Porter (Men of Lovibond 3)

“Spent most of Saturday working on my 356B.” And then got laid on Saturday night for the first time in months. Can’t complain.

“I don’t know what a three-fifty whatever you said is.”

“It’s a 1963 Porsche.”

“Ooh. Do you have a picture?”

“Of course.”

I take out my phone and open the album. “This is the before picture. Piece of shit, right?”

“Uh, it could use some love.”

I scroll to the photo I took yesterday after a good wash and wax. “This is what she looks like today.”

“That’s a good-looking car. How long did it take to get it to that condition?”

“‘Bout two years.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. I’ve worked hard on restoring it. I’m a proud papa.”

“You should be.”

She takes a drink of coffee and looks around the room. “This is where I’ll be working?”

“Yeah. Sorry it’s not more visually appealing.”

“Lovibond is a brewery. I wouldn’t expect an office that looked like it belonged in a high-rise in New York.” Her hand gestures to the two desks. “Which one should I take?”

“The right one. Computer is faster.”

I roll across the floor until I’m beside Frankee and wiggle the mouse of the computer. Nothing. I reach around and press the on-off button. “This one has probably been shut down since the last time I used it.”

“Do the two art department computers share a file server?”

“Yes, as well as the computer in my office.”

When the computer fires up, I open Finder and hover back and forth over the folders with the cursor. “Lovibond’s designs are here, and Bohemian Cider Company is here.”

“You do the cider company’s designs too?”

I guess I forgot to tell her that. “Yeah. BCC is Lovibond’s sister company.”

“I knew Lucas was married to Oliver’s sister and they bought a cider company, but I didn’t know that you handled their graphics and marketing as well.”

“Lawrence wouldn’t have it any other way.” No way she was going to let anyone else be in charge of those things for her company.

“You do the graphics and marketing for two companies and still manage to help Oliver with brewing and creating new recipes?”

“I do.” And it’s fucking killing me.

“How can you possibly handle all of that?”

“I ask myself the same thing every day.”

“It’s no wonder you need help.”

Frankee doesn’t know the half of it. Some days, I feel like I’m trapped and drowning in one of the brewery’s damn fermentation tanks with only a few inches to keep my head above the surface. “I’m grateful to have your help.”

“This arrangement doesn’t work out any better for you than it does me. I’m grateful too, Beck.” She tilts her head and grins. “Do you remember me calling you Beck?”

Frankee was sixteen the first time she called me Beck. It happened by accident. She got my name wrong but I couldn’t bring myself to correct her. After a while, it just felt right for her to call me by that name.

Frankee Dawson! Mr. Beckman is my boss. And you’re a kid. It’s disrespectful for you to call him Beck. Apologize. Now.

I’m sorry, Mr. Beckman. I’ll never call you Beck again.

She was humiliated when her father scolded her in front of me. I didn’t want her to be embarrassed. And that’s why I told her later that day that I would like it very much if she continued to call me Beck. Our little secret.

“You can still call me Beck if you want. But I’m not sure you should let your father know you call me that. He might scold you again.”

“I think I’ll stick with Porter if that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

I should have her call me Mr. Beckman all the time. It would be a good reminder of how young she is. And that she is deeply off-limits. Mr. Beckman could serve as a prompt to help me remember to keep my fucking eyes in my head and not on her twenty-one-year-old tits and ass. It’s impossible not to look when she’s wearing clothes that hug her body in all the right places.

Dress code around the office?

Fuck. I should have told her to wear a turtleneck and mom jeans when she asked. Maybe then I could resist looking.

Beckman, get this train back on the tracks.

I open the Photoshop file of my latest design. “I started working on this label for the winter seasonal a month ago, and I’m no closer to a final than I was when I started.”

“Hitting a wall, huh?”

Yeah. One that won’t budge. “Nothing has felt right. I put it away with the intention of coming back to it later, but I got busy.”

“Sometimes you have to put it down and walk away, or you’ll dig yourself into a hole you’ll never climb out of.”

“That’s a good way of putting it.”

“What’s the winter seasonal flavor?”

“Smoked vanilla porter.”

Frankee’s head tilts to the side. “Smoked vanilla porter. Sounds like a dessert special at a restaurant.”

Stout and I have worked on that fucker for months. “It’s the finest porter I’ve ever tasted. I think it’s going to be a huge hit with our customers.”

“Sounds delicious. I’m not even a beer drinker and I want to try it.” She’s not a beer drinker? I bet she likes those bright-colored girly cocktails.

“It’s a great beer and it deserves a great label. So far, I’m not doing it justice.” And I hate that. This is one of our best beers ever. I feel like shit because I can’t come up with anything.

“It’s seasonal. Are you okay with having some fun with the graphics?”

“Sure.”

“Do you have a pencil and paper I can use to sketch out what’s in my head?”

This isn’t much of an art department. Zero supplies. “Let’s go to my office. I have everything you’ll need in there.”

I set up my drafting table with a sketch pad, graphites, coals, and pastels. “Need anything else?”

She grins. “I think this will work for now.”

Frankee sharpens a graphite pencil and then begins sketching the outline of a label. I don’t want to make her nervous by standing over her so I move to sit behind my desk. “Do you like to listen to music while you work?”

“I do.”

“Me too. What kind of music inspires you?”

“I know it sounds weird, but I really like eighties and nineties rock.”

I need something more specific than that. “Name some.”

“Toto. Foreigner. Def Leppard. Journey. Heart. Boston. Kiss. REO Speedwagon. Poison.”

Okay. I see where she’s going with that. “Bon Jovi. Mötley Crüe. Pearl Jam. Survivor. Warrant. 38 Special.”

“Yes to every one of those and so many more.”

I wouldn’t have pegged her for liking that kind of music. “You seem awful young to listen to those genres.”

“That’s the kind of music my parents liked, so it’s what I grew up listening to.”

I’m not sure Scott has turned forty yet. “They were young when you are born?”

“Daddy was eighteen and Mama was seventeen.”

Fuck. Her dad is only nine years older than me. My parents could be the same age as her grandparents.

She looks up and grins. “I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. I was a slipup.”

“What’s that like? Growing up with parents who had you when they were still kids?”

“Hard. Not because they weren’t great parents. They were the best. But Daddy didn’t get to finish school. He had to quit and get a job when they found out I was on the way. No high school diploma means he had to settle for low-paying jobs. Our family struggled for a lot of years. I was sixteen before things started to turn around for us… after Daddy came to work at Lovibond.”

I had no idea Scott was experiencing such hards

hip when he came to work for us. He hid it well. “I’m glad things turned around for your family.”

“Me too. I don’t know where we’d be today if you hadn’t given him a chance.”

We’ve gone through a lot of employees in the five years we’ve been open. Very few have been as loyal and dedicated to their job as Scott Dawson. “I don’t know where we’d be without him. There isn’t a better warehouse manager out there.”

“That’s a nice thing to say.”

“Nothing but the truth.”

I turn on my phone’s Pandora app and connect it to the speaker via Bluetooth. “Is Bon Jovi station okay with you? It should play all kinds of random late-eighties and nineties hair bands.”

“Sounds good to me.”