Gabe had left his mark on me.
“What’s done is done,” I said, swirling my wineglass. “We’re out to celebrate our birthdays, and it’s almost midnight. We should make a wish. A big one this year. Something important. Something life changing.”
Something to shove my train onto a different track.
We shared glances. Ainsley twirled a lock of her golden hair around her finger, Gwen tapped her thumb, and I spun my wineglass in endless circles. My biggest stress in life since college, and every wasted diploma following, had been work. My job. My lack of purpose. Each day, before I left my apartment, I’d read the quote framed in my hall:
“Aim for the moon. If you miss, you may hit a star.” ~ W. Clement Stone
Problem was, I didn’t know the shape of my moon. It certainly didn’t look like my current loan officer gig, complete with cold calls and angry hang-ups. It didn’t look like the life coaching job I maybe lost for telling a guy his toupée was on the endangered species list. My stint as a Reiki therapist had been short-lived, too. It lasted until one client suggested I do Reiki on his cock.
Instead of aiming for the moon, I’d been bouncing around the solar system, and I’d hit nothing but refuse.
That made my wish easy. A grand ambition to find a rewarding job and start over, again, but this time I’d do it right. I’d suffer through my current boss’s thinly veiled sexual harassment as he searched for the meaning of life in the valley between my breasts. Once I found something exciting, then, and only then, would I hand in my pink slip. Year twenty-seven would be my Oscar bid. My Super Bowl win. I’d even settle for a Teen Choice Award for Best Lip Wax.
I shoved my watch in the girls’ faces. “You have one minute until midnight. I’ve got my wish, but no sharing or it won’t come true. Ready?”
Ainsley sat taller, fortitude in the press of her lips. “This will be our year. And I agree about making it a big one. Like a resolution-type wish. Something we can work toward.”
Gwen picked at her nails. “We could even bet. Make each other do something horrible if we fail.”
“I’m not doing some psycho CrossFit marathon, like dragging a tire behind me while scaling a building.” Ainsley looked horrified.
Gwen snickered. “You’re right. Betting is kinda dumb. I’ll settle on a pinky swear.”
Gwen’s pinky swear was akin to a blood oath. Guess I wasn’t the only one with a desperate wish on the line. “You mean business.”
Her eyes clouded briefly. “I do. Which means we can’t bail on our resolutions. We need to accomplish them by next year. We should even write them down, read them together at our twenty-eighth birthday.”
We agreed, and Gwen fished a notepad and pen from her purse. She passed us each a torn-out sheet. When my turn came, I wrote my resolution in all caps, no mistaking my intended goal: I WILL FIND A REWARDING JOB. Giddy, I folded my paper and handed it to Gwen, who stored our aspirations in a zippered purse pocket.
Wearing matching looks of determination, we all linked our pinky fingers.
“On the count of three,” Ainsley said, “we make our wish.”
“No sharing,” I reminded them. “And no peeking at what we wrote,” I told Gwen.
We traded excited glances as Ainsley counted us down, landing on her final three with a flourish. I made my wish, the prospect of quitting and finding a fulfilling career spurring my heart nearly as fast as it had thrummed at Bad Boy’s touch. Nearly.
Then we were plunged into darkness.
The lights went out. As did the music, again. Shouts and gasps sounded for two frantic seconds. Our pinkies clenched harder, anchoring us to one another in the darkness. Just as quickly, everything sparked back to life.
The lively crowd became more boisterous, but we’d fallen silent. The air seemed to vibrate. My shoulders shivered, the hairs on the back of my neck at attention. Nervous energy was mirrored on my friends’ faces.
“Jesus.” Ainsley shattered the tension. “That was horror-movie creepy, but it was worth the price of admission.”
Gwen released our fingers and studied her hands. “They must be having some serious technical difficulties tonight.”
“Right. Technical difficulties.” But my erratic pulse didn’t slow. Something was screwy with the electrical system, all right. Still, the lights shutting off just as we’d made our wishes had felt eerie. Magical even. A ridiculous notion. Magic was for children and movies and fantasy novels.
Shaking off the tingles dancing up my arms, I moved aside my empty wineglass—glass three—and reached for “the red.”
* * *
Glass four disappeared quickly, too. We linked arms and traipsed outside on a happy high. I was on the talkative side of tipsy, Reckless Rachel hovering below the surface. We crossed the quiet street, the spring air cool enough to bring the bars and streetlights into focus. My promising future had me leaning my head back to gulp in the possibilities. Gwen waved down a cab, and I hummed to myself, practically floating.
This birthday felt different, our wishes holding more weight. I wouldn’t treat it lightly. When the timing was right, I’d quit my job and follow my (yet to be determined) dreams, and my life would be more than fine. It would be exciting and rewarding and fun. It would be zestful! A zesterific life! Completely zestastic!
A drunk giggle tripped off my tongue, but the sound died on a heavy sigh. Bad Boy was across the street, leaving the bar, that swagger of his ever present. I watched him like I would a spider crawling near my leg—fear, intrigue, and fascination intermingling. He pushed into a blue door a few buildings down. The sign above the bar read The Blue Door.
The sight of him had me wishing I’d accepted his drink offer. A sketchy thought. I’d been tempted by a rebel once, an experience I’d rather not repeat. I stared at that door anyway, desire curling through my blood stream. If my wish suddenly was a magical thing, I’d spin it on its head. I’d wish I could handle one wild night with Bad Boy. Not get shy. Not lock up when naked in front of a stranger, as though having sex for the first time. I’d let him ride me—no, I’d ride him—until the sun kissed the sky.
“We’ve made a decision.”
I turned to Ainsley, unaware they’d been talking. “What?”
“We’re getting in a cab,” she said, her voice even raspier after yelling in Vesper, “and you’re following your tongue into The Blue Door.”
“No way.” Was I that transparent? As lonely as I’d been, as many bad dates as I’d endured, I hadn’t realized how unfulfilled my body was until I’d watched couples flirt in the bar, a guest at a show. Until Bad Boy had touched me.
“Yes way.” Ainsley tucked my hair behind my ear. “Rachel, this is your birthday. Our birthday. You’ve been kind of down lately, and we think you need to let loose. Have fun. Not everything in your life has to fit into your spreadsheets. He’s not the type of guy you date or take home to meet Mom. I know you want that, but sometimes you have to turn things upside down to find your feet.”
“You did see how hot he was, right?” Gwen added. “Don’t tell me you weren’t picturing all the ink he had under that shirt. Go out and have fun.” She hit me with her trouble grin—one corner of her mouth kicked up, her eyes narrowed yet twinkling. The grin she’d unleashed the night of the Dildo Incident.
Reckless Rachel stirred to life.
But who was she kidding? Me have fun with the guy who heard me scream pussy? The kinky freak? “What if he has body parts in his freezer?”
Gwen raised her phone. “I’m friends with the bartender at The Blue Door, and I’ve already texted him. Turns out he knows the Lone Wolf and says he’s a decent guy, family owns a winery or something. But if he turns out to be a creeper, all you have to do is tell Cameron. He’ll make sure you find a cab.” Again with her trouble grin.
The same grin that now tugged at my lips.
Nothing about walking into a bar to stalk a stranger was smart, but I was amped up, my fine life and fine job itching at me unt
il the urge to scream or dance or proposition a bad, bad boy had my blood thrumming. A cool breeze whispered across my back, echoing the sensation of Bad Boy’s fingers, but nowhere near as sweet.
“Go,” Ainsley said as she patted my ass.
“Hall of Fame Fuck,” Gwen reminded me.
Heart in my throat, my string of painful dates and lonely nights coaxing me on (as well as four glasses of wine), I let Reckless Rachel out to play.
Two
Jimmy
I should never have walked into Vesper. I’m not sure what idiocy drove me there. Curiosity, maybe. Wondering if I’d feel like an outcast, or if the clinking of glasses and flashing of perfect teeth would prompt nostalgia. I didn’t miss it, exactly, but the familiarity scraped at me. Two years ago, my styled hair and designer shirts would have fit in with the Rolex-wearing crowd. But that was an eternity and a different guy ago.
The Blue Door was more my speed—unpretentious people, guitar licks strumming from the speakers, hushed conversations at cramped tables, and, most important, a killer wine list.
I fell onto a stool at the empty bar and pushed my hand through my hair. I nodded to Cameron. “Any good Russian River Pinots?”
He spun around like usual, no hesitation in his reach. He pulled the Lynmar Pinot Noir down from his wall of bottles and held the label toward me. “Black raspberry on the nose, floral notes, smooth tannins.”
He nailed all of that, even if he hadn’t mentioned the hints of cardamom, but he should have known better than to offer me a 2011 Pinot. “Are you new?” I said, and he chuckled. “I’m not after anything from that mess of a drenched season. Try again.”
Instead of telling me off, he smirked. A smirk that widened as he put me on hold to check his phone. His gaze jumped to the door, then back to me, his grin widening as he texted someone. “Something tells me I have just the thing for you tonight.” He glanced over my shoulder again, and I frowned at the still-closed door.
“Hit me with it,” I said, unsure what he kept staring at.
Cameron, with his inked sleeves, didn’t look the part of the wine geek. Not that I did anymore, either. But I’d warmed that barstool enough to test his wine knowledge, and he rarely disappointed. He went right for the 2013 Foursight. That killer season had produced fruit-intense grapes, and Foursight was a boutique winery, everything made in small batches. My weakness.
At my nod, he grabbed a glass from the rack above his head. The deep ruby liquid swirled up the sides as he poured.
I stuck my nose in the crystal and inhaled scents of ripe berries and damp earth, hints of rhubarb teasing me. Fucking sensual. “Why didn’t you start with this?”
My first sip was perfection.
“I like screwing with you. Most people pretend to know their wine. It’s nice serving someone who isn’t full of shit.”
“I know a thing or two.” Or a thousand and two. My blood practically pumped with the divine nectar, my ancestors having grown grapes when all of Greece revered the gods.
Two years ago, when my life imploded, I avoided anything and everything to do with wine. I tossed my collection and drank beer and hung out in dive bars, hair growing longer, tattoo collection building. Buying the Harley I’d had a hard-on for since twelfth grade eased the sting, but nothing erased my anger. Still, I couldn’t stay away. Not from wine. Not from the lure of a Pinot as pure and ripe as the Foursight. Plus, staying away meant my family won, when they all deserved to be gloriously, ceremoniously fucked over.
Cameron grabbed a glass from the washer behind him and shined it from stem to rim, before hanging it on the overhead rack. The same end-of-night routine I did when closing up Rudy’s Tavern.
His attention kept flitting to the door, but he said, “You should enter that sommelier contest. Odds are it’ll be filled with wannabes and egos.”
I swished a sip around my mouth and swallowed. “What contest?”
He dropped his cloth, grabbed a flyer farther down the bar, and slapped it on the wood next to me. “Sommelier of the Century. Some lame attempt for the Adriano brothers to dig themselves out of the hole they’ve sunk in. Their restaurants have been tanking, and they’re trying to attract attention. Press.”
“Sounds like bullshit.”
“Maybe, but the opportunity is no joke. Head sommelier position is up for grabs, for all three restaurants, and it’s open to anyone who’s ever uncorked a bottle. With that kind of prize and no background needed, it’ll be a circus. But entertaining.”
Probably would be a laugh, but if Cameron knew my background, he’d never have suggested it. My résumé was a wet dream for most restauranteurs, no sommelier position out of my reach. My lats bunched as memories scratched under my skin, the thoughts more unpleasant than sipping a corked Merlot.
I stretched my neck, and my mind wandered to the club and that proper girl and her dirty mouth. A nice diversion for my acerbic thoughts.
She’d sat at her table, back straight, shoulders locked in perfect posture, hands folded on her lap. It had me wanting to unlace her fingers, dip my head down, and lick her until she pulled my mouth against her wet heat, her crossed legs trembling for hours. She was even better close up, a spray of freckles covering her sun-kissed skin.
So California. So innocent. A princess with a dirty mouth.
Who’d turned me down.
While Cameron continued with his nightly clean, I blinked the disappointment away and read the flyer on the bar. The Adriano brothers were San Francisco celebrities, but their restaurants had slipped from hot spots to backup plans. The contest was smart marketing, a way to shine a light on their venture while involving the city. What caught my eye, though, and halted my throat mid-sip of wine, was the bullet point at the bottom:
After two months of tasting sessions and elimination rounds, the best two contestants will work the restaurant on June 28th, serving top wine writers and reviewers to determine the winner.
Top wine writers. In one place. On one night.
An idea caught, a taste of justice a hell of a lot sweeter than the Pinot Noir finally traveling down my throat. A chance to right a wrong that should never have happened. It would mean being a finalist in that farce of a contest, but like Cameron said, the circus would attract more wannabes than wine devotees, and I could taste the best under the table. I’d just have to use a different last name.
As I sipped my wine, my tension less acute, a feminine voice said, “Is that drink still on offer?”
After the flyer and the potential it held, I grinned. The first true smile I’d unleashed in months. I slid my gaze to the dirty princess and took in her fidgety hands.
Her deep brown eyes flitted over the room, landing repeatedly on the door. Ready to escape? I was revved up, her reappearance in my field of vision too perfect to back off. I’d enjoyed women the past couple of years, would lose myself in their soft skin and heady moans, but the release was always short-lived.
With my mind still processing my plan, the night now felt more like a celebration than escape. Who better to toast with than the contradiction before me?
“Drink’s on offer. Under one condition.”
She hesitated, working her fingers over one another, still glancing at the exit. Then she clenched her hands, dropped her arms to her sides, and met my eyes. “What condition?”
I leaned toward her, so close I could see each freckle dotting the ridges of her lips. “I hear you say pussy again.”
Her eyes snapped wide, her posture even straighter than before. “Sorry. I should go. This was a bad idea.”
As she turned, I grabbed her elbow. “I’m joking.” Sort of. “It was worth saying that to see the look on your face. Promise, I don’t bite.” Unless she asked me to.
At least the comment drew her attention to my mouth. I gestured toward Cameron. “We even have a chaperone. One drink. And I might need an explanation for your outburst earlier.”
She shifted on her heels and swung her attention to Cameron. Something p
assed between them, as though they knew each other. When he nodded, a slight tilt of his head, she seemed to relax. “Okay. One drink.”
The night was looking up. She settled onto the stool beside me, her spine still ramrod straight. She tucked her elbows to her sides.
“What’s your poison?” I asked.
“Apparently dangerous men I don’t know, but I’ll have a glass of the Lynmar Pinot.”
I could do dangerous. “If I’m your poison after two minutes, imagine how you’ll feel in a few hours.” That earned me a long swallow from her. “She’ll have the Foursight,” I added to Cameron. It was sweet how confident she was ordering that wine, but her lips would taste so much better after a sip from my glass.
She shot me a look, her freckles sharp against her reddening cheeks. “Pretty sure I can order for myself, and I’d like the Lynmar.”
“You don’t want the Lynmar. 2011 was a shit year. Trust me.” No need to bore her about the early rains that season and the lack of fruit. Better to get her a glass and steer the conversation back to pussy. Hers, specifically.
“Actually I do want the Lynmar.”
Cameron moved to grab the bottle, but I held up my hand. He halted.
To her, I said, “I’ve been sipping the Foursight since I got here. You telling me you don’t want a taste?”
Her attention dropped to my lips again, and she grazed her teeth over hers. Fire sparked in her brown eyes. “I may want a taste of that wine. Later. For now I want the Lynmar.”
“It’s inferior.”
“It’s splendid.”
“The season was crap.”
“The season was hard, not crap.”
“The Foursight is a sure thing,” I said. She must have seen the heat in my gaze.
“I like the underdog,” she countered, a sultry note to her voice. “Finding a diamond in the rough. The vines that survived 2011 were stronger, and a few vintages shone. Like the Lynmar. Hints of spice. Creamy mouthfeel.” A quiet hum passed her lips.
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 2
