Sweat Equity (15 page)

"I didn't bring a flask for God's sake." She crossed her arms and pouted. He looked in the rearview mirror and caught his friend's eye. He and Evan had been popular at this particular club many years ago, before Jack had given up the lifestyle and headed into a long series of affairs, fucking and dumping more women than he cared to remember, trying to get the bitter taste of failure out of his system. "Natural Masters," they'd been called and had been in high demand on weekends. He did get off on the scene; that much had remained. After a while, it all felt empty, sad, and pitiful when he had to leave for home alone, yet again. Not a single submissive he played with ever compelled him enough to go beyond that.

Evan and Julie were now married, but still liked to participate, getting off on the exhibitionism of places like The Suite. He sighed. This whole thing felt wrong, but he'd told her he'd bring her, the woman who now occupied his life, but nothing more. Unable to stop thinking of the way he and Sara chatted every night, how he needed that simple conversational connection more than anything, he glanced at his watch. Nearly eleven. When they usually started talking, or at least had for the last week or so. He would've given his left nut to be doing that, listening to the slightly breathy sound of her laugh, to her tiny lisp, instead of going anywhere near this scene with the woman seated next to him.

Before he knew it they'd arrived, he'd handed keys to the valet and gone up to the top floor. Heather clutched his arm, practically jumping up and down in anticipation. Evan shot him a sympathetic look. He shrugged, put a hand in his pocket and tried to conjure images of the woman he wanted here, on her knees, with him. When the elevator doors slid open, revealing a deep red and black, once familiar, lobby his throat closed up in panic. He let his friend lead him out, back into the dark heart of a world he thought he'd left behind forever. Taking a deep breath, he smiled and greeted the owner, letting the sights, sounds, and smells permeate his psyche and bring out the part of his personality that he had kept under wraps, let loose for a while with Sara, and then wrestled back into place once again.

Chapter Thirteen

Sara made her way through the throng at the Michigan / Michigan State football game tailgate party. Arbor Title always threw the biggest, most elaborate of these tented parties on the golf course opposite the Big House–Michigan Stadium, which seated over a hundred thousand people. The day boasted picture perfect football weather: sunny, about sixty-five degrees, and she stood, sipping an early beer and watching the crowd.

Craig had clients that morning, hoped to show up about an hour before kickoff. She'd never felt more alone in a giant crowd of people, many of whom she considered friends. A heaviness settled over her. An unhappiness she knew could be remedied by one man, if she'd just allow it. But she couldn't. Greg Stewart pulled her into a conversation with a few lenders, but her mind wandered. When he handed her a ticket to the game, she tucked it into her back pocket, thinking she'd likely skip it but thanked him anyway and moved away from the group.

Blake and Rob stood on the other side of the tent, talking with some city council members. Blake looked like he'd lost weight and she did not like the dark circles under his eyes. At one point, he caught her gaze and lifted his glass to her. She smiled, blew a kiss. She'd been avoiding him for at least a week, she knew it. The pallor of his skin was alarming. She started towards him, determined to the air between them.

The sound of Jack's unmistakable laughter pierced her foggy brain. She turned, and the vision of him in full Michigan State regalia with the lovely Heather attached to him like a parasite greeted her, making her stomach lurch into her throat.

Mine
.

No. Not anymore
. She closed her eyes.

"Sara!" The sound of her friend Val's voice broke through the haze of worry about her brother and fury at the sight of Jack with that woman. "Where's Craig?"

"Oh, um, he's coming later. Had clients." Her eyes kept wandering back to him, tall, handsome, dressed in green, but so was half of the crowd. Ann Arbor was lousy with State alums. She herself boasted a degree from the hometown university and wore her block M proudly. Val put an arm around her.

"You look terrible. What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing. Sorry. Worried about Blake, overworked, you know."

She moved away, unwilling to discuss how much her late night conversations with Jack kept her going. Last night he'd told her about the disastrous venture to the BDSM club. She couldn't help but glare at the silly woman at his side.

"Then why in the hell won't you cut her lose Jack? If you're that miserable? I mean unless there are redeeming qualities…." She'd let her voice fade. Let him read between her lines.

He'd laughed; a slightly ugly sound that made her wince. "Yeah, I'm calling it off. But I already promised her we'd go to this game."

"You're stalling. For a guy who gets off on negotiation, who has dumped enough women to fill Michigan Stadium, you are sure being a pussy about Heather."

"Lovely. Thanks for the moral support."

"Sorry. Blunt. That's me."

"Yeah. I know. Anyway, I had to put her in a taxi and send her home from the club. It was a mess. Ever since she's been trying to force me to "punish" her, to control me with some kind of fucked up reverse domination thing. Christ."

"Topping from the bottom?"

"Well, somebody's been doing more research."

She'd grinned into the phone, pressed a hand to her mound. God she wanted him. So much. Needed him like she needed to drink water to survive.

"Are you touching yourself Sara?" His growly voice got lower, making her nipples harden in instant response.

"I'm not having phone sex with you Jack."

"I just asked a simple question."

She sighed; let one finger linger over her clit, suppressing a groan at the sensation.

"Are you? Tell me baby. I'll gladly walk you through it."

The compulsion to do that, to let him bring her to orgasm with his voice nearly made her cry. She yanked her hand away, sat up, and wiped her eyes. "No. I'm not. I'm gonna go now. Guess I'll see you tomorrow. At the tailgate."

"Yeah. Guess so. I sure would love to hear that sound you make again. The little one, right before you…"

"Stop it. G'night."

She mentally snapped back to the present, smiled at whoever stood in front of her, and made her way as far from Jack and his tall, exotic date as she could. Part of her thought he might be bullshitting about Heather, telling her one thing while living another. At one point, scalp tingling with recognition as she chatted with a few title company folks, she looked around, and caught his deep blue gaze fixed right on her. His half smile, wry, a little sad, made her clench her fists.

Mine
.

No, not anymore. You let go of him for perfectly legitimate reasons.

Craig made his way into the tent, already teeming with hundreds of mostly drunk tailgaters, in various forms of blue and yellow or green and white. The ice luge was in full use, and he chuckled at the people accepting freezing cold shots of whatever liquor at the bottom of the huge thing. He grabbed a beer and a plate, starving and anxious to see Sara.

He spotted her, finally, but ended up sidetracked by a few lenders he'd been working with, shot the shit a while, ate a burger and downed a beer and a half before looking around again. Arbor Title knew how to throw a party. The booze and food abounded, a DJ cranked it out, five huge televisions tuned to pre-game festivities.

"Craig," the sound of his name made him turn. He grinned.

"Suzanne," the woman gave him a huge hug. He let her, his usual reticence about public displays of affection out the window. "Great to see you again." He looked up to see two giant banners over the bar, one with "Big House Brewing," the other "The Local."

"Dueling breweries, eh?" She glanced back.

"Oh, yeah, kinda. You're empty," she pointed to his bottle. "Let me grab you one." He followed her, losing sight of Sara in the process as the crowd gained momentum and volume. Once reinforced, he sipped, leaning on the portable bar next to Suzanne.

"What got you into the beer business anyway? You a brewer?"

She laughed and leaned into him. Her proximity made his skin tighten, but he knew she did it so he could hear her over the ever-increasing din. "My late husband left me a huge wad of cash. I've known Evan since elementary school. I needed something to take my mind off the fact I had a late husband and I know how to sell stuff. The rest is history." She took a sip, keeping her bright blue eyes on his.

"Sorry. About the late husband, I mean. I didn't know."

"Yeah, it sucked being a widow at thirty. He was forty-five, and had done well for us. We had no kids, and after about three years of intense mourning, I brought my money to the Big House Brewing Co. and haven't looked back."

Craig smiled and put a hand on her shoulder, then removed it when he caught sight of Sara at the other bar, seemingly arguing with her brother. "Excuse me a minute," his chest tightened at the sight of her as it always did.

Images of her Sara's body over his the night they made love, and the night after the concert crowded his newly addled brain. He knew then she'd been a million miles away. He'd still held onto her all night long, even later when he'd felt tears drip onto his arm, when she thought he was asleep.

What a mess.

He wiped his face, let physical and emotional exhaustion steal over him. Following the trajectory of Blake's pointing finger over to the far side of the tent. In between all the laughing drunkenness, he got a view of Jack. The man had a tall, exotic-looking brunette he knew as the infamous "Heather" attached to one arm, but stared across the sea of people at Sara.

Craig clenched his fists and moved closer, ignoring the warning hand Suzanne put on his arm.

"You are out of control, you know that? Jesus, Blake, I'm allowed to be in the same room with the guy. We fucking
work
together!" Suzanne tightened her grip, stopping him in his tracks.

"Wait. She needs to say this." Suzanne stood beside him, close enough that he could smell the subtle floral of her perfume. "He
is
out of control. Blake has got to let go of the big brother over-protectiveness or he's gonna make everyone crazy. Poor guy." She sighed and leaned into him, making him startle but gave him the chance to do exactly what he wanted, to put what he hoped seemed like a familiar, comfortable arm around her small frame. That was the moment Sara looked over at them, bit her lip and whirled away. Blake followed her gaze, frowned at him and slammed back the rest of his beer. Rob was nowhere in sight.

"I created that mess." Suzanne's voice stayed low. "I loved him. A lot. But he…it wouldn't work. I felt like a predator most of the time. I seduced him, kept him at my house, it was…wrong. It totally fucked up our work environment even if he didn't want to admit it."

"But he loved you too." Craig surprised himself with this insight.

"Yes. It had to end. So… I ended it." She stepped out from under his arm. "You should go find her. She's in an incredibly tough place right now. Jack has a way of bringing out the worst in people."

To his utter amazement, she went up on her tiptoes and pressed soft lips to his before turning and walking towards Blake.

What in the hell?

He took a breath, and dove into the crowd, having turned into mostly a mass of people dancing to cranked-up tunes, to find Sara. His head swirled with a bizarre combination of sudden need for Suzanne's calm presence and insight and the intense desire to fix this thing for Sara.

Jack held his breath, let Heather grip his arm, as they ducked into the tent full of colleagues, lenders, title company flunkies, his brewery friends, and the one woman he wanted to see. He found her in a second, although she stood at nearly the opposite end of the blue and yellow tent. He swallowed hard, turned his attention back to his date–the woman he had to have a serious conversation with later, after the game. The scene she'd made in the club had solidified his resolve.

He was done.

"Don't drink too much," he muttered under his breath to her. She glared at him and sipped the bloody Mary someone had handed her, tightening her grip on his arm. He sighed, grabbed a soft drink, looked up and locked eyes with Sara. Raising his glass, he smiled, using every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from shucking off Heather, running over to Sara, picking her up and carrying her out of the loud, annoying place.

She turned away though, chatting with someone he didn't recognize, so he refocused, reminded himself he still had great seats to what promised to be an amazing football game, and tucked his hand in his pocket. Heather looked up at him but kept her hand on his bicep.

Within an hour, anxiety buzzed so loud in his brain he could hardly stand still. He'd shaken Heather off at some point, and stood alone among the sea of people, unable to locate Sara anymore.

Get a grip God damn it. You know what to do. Dump the crazy bitch; go to the game, then get Sara back.