Stout, Page 4

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle?”

  “No.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No.” Yes. But not of metal and rubber or the speed in which the two will carry us.

  “Then go for a ride with me. We’ll cruise around the block and if you don’t like it, I’ll bring you right back. Promise.”

  I look at Oliver’s attire and then mine. Shorts and tank top probably aren’t ideal for riding. “Give me a minute to change.”

  “Okay.” He grabs a biscuit. “Saving these for anyone?”

  “No. Have as many as you like. Jam is in the fridge.”

  I return wearing faded skinny jeans, a fitted black V-neck T-shirt, black combat boots. I have no intention of brushing my hair for an hour to remove a bazillion knots so I go with a fishtail braid. “Ready.”

  “Wow. You look like one badass chick.” I hold out my foot to better display the lace-up boots Maurice calls shit-kickers. “But you don’t just look the part. You are a real badass.” Oliver’s words are a reminder of last night’s blunder.

  “Yeah, about that.” Do I own it and roll with the badass perception he has of me? Or do I apologize for going there? Was it TMI?

  I can’t decide so the words don’t come.

  “I understand more about what influenced your decision than you might think. Don’t be sorry you told me. And don’t be freaking out about it.”

  “I’m not freaking out about it.” Lie. Lie. Lie.

  He points at the spread of baked goods that says otherwise. “You are totally freaking out about telling me. But don’t. If there’s anyone who gets it, it’s me.”

  If there’s anyone who gets it, it’s me. Something has happened to this man. He knows pain. “Tell me about it.”

  I don’t have to flesh it out. He knows what I’m asking for.

  Hook, line, and sinker. I’m sucked into the storm spinning out of control behind the dilated blackness of his blue eyes.

  What I see there confirms I’m right. Something bad has happened to Oliver Thorn.

  “I’ll tell you. But first, we ride.”

  “Deal.”

  Dark stealth. Glossy black rims. Polished to perfection. I’ve seen Oliver’s bike from next door but it’s a much more impressive-looking piece of machinery up-close. “It’s lovely.”

  He stops and stares at me. “It’s a custom Ducati Monster 821 Dark. It’s not lovely. It’s badass.” I giggle. Boys and their toys.

  “It’s a lovely badass.”

  “Maybe you’re the lovely badass.” Damn. There’s that smile again. I bet he can use it to get anything he wants from women.

  Lovely. I’m accustomed to compliments from men. I’m often told I’m sexy. Pretty. Beautiful. I once took pleasure in hearing those things from men, especially Martin, but now I receive those words with a grain of salt. And I will this time as well since I’m unsure if Oliver makes a habit of using flattery on women.

  However, badass strikes a different chord in me; it’s a reminder of the things I told Oliver last night. All my wrongdoings.

  He holds up a black leather jacket. “It’ll get a little cool even though it’s May. Especially if we’re still out after dark.”

  I turn and slip my arms into the sleeves. I spin around and he surprises me by closing the zipper teeth and pulling the clasp upward until it stops at my breasts. “A little snug.”

  I suck in but it makes my chest rise bigger. No way the zipper is going any further like that.

  It’s obvious the jacket belongs to a woman smaller than me. “Guess my boobs are bigger than your ex-girlfriend’s.”

  “Breathe out and relax your shoulders.” He pulls the leather together and then yanks the zipper clasp up and over my D-cups. “Your boobs are bigger than my sister’s. This is her jacket.”

  “Oh.” I smile on the inside, not daring to let him see me delight in him noticing my boobs. Or my relief in knowing he hasn’t put me in something belonging to an old girlfriend.

  “Next.” I take the all-black helmet he offers and slip it over my head. I study the outline of his facial hair as he works on adjusting my chinstrap.

  “I feel like a little girl being dressed by her daddy.”

  He grins but avoids my eyes. “There’s so much I could say to that.”

  “I suppose there is.”

  “Feel okay?”

  “Despite being squeezed like I’m wearing a corset, yeah.”

  He grins and grabs the end of my braid, twirling the end around his finger. “I love red hair. It’s my favorite.”

  Oliver Thorn is touching my hair, twirling my hair. My red hair, which he says is his favorite. Do not pant so he can hear you, Adelyn.

  I wondered if he intended for lovely badass to be flirtatious. But there’s no questioning this.

  He’s insinuated he has demons in his past, which give him the ability to understand my actions, but he must see I’m a little unhinged emotionally. It isn’t possible to miss.

  “I once despised it. I used to bleach it blonde with drugstore hair color.”

  “Never. Do. That. Again.” There’s an alpha-like tone in his voice. Almost growly. And it sends a sharp tingle down my body. I haven’t felt that in years, and I welcome it.

  “Don’t worry.” I’m happy to be wearing the helmet so he can’t see the full extent of the smile beneath it.

  He mounts the blacked-out bike, starts the engine, and revs the loud motor a few times. A curt nod is my signal to take the place behind him.

  I straddle the bike and slide close to Oliver with my arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Our first full-on physical encounter. Sort of.

  I don’t dislike it. Who would? The man is ripped.

  To call it our first could imply there’ll be more, which makes me realize I wouldn’t be disappointed if there were.

  “Can you hear me?” I jump when I hear Oliver’s staticky voice echo in my ear.

  I nod.

  He shakes his head. “I need you to answer me so I’ll know your intercom is working.”

  “Yes. I can hear you.”

  “Good. I can hear you too. But unfortunately, the Bluetooth isn’t perfect. The clarity comes and goes so we’ll probably have to repeat some things after we get on the road.”

  “Got it.”

  “Want to try the block first so you can feel the tilt of the bike when I turn?”

  I hadn’t considered it leaning to one side or the other. I guess I pictured it staying completely upright. “Probably a good idea.”

  “’Kay. Hold on tight.”

  Oliver creeps around our block and takes the turns slowly, allowing me time to familiarize myself with the feel. “Doing all right back there?”

  “All good.”

  “Think you’re ready to hit the interstate?”

  “I think so.”

  Or maybe not. Fuck. I don’t know.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and wrap my arms tightly around Oliver. Not that either will save me. “How fast are we going?”

  The bike decelerates. “Seventy.”

  “Which means we were just doing eighty, at least.”

  “Eighty-five. Are you scared?”

  I’m fucking terrified. “I thought the ride in the neighborhood would prepare me but playing a life and death game of Frogger with eighteen-wheeler trucks on I-20 is entirely different.”

  “Going slow on the interstate when everyone else is speeding is actually more dangerous.”

  I guess I understand how a speeding vehicle might plow into the back of a slow-moving motorcycle. “Where are you taking me?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Is it possible to take a detour to this surprise?”

  “Yeah, we can do that.”

  Oliver merges off the interstate and I’m instantly relieved. “Thank you.”

  “Lawrence was the same way the first few times she rode with me. You’ll get used to it and when
you do, you’ll love it. You’ll beg me to speed down the interstate.” That sounds very much like he plans on us doing this again. And not just once more.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  I relax, loosen my hold on Oliver, and enjoy the remaining ride to our surprise destination. “Ah. Lovibond Brewery. Should have known.”

  “Where did you think I was taking you?”

  “Honestly, I had no idea. I was only hoping to make it there alive.”

  “Come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

  “It was fucking terrifying when it felt like you were going one hundred miles an hour.”

  “Eighty-five.”

  “I say one hundred. But it got better.”

  Oliver uses a remote to lift a garage door and then pulls into the back entrance of the building. “You’re getting a VIP tour.”

  “I hope VIP doesn’t stand for very intoxicated person since we’re at a beer brewery.”

  “Not today.”

  We take off our riding gear and Oliver leads me into the warehouse. “Wow. Those are some big . . .” Hell, I don’t know what those things are.

  “Fermentation tanks.”

  “How many beers are in one of those?”

  “About ten thousand in the smaller kettles. The bigger ones in the back hold over sixteen thousand bottles.” I’m not ignorant when it comes to numbers so I can take a guess at how much profit one tank would make.

  “How quickly does one tank turn out a batch?”

  “Some as quickly as ten to fourteen days.” Fast.

  “That’s pretty freaking impressive.” My praise brings a smile.

  “Come on. I want to show you the fun part.”

  Oliver leads me toward the front of the warehouse. He slows as we pass through a hallway lined with doors on each side. “My office.”

  I peek through the doorway. “Do you spend more time behind the desk or on the sofa?”

  “The desk since I’ve only had the sofa a couple of weeks.”

  “Wear the old one out?”

  “I could say a lot to that as well.”

  “Then do.” This ought to be good stuff.

  “The sofa replaced two worn-out office chairs.”

  “Wow. That was completely uncreative.”

  One of Oliver’s brows lifts and a wicked grin spreads. “I have lots of plans for how I’ll wear out the new sofa. That’s where I’ll exhaust all my creativity.”

  I have lots of naughty images passing through my head. And damn if I don’t have a surge of jealousy when I picture some random woman straddling him on the center cushion. Where did that come from?

  “Much better.” Total lie.

  We end up at a horseshoe-shaped bar in the front of the warehouse where I presume the brewery tours end. “VIP tour includes a tasting. Choose any stool you like.”

  Oliver jumps up and slides across the bar. “You’ve done that before.”

  “Only one of my many talents.” I’d be very interested in seeing more of those talents.

  He takes a small tasting glass from behind the counter and fills it with beer from one of the dozen taps on the wall. He places the glass on the bar and pushes it to me. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “I’m Stout, and I’ll be your bartender today.”

  “Stout?”

  “That’s my nickname.”

  “For real?”

  He nods. “Has been since the early brew years.”

  Stout. I like it. “Should I call you that?”

  “Up to you.”

  “I’ll give it a spin and see if it feels like a fit.”

  “We need music.” He points a remote at the wall and a song I don’t recognize begins playing. “Like Half Moon Run?”

  “I have no idea. Never heard of that song.”

  “It’s a band. Not a song.”

  “Oh.”

  He tosses the remote on the bar. “Give ’em a try. I’ll change it if you don’t like ’em.”

  “Sure.”

  I’m tainted. Oliver knows this so he must realize I won’t be an easy lay. Why is he putting so much effort into me? I don’t know . . . but I like it. It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to be this close to a man. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating.

  “Although you tried it last night, I’m starting you on Pale Hazel to build up to the stouter ones.” Stouter. I think I understand Oliver’s nickname now.

  I grasp the base of the glass. “I’m drinking alone?”

  “Sorry. Driving.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “For me driving? You didn’t seem too grateful for it fifteen minutes ago.”

  “No. For not thinking it’s okay to drink, even a little, and then drive.”

  “The benefit doesn’t outweigh the risk.” Agreed.

  “Your sister was right about me having a very passionate opinion about that. But it’s because my brother, Tommy, was killed by a drunk driver.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  I’m being a total buzz kill, and I don’t want to be. “This is a good song. Mellow. Good beer drinking music.”

  “‘Need It’ Half Moon Run.”

  I grab my phone from my back pocket. “I’m tagging it in Shazam so I can buy it later.” I’m sort of a music junkie. I love discovering new music.

  “Okay, Stout. I rode with you on your motorcycle. And by some miracle, survived. Now, I want you to tell me what you meant when you said if anyone would get what I’ve done, it’s you.”

  He looks at me for a moment before grabbing a stool and pulling it over so we’ll be sitting across from one another. Face to face. Eye to eye. “I haven’t always been Oliver Thorn. I haven’t always been the son of Quentin and Libby Thorn. There was a time, six years to be exact, when I was Oliver McCollum. Son of Jimmy and Christie McCollum, two of the sorriest, lowdown people to ever roam this earth.”

  Oliver pushes my glass closer. “Drink. You’ll need it for this story.”

  I suspect this is going to get very ugly.

  “Jimmy and Christie weren’t just neglectful parents. They were abusive junkies who came up with new ways to be cruel to Lawry and me every day.” How could parents do that? Having grown up in a loving home where my parents doted on me—and still do—I can’t imagine living in a home where my parents purposefully hurt me. So heartless.

  “That must have been so frightening.”

  “Christie’s neglect was equal when it came to Lawry and me, but her abuse focused more on Lawry. Sure, she hit my sister, but she enjoyed the verbal and emotional abuse more.” Martin had loved all three equally.

  “Addicts are typically pretty happy when they’re strung out. I think she would have been more physically abusive if she hadn’t spent so much time being high.”

  “I’m sure stopping to beat kids would probably have ruined her euphoria.” His smile in response is solemn.

  “Christie was a smarter addict than Jimmy. She had more creative ways for getting a fix. When Jimmy was broke, he’d beg, borrow, or steal to get what he needed. Christie would trade a piece of ass for a hit. Jimmy was fucked in that department because none of the dealers wanted a piece of what he had. That caused a lot of problems at our place.” Oh shit.

  “That is one of the more disgusting things I’ve recently heard.”

  “Jimmy was a different kind of abuser than Christie. He loved any form of physical violence. Slaps. Punches. Kicks. Assorted objects. And I was his pick. Not to say he was kind to Lawry, because he definitely wasn’t, but I don’t have any memories of him physically hurting her. She doesn’t either. And I’m grateful for that. I’d have voluntarily taken every beating Jimmy had to give so she didn’t have to endure it.”

  Protective brother. Reminds me so much of Tommy.

  “How did y’all get out?”

  “Christie tried to prostitute my sister in exchange for dope.” No, no, no. “Lawry was only ten but she understood what Christie wanted her to do. So she mad
e a run for it. We were taken away from them very soon after.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “I know there are things I’ve forgotten, and probably blocked out, but I’ll always clearly remember one thing: the last time I saw Jimmy McCollum.”

  “The day you and Lawrence were taken away?”

  “No. The last day he ever walked without a limp. The story takes an unexpected turn at this point. And you may decide you don’t think very much of me.”

  I smile at his use of my words from last night. “I have a feeling this is where your understanding of my situation with Martin comes full circle.”

  “Yeah. This is where it becomes clear-cut.” He’s about to share a secret with me. A darkness he feels is the near equivalent of mine. He’s trusting me.

  Oliver grimaces as he tightens his hand into a fist and then watches it relax. He breathes in deeply and releases the air slowly as he repeats the motion a second and then third time. “I was seventeen, approaching eighteen, and right in the middle of a sudden growth spurt. I had three new obsessions in my life that summer.” Oliver’s pained expression morphs into a grin. “Tits. Ass. Pussy. So I was a man on a mission with two goals. Get sucked. Get fucked.”

  “Quick question. Are your three obsessions and two goals much different at age twenty-nine than they were at seventeen?” Shit. I can’t believe I had the nerve to ask him that.

  Oliver chuckles. “No. Not really. But there’s new goals added to the old ones.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “My pals and I were getting shot down with high school chicks so we decided the best way to get laid was college girls. We had the bright idea a bar was the best place to find some ladies ready to spread their legs for us.”

  “Well, I’m guessing you’re probably half right about that.”

  “No. We were zero right about it. Because there wasn’t one college girl at this bar we bounced into. It was all toothless hags.”

  “Which is sort of what you deserved to find since you had no business being in a bar at seventeen.”

  My wit earns a louder chuckle this time. “I would agree with that today. Not so much then though.”

  “Despite your new obsession with tits, ass, and pussy at this stage of your life, please tell me you didn’t hook up with a toothless hag.”