11. Cole

Chapter 11

Cole

" I was young when I started drinking," I spoke carefully, monitoring the faces of those in the circle around me for any sign of recognition. I'd worn a surgical mask under the guise of worry about illnesses, but in honesty, it was more in the hope that no one would recognize me.

It was my first AA meeting since getting back, and although I had Bobby beside me, it was more intimidating than the circular meetings we had back in rehab. I knew everyone in those, had heard their stories countless times and they'd heard mine. Here, I was starting from scratch.

"Probably fourteen, maybe fifteen," I continued. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my trembling hands. "My parents never noticed any of their liquor missing from the cabinet and probably wouldn't have cared if they did. I was an afterthought for them, really. An inconvenience at best."

"Is that what drove you to the bottle?" Emily, the leader of the group, asked gently.

I shook my head. "Maybe eventually. But it was my friends' influence, at first. I realized how much I liked how it made me feel, how easily I was able to forget about everything else, and so when things started to get really bad at home, it was the first thing I turned to."

"Your parents never realized you were drunk?" Emily asked.

"No. They barely paid any attention, and by the time it started to become a real problem for me, they dropped me off at my aunt's with a single suitcase and a bank account. They told me I was old enough to leave them alone." I shoved my hands under my thighs, needing to calm them. Bobby scrolled through social media beside me.

"How old were you, Cole?"

"Sixteen," I said simply, watching as the most minuscule flicker of surprise rippled across her aging features. "My family is my biggest trigger."

————

Bobby didn't share his story. I didn't mind—we all take things as slowly or quickly as we need to—and Bobby being himself with a new group wasn't completely within the norm for him anyway. He chatted idly about some game he'd been playing lately as he sipped at his mug of coffee in the back of the meeting room.

I stood by him instead of mingling and getting to know the others. Although I'd grown comfortable enough to remove the mask, I wanted to stick by Bobby. I didn't want to veer him off course by ostracizing him.

"Cole?"

Emily stood behind me, clipboard in hand, a soft smile on her face. Her gray hair flowed around her features in ringlets, bouncing as her head tilted to one side at Bobby, probably curious about his lack of participation.

"I'm really glad you guys came today. It's always nice to have new faces around here," she said, offering out a hand. "How long have you been sober now? I missed that part."

"Seven months yesterday for both of us," I said, shaking her hand. I pulled my coin out of my pocket and held it up. "Still carry my six-month chip, though."

"Ah!" She reached into her purse, fumbling around for something before pulling out fresh coins with red paint on them. "Lucky for you, I've got a couple of seven-month ones you can have."

She grinned as she held them out to me. I took them hesitantly and passed one to Bobby. "Thank you."

"Look, I know this is a little forward," she said carefully, "but I know you said your original sponsor is out in California. If you're looking for a local one, I'm happy to sponsor you. I've been at this for over ten years now, and I sponsor some of the others, as well."

Sponsor. My sponsor from rehab had been assigned to me. To have someone offering it with such ease seemed almost foreign. "Really?" I asked, glancing at Bobby who was far too distracted with his phone and his cup of coffee. "I'd love that."

"Of course. The first year is the hardest, you know. You need someone reliable that you can meet on a whim if needed," she explained. "Doing this kind of thing is honestly what keeps me away from the bottle the best."

I huffed a chuckle and turned the seven-month coin in my hand. "Thank you. That's… that's exactly what I need. My life is really hectic at the moment and having someone I can see in person when things go south would really help."

"Why's it so hectic?" she asked, her head tilting again and sending her curls bouncing. "If you don't mind me asking."

I shook my head. "It's fine." I stuffed the coin in my pocket and picked up my cup of coffee out of instinct. "I've just gotten into a romantic situation, I guess you could say. It's a bit confusing."

"A new relationship?"

"Not exactly," I laughed. "But I guess something along those lines. It's… complicated."

Her lips pursed into a thin line. "Be careful with that," she said, her voice dropping in volume. "Experiencing the highs of a new relationship—or whatever it is—when you're new to sobriety is generally not ideal. It's exciting, of course, to want to pursue something with your newfound freedom and outlook on life, but it can keep you searching for the next good high, if you know what I mean. The honeymoon period can only keep you distracted from temptation for so long."

"Don't worry about that, miss," Bobby piped up, his eyes still zoomed in on his phone. "I'm keeping him on the straight and narrow."

Emily gave me a sympathetic smile as she reached for my arm, pulling me off to the side far enough so that she could speak without Bobby hearing. "How did you two meet? At the facility?"

I nodded. "We came in at the same time. He's kept me in check and I've done the same for him," I explained, glancing at him briefly. "He's a bit of a character, I know. But he's a good guy. Kept me sane while I was in there and we have a lot of similarities in our stories, but that's not for me to share."

She nodded, her gaze continuing to snag on him. "Just… keep yourself in check. And keep an eye on him. I know it's his first meeting here, too, but he seems a little less focused on staying sober than you do. I don't want to seem pessimistic, but if you're serious, you need to watch your temptations."

————

Towel drying my hair as I stepped down the stairs, the music playing from the kitchen was a song I'd never heard before. It was pop, a female singer, and for once it didn't bother me. I was feeling on top of the fucking world after the AA meeting; it had been far too long since I'd had a group setting like that. I was used to having two a week back in rehab, so going a month without felt like a missing limb.

"I think I burned the eggs," Bobby grunted as I came around the corner. Smoke and the scent of charcoal filled the massive space.

"You think?" I coughed. I whipped the towel around, actively trying to keep the smoke away from the alarm. The pan on the stove was practically black. If there were ever eggs in it to begin with, it was impossible to tell. Instead it looked like he'd tried to cook some kind of sticky, black goop. The plastic spatula was stuck to the center of the pan, half melted.

"I don't get how that happened," he said, his gaze cemented to the black goop. He wrapped his fingers around the handle of the pan and lifted it, the flame underneath at the highest level, and turned it upside down. Nothing moved, not even the spatula. "Shit."

I turned the knob of the stove off to extinguish the flame and took the cooking utensils from him, throwing them directly into the sink and turning on the cold water to cool them down. I had every intention of tossing them into the trash once they were cool enough. "Did no one ever teach you how to cook?"

Bobby's head shook, his shoulder-length hair flying. "Nah. Never needed to. Angie did all the cooking." Angie. He'd mentioned her before. If I remember correctly, she was one of his family's maids.

"I'm shocked you managed to get the flame going," I said, giving him a side-eye as I pulled a fresh pan from the cabinet.

"I googled it."

"Ah." Fetching the box of eggs and a container of sausages from the fridge, I got started on breakfast for us both. His copious amounts of ready-made meals in the fridge made a lot more sense now, and although I wasn't a cook by any means, I could handle the basics. My aunt had always said I made a mean spaghetti. "For future reference, you don't need the flame all the way up to cook eggs. And you definitely don't leave them unattended once they start cooking."

Bobby grunted some kind of thanks before hopping up onto the counter beside me. "We should just hire someone to do this shit. At least they cooked for us back in rehab."

I shrugged. "You can if you want, but honestly, I feel like it's part of the recovery. Taking the time to learn things you wouldn't have before because you were too drunk to handle it or your family never taught you." I caught the little wince he made as I mentioned family. "Sorry."

"It's fine."

Bobby's triggers were shockingly similar to mine, and our stories aligned so closely that it was like looking in a mirror. Except he'd never had an aunt he was shipped off to that actually seemed to give a shit. He just had an absent family altogether who simply ensured he was fed, dressed, and taught right from wrong. Outside of his teachers, all he had was Angie.

He was a trust fund baby with excessively rich parents who were never around. At eighteen, they loaded up a bank account and sent him out into the world. Three years later, they died in a plane crash over the Himalayas, and Bobby inherited every cent they ever made. I was almost positive he had more money than me and considering my own trust fund and the wild success of Pearson Beers, that was really saying something.

My phone dinged on the counter behind me and I grabbed for it, hoping it was Dana, but was met instead with something almost as good. A text from Lottie.

Lunch at the ranch this weekend?

"Dana?" Bobby questioned, one brow shooting up as he kicked toward me playfully.

"No," I chuckled. I shot a message back to her.

Sounds like a plan.

————

Shareholder meetings, as important as they were, made me want to bash my head into a wall every time they were held. Usually, I'd sip at a coffee during them and spike it while no one was looking. But I couldn't do that this time. I just had to sit and suffer while drinking boring, non-alcoholic coffee.

The temptation was there. The wall behind the projector was lined with bookshelves filled with old, sealed prototypes, bottles of liquor, and our current range of offerings. It would be so easy to just take one.

My fingers twitched.

I shoved them into my pocket, wrapping them around the new, shiny, seven-month-coin. I could make it through the boredom of the meeting; I should care about the content anyway. Apparently, a new law was coming into effect in Colorado. One that would mean we'd need to change the recipe on our new, unreleased lineup of infused beers.

The amount of waste that would cause made my stomach sink to think about. We'd already made almost an entire batch for production, and now it would need to be disposed of or given out for free to the staff.

Seven months ago, I would have taken all of it.

I hadn't spoken to Dana since the night she left and hadn't seen her since the other day at the brewery. I found myself lost in thoughts of her to distract myself from the meeting, and the more I imagined her on her back, on her front, on her knees, the less the boredom seemed to take hold and the less the cravings hit me. A part of me knew I should speak to her, but the other part of me, the part that wanted her as the distraction, told me I didn't need to.

I could just take her.

The moment the meeting ended I found myself slipping from the room and checking the timetable for employees on my phone. She should be here—she was scheduled three to ten in the evening.

As luck would have it, she didn't have a tour right now.

My mind fogged with the idea of her. I paced down the hall to the elevator and rode it down. If I didn't see her, fine. I could play it off like I was checking on things in the brewery. But if I did…

Ding. The doors parted and within a second my eyes zeroed in.

There, at the end of the hallway with her back to me and her hair up in a ponytail, was the woman I couldn't get out of my head.

I beelined for her, sidestepping Ben and Allison and anyone else who tried to get my attention. She didn't even notice me coming. She was so wrapped up in whatever conversation she was having with the girl in front of her that she barely even noticed my hand wrapping around her wrist.

One swift tug was all it took before her protests began.

"What the fu?—?"

"I need to speak to you," I said. I didn't have half of mind where I was taking her. I just let my gut lead the way.

"Cole," she hissed, pulling at her wrist but following me anyway. I glanced behind me, aiming to make sure that no one else was watching but instead becoming far too transfixed in how her brows nearly touched with how irritated she was, with how her lips parted to release an angry huff.

God she looked sexy when she was pissed.

I opened the nearest door and pulled us both in, shutting it behind me.

Fucking janitor's closet.

"I was only five minutes late?—"

"Shut up," I grumbled, and before I could think it through, my mouth was on hers.

Her hands pushed against my chest but her body relaxed into me, a war within herself that I could physically feel. Her lips tasted of strawberries and were slick with ChapStick, and I devoured them, tasted them, sucked at them. Maybe Emily was right—maybe this was a high I was chasing in the same way I used to chase the haze of alcohol, but fuck , I didn't care. She was too perfect, too right for me in too many ways that made no sense. If she was a drug, she'd had me hooked from the first time I saw her.

In the darkness of the closet, I felt her hands slip between the strands of my hair. I shifted myself, kissing her jaw, nipping at the skin of her throat. She smelled so fucking good, sweet, like pancakes with maple syrup. Blood rushed from my head and down between my hips, my cock already beginning to strain at the front of my suit trousers.

"Cole," she squeaked.

"Hmm?" My fingers teased at the waistband of her jeans, desperate to slip beneath and feel what I was doing to her. I knew damn well that she could feel my cock against her side, it was only fair I got to feel her wet pussy.

Slick dampness coated my digits as I eased them beneath her underwear and between her lips. "Fuck," she hissed, her grip on my hair pulling taut. "This isn't appropriate."

"Have I ever been appropriate with you?" I chuckled. Sliding my fingers across her clit, pulling a little ‘yelp' from her, only made my cock harder.

Her hips pressed forward into me, forcing my fingers just a little further back to her entrance. Two easily sunk inside of her, and her answering moan nearly turned me feral. Control yourself.

She writhed against me with every motion of my hand. Two inside, my thumb on her clit, and my lips just beneath her ear. "Keep quiet, baby," I rasped. I knew how fucking loud she could be when she came, and god dammit, we didn't need someone thinking I was murdering her in here.

She bit down on her lip and rode against my hand, her nails digging into the skin of my scalp. Every plunge, every stroke had her clenching around me, her breaths coming short and quick or not at all. All I wanted was to sink myself into her, wrap my throbbing cock in her damp heat. But I'd give her this and save myself for later.

"I-I can't, I?—"

Too loud. I covered her mouth with my free hand and brought my nose against hers, breathing with her. Her walls closed in, her hips moving frantically, and I could tell just how close she was. "Come for me," I ordered, dropping my forehead and resting it against hers. "And try not to scream."

A muffled shriek ripped from her at the same moment her knees gave way, and I took the brunt of her weight with my knee and the hand she rode. Frantic little breaths came from her nose, and only when I was completely convinced she wouldn't alert everyone to exactly what was happening, I removed my hand from her mouth.

"Good girl," I cooed, pressing my lips to hers to absorb any other little sounds. Her body shook, little aftershocks sending spasms through her as I finally stilled my fingers.