Stout, Page 3

  “Been eagerly awaiting that bug to bite.” Fuck, I’ve been craving her bread. And, fuck, I’ve been craving her company.

  It’s been four days since our business meeting. Not that I really ever considered it any kind of work consultation between her and me. Crashing on Lawrence’s lunch with Adelyn was just an easy way to spend time with her.

  I’ve gone back and forth with myself at least a dozen times about going next door to visit. I’ve stolen many glances of her the last few days. Some from my kitchen window. Some from my driveway. Some from my upstairs guest room that overlooks her backyard and pool.

  Damn. That woman knows the perfect way to stretch her body on a lounger. And she knows exactly how to wear a skimpy bikini. I especially love the black one, although I’m not prejudice against the turquoise one. It’s a close second.

  I wonder if she knows I look at her. I wonder if she wants me to.

  “Come in.”

  She enters my foyer and looks around. “Wow. I love what you’ve done here.”

  “Not what I’ve done. This was all Lawry’s doings. She’s the decorator of the family. I’d have posters of dogs playing poker taped to the wall if it were left up to me.”

  She goes to the table and picks up a framed photo of Lawry and me. “You were such a cute kid. How old are y’all here?”

  I’m not really sure but our cheeks are fuller. Our eyes brighter. It’s definitely the post Jimmy and Christie era of our lives. “Probably seven and eleven. Maybe eight and twelve.”

  “Four years apart. Same as my brother and I.”

  “You’re older?”

  “No. Tommy was.”

  Was. “He’s passed?”

  “Yeah. Car accident two years ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Sounds so cliché but I’m not sure what else to say.

  “Thanks.”

  She returns the photo to its place before following me to the kitchen. “I packed raspberry butter this time instead of jam. I thought you might like to try it.”

  “Where in the world do you buy raspberry butter?”

  “You don’t. You make it.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that, but it sounds good.”

  My sister has a fixation with nutrition, so tasty food is my thing.

  The pink spread glides over the still-warm bread and then seeps. Damn. My mouth floods in anticipation. Just like a woman after the right kind of foreplay.

  Fuck. I shouldn’t have thoughts like that while I’m with Adelyn. She’s my neighbor. Not even a down-the-street neighbor. She’s right next door. Our houses can’t be an inch more than fifty yards apart.

  You don’t fuck with neighbors. Things go bad, there’s no getting away.

  “De-li-cious.” Something about hearing me say that amuses her. I see it in the smile she’s suppressing. In those dimples threatening to deepen at any moment.

  Motherfucker.

  Those damn hazel eyes and long, pale lashes darkened with mascara. Those damn scattered freckles across her porcelain skin. Those damn flaming locks.

  Don’t look, Stout. Don’t get sucked in. It will end badly. It always does. Change the course of this ship before it runs ashore and ruins any potential for platonic friendship.

  Neutral conversation. It’s safe. “Did you grow up here?”

  “I grew up in a lot of different places.”

  “Military brat?”

  She’s no longer boss over that smile. It has won the battle. “No. Baptist brat.”

  “Oh.” Fuck me. Adelyn is a preacher’s daughter. That puts all kinds of naughty thoughts in my head.

  “What about you?”

  “Savannah, Georgia.”

  “How’d you end up all the way in Birmingham?”

  “Went to Alabama.”

  “Roll-damn-tide,” we say in unison.

  She points at me. “Jinx. You owe me a Coke.” I haven’t heard anyone say that in forever.

  “Don’t have any of those. How ’bout a beer instead?”

  “I’ll take a beer.”

  I’m limited on choices at the moment. Doesn’t say a lot for a beer brewer. “Pale Hazel or IPA.”

  “Ah, man. I’m caught.” She squeezes her lids shut and scrunches her nose before covering her eyes. “I don’t know the difference.” She peeks at me between parted fingers. “Will you choose for me?”

  “It’s okay. I’m not offended you aren’t a beer connoisseur.” I go with Pale Hazel because it’s light and usually preferred by people who don’t drink craft beer on a regular basis.

  “I don’t dislike beer. I often choose it over wine or cocktails, but I’m not very educated about it.”

  “Then we’ll need to do something about that sometime.” I push the bottle across the island in her direction. “Sorry. All I have is this shitty Lovibond brand.”

  She takes a drink and nods. “It’s good. Nutty.”

  “Hazelnut.”

  Her eyes widen. “You’re right. But I guess you would be since you formulated the recipe.” She giggles while taking another drink and beer dribbles down her lip. Her hand quickly wipes away the drops I wish I could lick from her mouth. You’re going to get in trouble if you don’t behave.

  “I don’t recall Alabama offering a beer brewing degree. What did you study?”

  “Chemical engineering.”

  “Wow. You’re an engineer?”

  “No. I’m a beer brewer with a degree in engineering. Big difference.”

  “How does one go to school for something like that and end up a beer brewer?”

  “I bought a home-brew beer kit when I was a sophomore. Did some research. Toyed with the process. Found out I was pretty damn good at it. My best friend and I spent the next couple of years perfecting recipes. Graduation was approaching, and we both knew we wanted to make a go at a brewery. Found an investor and the rest is history.”

  “It worked out.”

  Not everyone is able to follow their dreams. And those who do often fail. “We were lucky.”

  “And talented.”

  “Talent is a part of it.”

  “So your sister married your best friend?” I consider Tap one of my best buddies, but I don’t think that’s what Adelyn means.

  “No. Lawry married the man who financially backed Lovibond. And then together, they started Bohemian Cider Company.”

  “Oh, okay. I think I have it straight now.”

  I want to hear more about this preacher’s daughter. “How’d Birmingham become your landing pad?”

  “Daddy was pastor of a church here when I was in high school. All my friends were from this place, so I stayed when he moved on to the next church. I lived with my best friend and her parents until I graduated from high school. Went to Alabama. Got a bachelor in Executive Restaurant and Hospitality Management. And here I am.”

  “And now you own an event coordinating agency. Impressive for someone so young.”

  “How young do you think I am?”

  “Based on looks . . .”

  “Careful what you say, Oliver.” Her dimples are trying to make another appearance.

  “I’d guess twenty-two according to appearance. But logic tells me you must be closer to thirty.”

  “Good answer. I’m twenty-seven.”

  “You obviously didn’t acquire your agency yesterday. How did you manage to pull off owning a company so young?”

  “Same as you. An investor.”

  I’m always interested in hearing another business owner’s success story. “How did you convince your financial backer to invest in you?”

  “He was my boss.”

  Sounds similar to our situation. “He must have seen your determination and believed in your drive to succeed?”

  “No. He believed in fucking me. And owning me. And beating me when I no longer wanted to be his toy.”

  Fuck.

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  She’s silent for a moment before speaking a
gain. “I’ve stunned you.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “Being the investor behind my only source of income gave him power. It kept me close. Under his thumb. He got off on the control he had over me.”

  “Why go along with it?” She has family. Surely, they would have helped her.

  “It wasn’t always like that. Things were good in the beginning. I was happy.”

  Isn’t that how abuse usually starts? Always good at the beginning? Otherwise, people wouldn’t get sucked in. They’d run like hell if they knew what was coming.

  “I was fresh out of college and ready to conquer the world. Martin was older. Established. Respected. Very handsome. And my employer. I was used to horny frat boys looking for one-night stands. He wined and dined me like a gentleman. Didn’t push for sex in exchange for a steak dinner. It was exciting to have a mature, worldly man like him interested in me.”

  He was grooming her. And she didn’t see it.

  They rarely do.

  “It started with sex. And fuck. I was twenty-two. I’d never experienced anything like that. Because it wasn’t just sex. He knew shit. Kinky shit. And it was good. I liked it. A-whole-fucking-lot.”

  I don’t want to hear this or how much she liked fucking a son of a bitch who abused her. It’s not right.

  “We began an affair. I use the term affair because he wasn’t yet divorced from his fourth wife. But I didn’t know that until much later.”

  Bastard.

  This story just keeps getting worse.

  “He financed the startup of my agency. It was my dream so I was driven to make it a huge success. But that takes work. Which takes time. And Martin didn’t appreciate being robbed of playtime with his new toy. That’s when the abuse started. And it only escalated from that point. So now fast forward through a year of being physically, verbally, emotionally abused. I’d had it. So I did what women do when they’ve had enough. I left.”

  Finally. Good for her. Too bad it took a year for her to come to her senses. “I’m glad.”

  “But he did what all possessive, obsessed, abusive men do. He came for me. And because he’s a coward, he did it when I was leaving the office alone late one night.”

  Motherfucker.

  “One look into his eyes and I knew his intentions didn’t include me walking away alive.”

  Monster.

  “Two things happened that Martin didn’t anticipate.” Adelyn holds up her index finger. “One, the surveillance cameras I had installed the day before, which Martin didn’t know about, recorded everything he did to me.” Her middle finger rises and forms a V. “And two, I survived.”

  My hands are fisted. My teeth gritted. My muscles tensed. “Please tell me that bastard is under the jail and will never see the light of day again.”

  Adelyn’s head oscillates. “The story takes an unexpected turn at this point. And you may decide you don’t think very much of me.”

  I don’t know what that means.

  “I didn’t press charges against Martin.” Fuck. He got away with it. Another victim without a voice. Another abuser goes unpunished. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

  I’m actually not surprised. “Abused women often don’t.”

  Her eyes narrow. “It wasn’t like that.” I’ve hit a nerve.

  “That’s the abused mentality talking.”

  “You’re wrong. I was his victim for over a year. But I had no intention of becoming a victim of the justice system. I knew I could show the video to the police, and he’d probably be charged with attempted murder. Being so wealthy, Martin had money to hire a defense attorney who could get him off the hook. Still does. Best-case scenario? He’s convicted. Serves how many years? Let’s be honest. Probably no more than five with good behavior. So instead of pressing charges, I chose a more proactive approach.” She grins as one brows lifts. “I sent him a copy of the tape and asked him what it was worth for it to not find its way into the mailboxes of all his business associates. The local news. The authorities. Turns out it was pretty important to him. And that is the story behind a twenty-seven-year-old woman solely owning one of the most successful companies in Birmingham.”

  That’s a lot to wrap your head around. “You’ve stunned me again. But on a much larger scale this time.”

  “Didn’t expect that out of a Baptist preacher’s daughter, did you?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “I don’t share that story with people. In fact, you’re only one of four who know it. Martin and me being two of the four.”

  It’s risky telling me something like this. What she did to her abuser is blackmail. A crime. She could be prosecuted and get jail time for something like that. “Why me?”

  She looks down at the bottle in her hands and takes a deep breath, as if preparing herself. When she finally looks up, the sadness in her expression grieves me. “It weighs so heavily on my chest at times it feels like I’ll suffocate if I don’t talk about it. Today was bad.”

  I understand that more than she can imagine. Is it possible she senses that about me?

  “I have this coping mechanism called baking. It usually works to take my mind off it but it was no help today.”

  “So it’s not a good thing when the baking bug bites.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you feel better after having talked about it?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I’m glad you told me.”

  “Do you think I’m a horrible person? A monster?” Is she for real? How could I?

  I’ve known horrible monsters up close and personal, and she’s not one of them. “No. I think you’re a survivor. A fucking brilliant one.”

  “Maurice is the one who found me. I would have lain there and died if he hadn’t come back to the office for his bag.” Adelyn laughs. “I guarantee not another person on this earth can say they were saved by a gay man’s purse.”

  “Grateful for Gucci.”

  “It was a Gucci. A fake one. But Maurice never has to carry a designer knock-off again. He can have as many Chanels, Guccis, Pradas, Louis Vittons as he wants. I’ve made sure of that.”

  Maurice is Adelyn’s hero. I don’t know him, but he just earned some major respect in my book despite the feathers and false eyelashes.

  “What made today bad?”

  “It’s the anniversary. Four years since he left me for dead in the parking lot of my business.”

  “Four years since you survived.” Suffering and perseverance. Nothing new to me.

  She is a survivor like Lawry. Perhaps it’s the reason my sister has so easily bonded with Adelyn and taken a liking to her. Kindred spirits.

  “It’s not just the anniversary. Every year I have to see Martin on the news being praised for his enormous annual donation to a haven for abused women and children.”

  I’m certain he doesn’t do that voluntarily. “A stipulation of your agreement?”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely. I’ve fixed that bastard so he won’t ever finish paying for beating my ass all those times and nearly killing me. I want him to remember every slap, every kick, every punch when he’s forced to open his wallet to me and those abused women and kids.”

  This feels like a dangerous game she’s playing. “Are you not afraid he’ll come for you again?”

  “I wish he would. I’m not the same defenseless toy I was five years ago. I would beat his ass into the ground. But he won’t come for me; I have insurance policies in place to ensure all blame would fall upon his head if any harm comes to me. He knows this.”

  This woman is beautiful. And frightening as fuck.

  A part of me wants to pull her close and stroke my hand down her hair. Tell her to not worry because she isn’t suffocating. Let her know she can talk to me about the things weighing heavily on her chest and I won’t judge.

  Another part of me wishes she hadn’t told me anything beyond growing up in lots of places as a Baptist preacher’s kid. Filthy thoughts about a preacher’s daughter are more fun than the
echoes of her words about mind-blowing sex with her abuser.

  And then the last part of me? Well, he just wants to fuck her.

  Adelyn Maxwell

  I’m so so so screwed.

  What the hell was I thinking spilling my guts to Oliver about Martin?

  It’s clear. I wasn’t thinking at all.

  Oliver must deem me insane. Probably criminally insane. And Lawrence will too when he tells her. I’m not foolish enough to believe he won’t.

  I always get a little crazy every year on the anniversary of my almost death. I think it’s evident to say this year borders on deranged.

  But Oliver didn’t bolt. He didn’t tell me I was wrong for what I did. He called me a survivor. A fucking brilliant one. Those don’t feel like the words of a man who is harshly judging me for my wrong doings.

  Yet he must. Because normal people who’ve never experienced that kind of abuse don’t understand.

  Four loaves of sourdough bread. A dozen lemon cream cheese blueberry cupcakes. Two batches of buttermilk biscuits—from scratch. I’ve baked all morning without a shred of relief. And now I’m out of flour and eggs.

  I drop the mixing bowl in the sink of soapy dishwater when the doorbell chimes.

  No. Go away. I don’t need visitors today. I can’t handle it.

  I’m unmoving. I don’t know why; my kitchen is at the back of the house. No one at my front door can see me.

  I wait for the next chime but it doesn’t come. Instead, it’s a tap against the glass pane of my patio door.

  Shit. It’s Oliver. And he’s looking right at me.

  I can’t hide. Or escape. He’s given me no choice but to come to the door.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey. Just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re okay.” Oliver’s eyes leave mine and focus on the spread of baked goods across my kitchen island. Caught red-handed. No two ways about it. “I see the baking bug has been biting hard this morning.”

  No need in lying or backtracking. “Yeah. The little bastard is riding my ass hard.”

  “Are you all right?”

  I see what I think is concern in Oliver’s eyes. “Not at all.”

  Oliver comes to me, takes the dish towel from my hand and tosses it onto the counter. “I want you to leave that nipping son of a bitch here and go for a ride with me on my bike.”