Page 22 of Sour Brew Face

“That’s a terrible description—” I interrupt, but he talks over me.

“we’ve created a beer named after you.” I blink back a sudden rush of tears that threaten to unwoman me in front of the guys.

“What?” I whisper, overcome with emotion.

“It’s a sour beer, like your personality, with a pineapple puree, prickly on the outside, sweet on the inside, leaves a lingering impression.”

I sniffle, laughing at Esteban’s explanation. “That’s eerily and specifically accurate. I don’t understand—”

They all shrug, like they’re on a synchronized shrugging team. Dave wraps his arm around my neck and tugs me into his side as I let the refrigerator door shut. “Of course, you don’t. That’s why we did it. You are as integral to Ordinary Guys Brewing as any of us. Probably more so since you keep us compliant. You aren’t just a valuable member to our team, but you are our friend, confidant, therapist, and wing woman. You are family and deserve your own flavor.”

I bury my face in his chest and let a few tears fall. I can’t believe they did this for me and without me knowing. Once I’ve composed myself, I turn to face them with a wide smile.

“Thank you!” I put my lips to the glass and take a big sip…and then spit it out, spraying every one of them. “No thank you! Are you trying to kill me? This is how you feel about me? I’m shitty expired fruit goop?”

Their jaws are dropped in shock and turn as one to glare at Mike. His eyes widen and if I wasn’t trying to rip my tongue out of my mouth, I’d laugh at him. “Shit! I think I grabbed the wrong one!” He runs out of the room, leaving the rest of us staring after him.

He returns quickly,Speedy Gonzalezain’t got nothing on him, shoving another glass into my hand and removing the other one. I eye the fluid warily. Dave plucks it out of my hand and takes a hearty sip. With an encouraging nod, he gives it back to me.

“If this kills me, I will haunt every single one of you. You will never orgasm again without me singingBarney’s ‘I love you, you love me’.” With a final glare at Mike, they nod in unison. I take a tentative sip and flavors burst over my abused tastebuds. I moan happily taking another sip. “God, that’s good.”

“So are you, Mo.” Ishaan exclaims, and they surge as one to hug me awkwardly. Well, the hug isn’t awkward, it’s the fact that I refuse to stop drinking myself.

The front counter bell dings breaking up our magical moment. Esteban steps out of the room to help whoever walked in. A few moments later, I emerge from the break room, Esteban calling my name.

I come to a dead stop when I see Eugenia Mayes standing at the front counter, her purse strap clutched in her hand and a look on her face sourer than my beer. I open my mouth to greet her, but she narrows her eyes and beats me to it.

“You and I need to have a chat, missy.” I’m taken aback by her tone. However, I really care for Langston, so she and I are going to have to come to an agreement, especially after last night and this morning. I’m not going anywhere, whether she likes it or not.

“Certainly.” I start moving towards the conference room, “Follow me.”

I barely turn to face her before she’s ripping into me. “How dare you! Who do you think you are, butting your nose into our business! You don’t know a thing about our past and its none of your concern anyway. My son will grow tired of you eventually, he always does and if he doesn’t, I have my ways of speeding up the process. You don’t want to mess with me, little girl, that’s my son, my only child and I’ll be damned if some whore comes into my life and disrupts the peace.”

I’m not sure why, but the first words out of my mouth are, “You have two sons, Ms. Mayes.”

“No, I don’t. Just like his father, he couldn’t handle how I ran things. But not my Langston. He’s always been there for me, always by my side. And you aren’t going to mess that up. I heard you in there, those degenerates talking about how good you are. Does my son know that you’ve spent your life spreading your legs to get ahead? That you’ve probably slept with everyone who works here, earning your paycheck on your back? My boy won’t be bamboozled by a hussy like you. He’ll wise up and move on once he figures out just what kind of person you truly are.”

My tongue seems stuck to the roof of my mouth. Hot angry tears burn my eyes and my chest aches at her insinuation.

“I press one button and I’ll have the police here in minutes. You want to walk out of here on your own or in handcuffs?” Dave’s commanding tone draws our attention to the doorway of the conference room. All seven of my dorks are at attention ready to step in and help me. Eugenia only slightly pales at his words, before turning her ire back to me.

Knowing they are here for me, has my mouth working again. “What kind of person I am? I haven’t lied to him, about anything. I can’t say the same for you,Ms. Mayes. Why did your husband leave you? What did you do that made him leave his children behind? What about Emerson?”

“You don’t say his name!” She screeches, taking a step towards me.

“Why are you here? Afraid I’m encouraging your precious baby boy to delve a little deeper instead of buying into your bullshit?” I really should have expected the slap across the face. I’m smarter than that. Fuck, that stings. If a little face slap hurts this bad, how am I going to handle having children? Anal sex?

Eugenia and I stare at one another, my hand cupping my cheek. Everyone seems frozen as the harsh sound of skin slapping skin reverberates through the room.

“I shouldn’t…I don’t know what…I.” She pauses, her eyes darting to each of the guys. Dave meets my eyes and I see the question in his. I shake my head subtly. He doesn’t need to call the cops. Hitching her purse higher on her shoulder, she takes a few steps backward. “Leave my boy alone. He doesn’t need you, he has me. Let this be the last time I see you.”

Her threat hangs in the air as the guys part like the Red Sea and let her walk out of the conference room. Without a word, they close ranks around me.

“She slapped me!” I whisper-hiss. “She fucking slapped me. Like we’re in 18thcentury England and…and…”

Mike clears his throat, his tell for when he’s about to get factual, “Slapping has been around a lot longer than the 18thcentury and certainly used elsewhere besides England—ow!”

“There’s a time and a place, dude. Now isn’t it.” Paul scolds him and I giggle at their exchange. This is normal, their banter, stupid jokes, this is what I need.

---