The roaring, conflicted noise kept deafening her as they stared at each other for a few seconds. Julie had long buried any sort of real sexuality. But she could reduce most men to their lowest common denominators fairly quickly. Evan had held his own, and she would have let it be but for the vibe he was throwing – the one that spoke directly to a long-buried sensation in her gut, where an utterly bizarre, melting feeling had taken up residence. She blinked and broke the contact first, sitting up and plucking the empty cup from the ledge.

  But her knees shook as she tried to stay cool between window and chair. When her toe connected solidly with a chair leg, she cried out and cursed. Unwanted and surprising tears welled in her eyes. She turned from him, blinking and trying to breathe. “I’ll take these samples to the staff tomorrow. Thanks,” she said, waving a dismissive hand in his general direction and dropping into her desk chair. She clenched her jaw and stared into the setting sun, letting it burn circles into her retinas, hoping he would just go, leave
her to her misery. Her toe throbbed like a motherfucker, and her head was starting to pound from lack of food plus afternoon alcohol. A hand on her knee made her jump.

  She found Evan Adams kneeling in front of her and drawing her foot out of her clenched hand. “Let me see it,” he said, his voice calm, somehow soothing instead of rattling her. She watched herself, amazed even as she did it, let go of her foot and allow him to draw it into his lap as he sat at her feet. Wincing when he moved it and yelping when he pressed on the red-painted nail, she bit her lip, watching his large, rough palm cradling her foot as if holding a precious gem. He seemed hypnotized by it.

  They both watched now as his hand moved to her ankle and slowly up her calf. He got to his knees. Julie leaned back and let him slide that hand up and up past her knee, gulping when he stopped just under the edge of her coffee-fouled skirt.

  He seemed as confused as she was to find himself there, his fingertips mere inches from her panties. A powerful shudder made her close her eyes, grip the arms of her chair as if in pain. But it was painful, she mused, outside herself and observing, as a man who was in essence a handsome be-suited but total stranger leaned close, putting his full lips right up to hers. His hand stayed put, hot and heavy on her leg.

  She tried not to shift, to force it higher before she exploded. Pulses of light and energy shot across her vision. He moved, pressed closer, and the smell of his cologne made her eyes fly open. This was not happening, not to her. Not with this man whom she sensed could not only rock her but would also tear her heart into a million pieces before he was done. The power in her shriveled, retreated to a corner, and a totally different sensation flooded her nerve endings.

  She stiffened, her eyes hot, her throat as dry as a bone. His other hand was at her face, his thumb moving over her lips, making her part them and pant like a slut. Again his cologne passed through her, triggering a visceral reaction at odds with the pleasant realization the man was about to kiss her.

  “Open your eyes.” His whisper was right at her ear. It curled there like smoke. She tried to breathe, shook her head, not remembering when she’d closed them. “Now, Julie. Look at me.”

  The surety of that voice compelled her so strongly she fought it on reflex. She would not be ordered around like a…

  The hand on her thigh tightened, making her gasp. She opened her eyes and was hit once more by the perfection of his face and the puzzled look she saw on it. She gripped the chair arms harder, because if she didn’t, she’d have her hands on his afternoon-rough jaw. They froze like this, in an awkward tableau, her reared back, him looming over her, his hand halfway up her damn skirt.

  Julie gave herself a firm mental shake. As she started to put her trembling hands on his chest to push him away, he brushed her lips with his, just enough. And now she really could not breathe. His lips and tongue went slowly, testing her resolve versus her need. The chair beneath her disappeared, the brightly lit room darkened as she eased her lips open just a bit.

  But that cologne, it swirled in her head, made her dizzy and terrified at once. A weird claustrophobia enveloped her and the dizziness morphed into nauseating fear. This was not what she did. This was not part of her plan. She propped her feet against his thighs and pushed the wheeled chair away from him, leaving him off-balance, teetering until he dropped to all fours, still staring at her with eyes that made her want to rip his goddamn suit off. She clenched her jaw, throat frozen with unsaid words.

  He crawled toward her at some point, put his hands on hers that still white-knuckled the chair arms. “You okay?” His voice was hoarse. She kept her eyes shut a second. Then opened them when she was ready.

  He was there, kissable, close once more. She smiled, but kept her voice firm. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  He blinked, backed away from her, as if a veil was dropped between them. His odd but beautiful hazel eyes clouded with something she thought could be anger. He stood, stepped back so fast he stumbled and nearly fell over her wastepaper basket. She watched him in dismay as he ran his hands through his hair, buttoned his coat, mesmerized by a sudden drop of sweat that appeared at his temple. Dear Lord, but she wanted to lick it off. He kept moving backwards, as if disgusted by her. She resisted the urge to sniff under her arms.

  “Julie… I’m so sorry. I’m… Jesus, that was… I don’t know what got into me.” He kept swallowing and sweating and looking so stressed she started to get a little worried about him. Finally, he hit the door, grabbed the handle, and yanked it open only looking back once.

  She had not moved during his strange freak-out, realized her palms hurt from hanging onto the damn chair, and her legs were splayed as if his hand were still between them, creeping up to touch her in ways she somehow knew would be exactly right. He looked back once more, and this time his eyes bore something like real sadness. She started to say something. But he spoke first.

  “Forgive me. It won’t happen again.” Then he was gone, as if that whole incredible almost-moment had never happened.

  She sat, mouth hanging open, the scents of open, warming beer, the cologne that had made her nearly retch, and the undeniable musk of two adults ready to fuck rolling around in her head.

  “Hey, Julie, I got your…” Paul stood in the door, low-cal turkey wrap in hand, taking in the overturned garbage, the six open beers, and her shoved up against the wall in her chair looking like she’d just been manhandled. She glared at him. He put the sandwich and water down and retreated. But it left her on the verge of tears, thinking she’d call Amy, who would put her mind at ease about the way her body clamored for more from Evan Adams. And how the look in his eyes told her he would never touch her again. But something made her want to savor the moment, alone, for a bit longer, trying to sort it all out.

  Chapter Ten

  The shower beat down, the glorious hot streams coming at her from above and the side, washing away the day and all its amped-up craziness. She turned her face up and let it hit her making her gasp and splutter but helping dispel the urge to sit on the tile floor and cry.

  What in God’s name had happened to her today? Her usual quiet satisfaction, coming home to her minimal space with its fancy kitchen, designer furniture, expensive stereo, and all her stupid stuff… it escaped her, made her feel empty, cold, and craving companionship. “Oh please, would you just stop!” she yelled, propping her hands on the wall as the lower water stream landed just right, hitting her in a place she viewed as functional, at times an annoyance, but right now was throbbing and aching and annoying in a very different way.

  Later, head clearer, skin shiny and stinging from the water and loofah scrub, she sat wrapped in a fluffy robe, sipping strong green tea and staring into the darkness of downtown Detroit. She had chosen the place for several reasons, not the least of which it was so damn cheap. But it was also as far as she could get from what she considered conventional, normal, the way she was supposed to act, or what her mother would accept. The giant loft was nearly three thousand square feet in total, mostly open space, with a gourmet kitchen, bathrooms that would make a five-star resort envious, and all hers. Bought with money she’d earned through the years and, of course, with the help of her not-quite ex-husband.

  She smiled at the thought of James and how supportive he remained, but tears still hovered around her consciousness. Finally, deciding it was the only thing that would distract her, she opened her laptop and dove into the quarterly sales reports, comparing them to projections each salesperson was required to set. She pulled a legal pad out of her briefcase and cranked up the music, letting the rough sounds of her favorite artist, Eminem, roll through the huge condo. At one point she looked up and realized she’d been at it for nearly three hours and had skipped yet another meal.

  Sighing, she stood, smiling at the ugly cat she’d adopted off the streets last spring. The unfortunate thing wound around her ankles, its broken purr making her feel a little more like herself. “We are quite the pair, aren’t we, Buddy?” She’d pa
id a small fortune to rid the thing of worms, fleas, some weird skin disease, get it fixed, and on the special diet it apparently required lest it puke cat hair all over her sofa.

  She tucked him under her arm and wandered into the kitchen, pulled open the Sub-Zero fridge doors and stared at the sparse contents. “Cereal it is!” she declared, scratching him behind the ears then setting him loose to chase phantom dust bunnies in his crooked gait. She’d gotten attached to the damn thing, but his feline independence worked for her too.

  She leaned against the tall granite countertop, eating Cheerios and watching the small TV on the counter, half absorbing the day’s stock market news and other random disasters. At one point, she shivered at a ghostly memory of Evan’s lips on hers, the way he had compelled her to kiss him despite her obvious resistance. The dizziness came back on the heels of that, and she gripped the counter, willing it away and reminding herself that she, Julie Dawson, was a woman of means, a woman in charge of a large company, and not a woman who in any way needed Evan Adams in her life.

  “You are such a liar,” she said to her reflection in the darkened window. A tear escaped, slid down her cheek. She frowned at her sorry self and stomped back to the computer, and work, the one thing she could handle.

  She picked up her phone, prepared to call Amy and beg her to leave Tom with the kids and spend the weekend with her. They’d done this before, and the girl time centered Julie in ways she didn’t like to admit. But the lowlying jealousy of Amy’s perfect life always hovered, even though the woman never did a single thing but declare herself green with envy at Julie’s amazing, glamorous, powerful life. The moment passed when Julie realized what time it was and how selfish she’d be calling this late, while acknowledging Amy would listen, at any hour.

  Around eleven forty-five, her phone and laptop dinged simultaneously with an incoming email. She rolled her eyes, pulling the spreadsheet window over to cover the inbox. Her long-rejected mother had taken to sending her messages lately, long, chatty, nonsensical ramblings about her third husband, the second one after she’d divorced Bart Hardin. Her house in Boca, the grandkids she’d inherited. She would always close the same way: “I’m sorry, Julie. Please don’t hate me forever.”