Essence of Time (13 page)

Chapter Three

The following two weeks were a solid combination of flirtation, frustration and agony for Blake. He and Suzanne had cooled the vitriol in meetings, now that he had a handle of what she needed from him brewery-wise. But, the random passing wink or not-so-subtle brush of her hand or arm or leg against his turned him into a walking talking hard on. Then, after two weeks of working together, she disappeared.

It took only a day without knowing where she was before he was ready to explode. By the time Evan showed up with some friend of his, he had to ask. “Hey, uh, where’s Suzanne today?”

Evan shot him an odd look, and then glanced down at the bar. “Sick.”

“Oh. Okay.” He poured a couple of beers for his boss and the tall guy next to him.

“I’m not putting up with it anymore.” The other man, clad in an expensive-looking suit said to Evan. Blake stayed within earshot; something in his gut told him they were talking about her. “Screw this. I’m going to get her.” Blake watched as Evan shook his head and downed half of his beer in one gulp.

“Hang on Gordon. It’s not our place, you know?”

“Fuck that ten ways to Sunday. She is my friend, has been for a lot of years. This whole thing has got to stop, god dammit.” The man sucked back his beer nearly as fast, clonking the empty glass on the bar so loud nearby patrons stared at him. Blake found himself shaking, enough so that he had to put his own glass down. He walked over to the men. “Need another?” He pointed to the empty glasses.

“Nah, I’m good.” The tall guy leaned back in his chair, glaring at Evan. He pulled his phone from a pocket. “It’s her,” he bit out then answered. “Babe! What’s up?” Leaning forward on the bar, his posture tensed. He looked up at Evan. “When? Okay. Stay there. I’m on the way," he stood, shoving the device in his trouser pocked and glared at Blake’s boss. “Yeah. Like I said, fuck that bastard. I’m going to get her. Now.”

Evan sighed. “Want me to come?”

“No. You just piss him off more. He doesn’t know me … yet.” Blake watched the tall, dark-haired man stride to the door as if he owned the place. Evan turned back toward the bar.

“Sorry.” He pointed to his glass. “I’ll take another, thanks.”

Blake filled it, and one for himself.  “What’s up?” He tried to keep his voice casual but his skin was crawling with dread.

“Uh, well, it’s Suzanne.”

“Yeah. What about her?” Something in Blake’s voice must have betrayed him.

Evan shot him another strange look. “Look, don’t get involved. It’s a mess. And it’s gonna get worse before it gets better.”

Blake sipped, keeping his eyes on his boss’.  “Let me be the judge of whom, I mean, of what I get involved with.”

Evan shook his head. “No, you don’t want any of this, trust me.” He hopped off his chair.  “I changed my mind. Sorry.” He pushed the full glass of beer away and left.

**** 

Suzanne stared at the door, then forced herself to raise a fist and knock. When she got no answer she did it again. Just as she was about to hit it once more, it flew open. A lovely female version of Blake stood here, wine glass in hand. Suzanne gulped.

“Yes,” the woman asked. Suzanne blushed but words still escaped her. The woman’s smile was genuine. “Can I help you?”

“Sorry, I was, um, looking for Blake.”

“Sure, he’s here. C’mon in.” She held the door wide. Suzanne was about to demur when she saw him, standing in an entrance to what must be a back porch, his broad shoulders and handsome face nearly making her burst into tears of relief. He took the few steps between them and stood next to the woman who could be his twin.

“Hey.” She said weakly, unable to muster much more. She had no business here. No business dragging him into the fucking mess she’d made of her life. But from the moment she’d met him, she’d fought a nearly irresistible compulsion to jump into his arms, let him shield her from her own life. Then, the amazing Sunday they'd spent together, and her moment of insanity when she’d come back in to kiss him rose in her memory. She shivered, ran a hand up her arm and tried not wince and give away how sore her ribs were.  Her entire body was raw thanks to Mitchell’s sudden obsession with getting her pregnant.

She’d stared at her sleep deprived face in the mirror this morning and made a decision. She wanted—no, she needed to see Blake. The last round of what she supposed she could call marital rape, and the subsequent beating she’d taken when she’d locked herself in the guest room, had meant a week away from the man who’d come to represent a lifeline. It was probably unfair to use him like that, but she intuited that he felt pretty strongly about her. And something about him seemed such a perfect foil to the man she lived with. She’d jumped in her car and found herself there, facing him, and ready to bolt.

“Suzanne.” He said, flatly. “Uh, what are you doing here?” The other woman smacked his shoulder.

“You are such a pig. Hi, Suzanne. I’m Sara, Blake’s sister, since he seems to have forgotten his manners.” He rubbed his arm, but kept his eyes pinned on Suzanne’s.  She smiled and shook the woman’s hand. “Can I get you anything, water? Beer? Jesus, Blake move out of the way.” She shoved him aside to move into the kitchen. Suzanne swallowed, drowning in the deep green of Blake’s stare.  The ever present tears stung her eyes. He frowned and took her hand, drawing her further into the small living room. 

“Sorry,” She shrugged. “I um, just wanted to talk to you a minute, if you have time?”

Blake kept his gaze on her as he hollered to his sister. “Sara, I’ll be back, okay? Save me some dinner.” Without another word, he guided her out the door and onto the sidewalk. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Oh, small business you know, the employment records aren’t exactly a secret. But I didn’t realize you lived with...” Blake shoved his hands in his pockets. She winced, on reflex, and then forced herself to relax.
Blake is not Mitchell
, she admonished. He was the polar opposite of Mitchell. Her newly developed Pavlov-like reaction to a man shoving his hands in his pockets as a precursor to temper had nothing to do with Blake.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t anymore. I just did when Evan hired me. I have a place downtown now. Should we go…?”

 She stopped dead on the sidewalk, suddenly furious with herself.
What the hell was she thinking
?
Anyone could see her, could see them, out in public like this.
She gulped and took a step backwards. The twin sensations of desire for Blake’s arms around her and terror at the thought of being anywhere near another man made her dizzy.

“No!” She blurted out.

Blake turned to look back at her; his amazing, incredible face, open and innocent.  She blushed again. “Okay, relax. Not trying to show you my etchings or anything.” She gulped and realized he was joking. 
Dear god, she was a basket case
.  He held out a hand. “C’mon, let’s walk.” She took it and, as if they had been holding hands for years, slid her fingers between his. The warmth of his palm made her shiver and smile at the same time.  But she couldn’t afford to feel happy, or safe, not even for a minute. She pulled her hand away, missing his warmth already but letting her self-preservation impulse keep her separate from him.

Realizing she was clinging to the man as if he were her only hope; her only anchor in a strange sea of a scary and abusive marriage, she took a breath. “We can’t.” Blake stopped, put a hand on her arm, making her body tense for flight.

 As if sensing her stress, he dropped it, but tilted her face up when she kept her eyes down. “Can’t what?” He took her hand, gripped it tight.

She blew out a breath. “Listen, let’s go get a coffee. I owe you an explanation.” Suzanne tried to let go of the panic rising in her gut as she stood in broad daylight holding hands with a man not her husband; one who was probably ten years her junior.  The perfection of his touch made her shiver again. He wouldn’t let her go, but the grip wasn’t threatening. It was comforting. She closed her eyes, then opened them with shock when she felt his lips against her knuckles.

 “You don’t owe me anything. But I will listen if you need me to.”  His green eyes were wary, guarded, but something in them made her want to trust him, to confide and get his support, even as she rejected that as foolish and potentially dangerous. She let herself be mesmerized for another second before looking away. They stayed silent through the remainder of the journey. Suzanne tried not to flinch every time a car shot past them on Main Street. Marveling at herself yet again—how she’d gone from confident, no-nonsense, no-connection, future doctor to this, flinching, cringing mess. She hated herself. But Blake promised not to hate her, so she latched onto him, let him open the door to the busy coffee shop, already justifying what she was about to do.

 He ordered two black coffees, knowing from their early morning meetings she preferred it that way, then settled into a back corner booth with her. She sipped and stayed silent. He let her set the pace and she felt herself falling even deeper for him.

“I, um, I mean, I’m married.” She blushed at his grin.

“Yeah…. and?”

“I went to medical school,” she blurted out. “It’s where we met. Mitchell was, is, very wealthy. He was an average student. Handsome, lots of girls around him all the time. We met in our first year. I had no interest in him at all. But he, well, he pulled out all the stops. Probably I should have been tipped off…” She trailed off, her brain bombarded with images of her handsome, compelling, utter asshole of a husband. The way he’d pursued her with a single-mindedness that she now knew was a sick obsession. How his family had absorbed her, his mother bossing her around nearly immediately. Her teeth started to chatter. Blake put a hand out on the table. Without even thinking she took it, let him envelop hers, and sensed a small corner of the stress edging away at his touch.

“Go on,” he smiled.

She sucked in a breath. “So, finally, after three years and a lot of effort on his part, we’re engaged. I’m sucked into his huge, rich family. Before I know it, they're talking me out of working. ‘Oh honey, you just relax and let Mitchell do the work,’ and I let them.” She swiped a hand over her eyes, embarrassed to admit the whole sordid story for the first time.  “I don’t know who I was then. I was so amazed at the fact that he was so gaga over me. Jesus.” She cleared her throat. “So, there we were. Him in radiology at the U's medical center, and me tearing my ever-loving hair out, bored as shit in that stupid, giant house. So Jack, a friend from college, introduces me to Evan and I started handling marketing and stuff for Big House. Right about that time, Mitchell realized his powers of political schmoozing couldn't cover up what a shitty doctor he was. He got passed over for every promotion, every opportunity that came up. And suddenly he decided I was fucking Evan.”

Blake set his cup down and stared at her. She blinked.  “Of course I wasn’t. But, something in him, in Mitchell, went haywire, utterly and completely loco. He started taking his shit out… on me.” The reality of her own words hit her. She started to rise, fresh panic making her breathless. She was married. She had no business whatsoever talking to this handsome young man, especially not about any of this. And there would be hell to pay when Mitchell found out, because he would find out. She shook her head, tried to recall the strong woman she’d once been, the one hidden now beneath layers of wealth and privilege, lies, fear and justification.  She slumped back in her seat.
Just go home. Leave Blake out of the equation.  He doesn’t deserve to be saddled with all of your baggage.

She watched Blake’s hand curl around his cup, saw his knuckles go white. “I need you to know the world that is my reality. How crappy it is. Before you…before we…go any further…”

She ducked her head, sipped her cooling coffee, and let him absorb what she'd told him. Her heart pounded with fear as she stood once more to leave. Blake stared at her, grabbed her hand and she sat back down, relieved beyond measure, but with a distinct tickle of guilt at the back of her logical brain.  She waited for him to speak.

“I figured it must be something like that.” His voice stayed low, calm, soothing and she let it do just that—soothe her. “So,” he smiled and leaned back.  She had to bite her lip at the sight of him, strong, confident, sexy, and somehow like fucking catnip to her from the get-go. “Let’s focus on something nice for a second.” She nodded. “Let’s talk a minute about that ‘going further’ bit.” She giggled, felt her face flush, and then rolled her eyes at herself. “You are gorgeous when you blush,” he leaned in, whispering. “I want to kiss you again Suzanne. So badly sometimes I think my head might explode if I don’t.”

Pulse racing, she stood again. “Well, I can’t help with you that today.” She spoke in even, normal, public-appropriate tones. She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his cheek, then ran out of the coffee shop before she did something even more stupid than she’d already done. Terror haunted her as she did her usual errands, getting food for dinner, lest Mitchell blame her “stupid beer job” on his not having a balanced meal every night. Her hyper-tuned husband mood radar kicked in and gave her the all-clear by the time he got home, showered, and had pulled her into his lap at the table. Of course, he was full of lovey-dovey kisses and caresses that she endured, while deep down knowing at any minute the wind could shift, and she’d be back on the couch nurturing bruises and a growing sense of uselessness. 

The following week she did her best to ignore Blake. They had a busy schedule of festivals and other events, so their paths didn’t cross that much. Friday she was happy to have down day. She spent a few quiet hours working through the swag inventory. She had to figure out what t-shirts to order for the upcoming summer season, do the restocking and general busy work. Mitchell had been on good behavior for the most part, except when he’d shoved her out of the way to grab her phone when it rang as she cooked dinner. The man was still convinced she was fucking Evan. A patently ridiculous concept, but he wouldn’t let it go and she had gotten tired of trying to convince him otherwise. Her ribs had connected with the refrigerator handle, hard, making her breathless and him contrite. Again. Her side still hurt like hell.