Blended (Redemption #1)

by Sasha Brümmer

  Owen smiles, and Lo watches us closely as if I’m going to crawl under the table and give him head for conversing with me. Silly girl. I don’t need to have a conversation with someone to sleep with him, but as tempting as it is, I would never hurt her.

  “Since you like the stuff so much, has Lo taken you to the whiskey library? It’s on the Magnificent Mile.”

  “A whiskey library?” My interest is piqued. I’ve heard of something like it before, but I’ve never been lucky enough to stumble across one.

  “Oh yeah, isn’t it rather new? I’ve never been, but I’ve heard great things about it from those who enjoy that foul stuff. No offense, Hads,” Lo says.

  “None taken. What’s it called? I’d like to stop by and take a look for myself.”

  “If I remember correctly it’s called Blended,” Owen says with a smile as he sets his glass down on the tabletop.

  “Huh . . . thank you, Owen.”

  “No problem. Let me know if you need any more suggestions of places to go in the city. I’m sure Hold wouldn’t mind showing you around either.”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t mind one bit, but I’ll need your number for that,” he says as if his ploy isn’t obvious. Just in case his meaning is not clear, his eyes let me know that it’s more than just a line that he’s throwing out.

  “Smooth,” Owen adds to the awkward silence before the four of us laugh at how ridiculous Holden is—sexy as hell, but preposterous nonetheless.

  We all settle into a comfortable conversation while the apex of my thighs aches for relief. I’ve been deprived for over twenty-four hours, and my libido won’t allow me to forget it.

  I unwind in a dark leather wingback chair in my office as I page through a file involving my latest venture here in Chicago. I’ve been impressed with my staff and its outcome thus far, given that it’s one of the smaller venues that I own at the moment. It seems to be thriving.

  I place the folder down on the coffee table in front of me before reaching for my tumbler of 1937 Glenfiddich; the hints of cedar, cinnamon, cloves, and toffee fill my mouth as I take a sip of the rare bottle. A total of sixty-one bottles were made, and I happen to own another four.

  I breathe out and find comfort in this particular whiskey. The tradition, feel, and aesthetics in drinking whiskey have been enjoyable to me since I can remember. Each bottle in my collection comes with its own history, sharing its tales by taste and scent rather than words. If a drink could restore memories from the past, then whiskey would be the answer. I roll the tumbler between my fingers as the walnut liquid slides from side to side.

  I take another sip as the flavors emerge across my palate, groaning as the warm sensation makes its way down my throat and through my body. Unable to sit for much longer, I get up and walk across the span of my office to the windows, glancing down at the people walking around on the sidewalk below. At this moment, I wonder what it would be like to be one of them—to consider myself average.

  I’ve managed to keep my life to myself; I wouldn’t call myself an introvert, but I’ve been known to hole up with a bottle of whiskey from time to time. I turn away from the windows and those who occupy the sidewalk space below.

  The majority of my time is spent dealing with Brass Global, working out, or drinking Scotch. I’ve limited myself to whom I interact with in Chicago, and I have a set of rules that I abide by to keep sane.

  I was born in London, England, and moved to the United States with my mother when I was still an infant after the death of my father. She raised me as a single mother, striving to be the best she could be for me, and it’s because of her that I refuse to lose sight of my goals for something or someone inconsequential.

  An abrupt knock on my door interrupts my thoughts as well as the silence in the room. I glance at my watch and frown: it’s eight in the evening. Who the hell would still be here?

  “What?” I call out, annoyance laced in my voice.

  The oversized solid wood door opens silently and my secretary, Adriana Hugh, walks in, her heels clicking softly against the black marble flooring. She’s been with me since I launched my company, and I could not imagine replacing her. She’s beautiful, but I haven’t shown any interest in this all-American girl. She may be someone I would naturally go after, but my rules forbid me from doing so.

  “I apologize for interrupting, Mr. Brass, but I just wanted to ask if you needed anything else before I leave? I’ve arranged the meeting in Australia for three weeks from today, which will give you the time you needed to review and make your final decision on the properties you were interested in acquiring there.”

  “Thank you, Adriana. Is there anyone else left on the floor?”

  “No, sir. It is just the two of us.”

  I nod. “Very well. Have a good evening.”

  “You too, sir.” She smiles timidly before placing a few phone messages on my desk and walking out of the room, shutting the door silently behind her.

  I place my now-empty tumbler on my desk before picking up the messages she has written down for me. Two are from my mother, another is from a C-level employee, Gage Cooper, and the other is from Lawson Stafford. Adriana holds all of my personal phone calls during the day unless I ask her otherwise. She usually keeps my cell phone on her desk as well. I don’t have time to play tag via text messages when I’m busy with crucial financial decisions involving the multiple companies comprising Brass Global. Of those companies under the BG umbrella, some mean more to me than others do, but those who work underneath me to make my empire thrive will never know the difference. Our subsidiaries are varied with some being in the business sector while others are in the hospitality industry.

  Some of my biggest projects, however, revolve around a global charity called Mothers of Brass, an organization that is dear to my heart. Mothers of Brass runs safe houses in which women experiencing domestic violence find their refuge. Many of them suffer from physical as well as mental abuse, and many of them escape their abusive situations with their children in tow. This charity helps to put these women back on their feet in the time they need and require. In addition, it offers counseling and support groups at no charge.

  It’s an incredibly personal part of my business, but no one outside of Adriana and Brass Global’s C-level positions are aware of that.

  After reading each one of the messages, I decide that tonight is not the night to call them back. None of them will get anything worthwhile from me this evening.

  Now that everyone has left the office, I remove my tie, undo the first few buttons on my white shirt, grab my jacket off of the back of my chair, and then leave my office, picking up my phone from Adriana’s desk on my way out. I text Jacobs to inform him that he may take the rest of the evening off after he delivers my personal vehicle to my final destination.

  This evening will be one drowned in the light and spicy, yet slightly bitter flavor of a 10-year aged rye whiskey. Once I arrive at my building’s lobby, I walk out after greeting the third-shift security in all-black suits. Instead of taking the car with Jacobs, I walk the two blocks to my most beloved place in Chicago—Blended—where I’m greeted by name upon arrival. I’m shown back to a spot next to the oversized fireplace and ask a librarian for a neat WhistlePig straight rye whiskey. Blended has proven to be my saving grace in the last two months since it opened; it’s provided me with a peace of mind every time I walk through the doors. It’s home.

  She’s back a few minutes later with a tumbler designed by Rikke Hagen filled with two fingers of amber. I thank her before breathing in the aged liquor, taking a sip, and sinking a little farther into the seat. It’s a Monday night and Labor Day weekend, so the crowd is light this evening, just how I prefer it.

  I choose to stay invisible although everyone knows me, and if they don’t yet then they shortly will because I’ll soon be gracing the cover of one of the most popular magazines in the nation. I may not be looking forward to the undue attention, but I’m pleased with my accomplishments that have ultim
ately led me to getting the cover. Regardless of the recognition that this may bring, I’d prefer to remain unseen.

  I’ve been in Chicago for just over a week since Labor Day, and I have yet to get laid. How pathetic am I? It’s an early Sunday night, and I cannot stay in this apartment for one more minute, regardless of how beautiful it is. I need to get out of this building and find myself an easy lay or simply be someone’s easy piece.

  I doll myself up after a hot shower, spending more time on my hair and makeup than usual before I walk into the foyer and call out to Lo, who is huddled up on her couch with Owen. “I’m heading out for a few hours. Please don’t wait up if I’m not back. I’ll see you later.”

  “Have fun, Hads. Make sure that he wears a condom,” she jokes.

  “I’d never go without one. Bye!”

  I leave the confines of what quickly seems to be becoming my very own anti-sex prison cell. Hell, even the straight men in prison get more dick than I have this last week—which is none.

  I’m antsy as I walk out of her building and hail a cab, telling the driver to take me to Blended, the whiskey library that Owen told me about last week. I’ve been job searching like it’s the one thing I need to breathe and I haven’t taken time out to just explore Chicago’s treasures on my own. The only thing that I’ve left the apartment for is yoga and whiskey. I’ve been to the park a couple of times in the morning—before there are too many people around—to practice yoga in the slightly humid summer air. I’m not yet acclimated to these northern summers. I’m used to the dry heat of the desert, but I’m adapting.

  The cabbie pulls up to the address, and I hand him some cash before getting out and walking through the front door. The place has a low buzz of noise; it seems to be more of a place to relax and truly savor the whiskey than a place that hosts wild events and drunken loons. The lights are dimmed, and there’s music playing over the speakers, but it’s not loud enough for me to figure out what song is on. There are large pieces of comfortable furniture—sofas, wingback chairs, coffee tables, and seating nooks—around the open room. Wooden beams soar overhead as they stretch from one side of the room to the other. A massive fireplace sits in the center of the far wall, which is currently surrounded by people drinking; some are even smoking cigars. How do they not get fined for that shit?

  I walk up to the bar and take in the two walls of shelves in front of me that are filled with hundreds of bottles of beautifully aged amber liquid. I glance to my left and see a petite woman sliding a wooden ladder across another set of shelves before climbing up it as if she was going to retrieve a book. Instead, she comes back down with a bottle of whiskey.

  The petite bartender . . . uh . . . librarian snaps me from my thoughts before I’ve noticed that I’m next to be served. “Bourbon, rye, Tennessee, Canadian, Scotch, or Irish?” she asks, and I look at her wide-eyed.

  “That’s how you greet people here?” I ask, recalling her saying the same thing a little louder when I first walked in.

  She cracks a smile, yet I feel as if she’s mocking me. “It sure is. What will it be?”

  “Macallan 10-Year. Straight up and neat.”

  She raises her brows at me, her smile seeming to be the slightest bit more genuine as she turns away from me. I’m sure she’s used to pricks coming in here acting like they know a thing or two about whiskey. She comes back and places a gorgeous tumbler in front of me. “I’ll hold onto your card,” she says as I pull it out of my purse and hand it to her. “Take a seat wherever you want and you can either come up here to grab a drink or ask one of the librarians to bring you something.”

  “Great, thank you.”

  “Oh, if you actually like the place and if you’d like to make this a regular spot for yourself then come by and chat with me. We offer a private membership, which requires approval from the owner. It’s like a library card—you get to try out the most expensive bottles a few times a year. We also hold socials for the members, and every once in a while someone gets to add the stamp of the Macallan 64-Year to his or her list. Let me know if you’re interested and I’ll grab you an application.”

  “That’s great, thank you,” I say before walking away to find a seat, surprised by the detail involved in this space. I take a seat in front of the all-brick fireplace that is burning real wooden logs instead of the conventional gas alternative, inhibiting the campfire smell that the Scottish single malts provide.

  After a few minutes of glancing around the place, I swirl the amber liquor around the glass. I love the vibe that this place gives off. It doesn’t feel ostentatious even though they own the most expensive whiskey in the world beside many others that I have seen gracing their shelves.

  I feel welcomed here as if it’s a place that I’ve visited hundreds of times before. I shift in the seat and get a bit more comfortable before pulling out my phone and calling up my Kindle application to read some sappy know-it-all romance novel that has barely been holding my interest. Okay, that’s another lie, but I won’t admit to my fixation of fictional characters to just anyone.

  I don’t notice the time passing until my second tumbler is empty and I stand to stretch out my legs, which are stiff after sitting still for so long. I look up and out toward the large windows; the street lights are on outside and it’s now completely dark with very few people walking past. I hadn’t realized that I was so absorbed in this book. So much for finding someone to ride tonight.

  “That must be an interesting novel,” a deep, dark voice says as I sit back down to read again, hoping that one of the librarians will come by so I can order another Macallan.

  I glance up with a small smile on my face before it falls once I lock eyes with the man sitting diagonally from me.

  “Oh.”

  “Ah, so she does recognize me.”

  It’s the man from Stafford’s. The one who probably still has my thong hostage. I feel an odd vibe shift between us, so much so that I’m a bit uncomfortable with the way he’s looking at me.

  “I suppose I do. Did you grace my thong with your come yet?” I enjoy shocking men with my mouth—in more ways than one.

  His lips rise up in one corner, “No, I have personal rules when it comes to women. It’s a trophy of a non-sexual encounter that left me lightheaded.”

  “That’s an interesting choice of words.”

  “Speaking of words,” he says, nodding toward my phone, “what are you reading?”

  I glance down at the sex scene unraveling on the page in front of me before locking my phone and setting it on my lap. “Does it matter?”

  “Not entirely, but I’ve enjoyed the myriad of emotions crossing your face as you read it.”

  He’s been watching me? I don’t know whether to be creeped out or grateful.

  “Is this the part where I call the cops on a stalking, panty-hoarding asshole?”

  He chuckles and takes a sip of his whiskey. “No, not one bit.”

  We’re interrupted by a librarian, the petite one from earlier, asking if she can get him anything else this evening before she leaves. He shakes his head and thanks her before she walks over to me.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s two a.m. and we’re closing. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. If you are still interested in the membership, then I can grab you an application on your way out.”

  “Thank you, I think I’d like to take a look at the membership details. An application would be great.”

  Two in the morning? Holy crap. That means that I’ve been sitting here for more hours than I care to count. I glance around the space, and we’re the only three left.

  “Isla,” he says and the petite woman glances over at him.

  “Yes?”

  “Bring her another and clear her tab. Once you’re done, feel free to leave. I’ll be staying a while longer.”

  “Of course, Brass.” I swear that she rolls her eyes before thanking me for coming in and walking back to the bar to fetch me another glass.

  “How . . . ?”
>
  He grins knowingly at me. “I own the place. You’re welcome to stay and finish your book. I don’t plan on leaving for a few more hours.”

  “Oh. That’s incredibly generous of you, but I’d rather not be in your way.” I go to stand, but he holds up a hand, halting my movements from across the coffee table.

  “Stay.”

  One word.

  One demand.

  I relax against the leather again as Isla brings me a new tumbler. “Thank you.”

  He nods at her dismissively, and she walks away from us and back to the bar where she grabs her sweater and purse before walking out the front door, locking it behind her.

  “You didn’t have to buy my drinks.”

  “Call it an even exchange for pink lace.”

  “I think this one glass of whiskey is more than twice the price of those panties.”

  He shrugs and lifts his right leg, placing his ankle on top of his left knee. “Tell me something about yourself.”

  “About myself? Uhm, my name’s Hadley but . . . I’m not one to give out personal details to a stranger.”

  “Well, Hadley, it’s a pleasure to finally call you something aside from ‘platinum blonde.’ You’ve had my balls in a knot since the elevator ride, so I wouldn’t exactly call myself a stranger.”

  “I’m sure I have.” I’m not subtle when it comes to sex or flirting or hell, telling someone that I want to be ravaged.

  “Cocky. I like it. I’m Waylon Brass, but seeing as I’m rather familiar with your most intimate parts—their scent, at least—you can call me Wade.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Wade.”

  “As it is you, Hadley. What are you drinking?”

  “It’s a Macallan 10-Year.”

  “Finish that off and I’ll grab you something with a bit more history behind it,” he says as he gets up and moves around the coffee table to stand in front of me. “Come.”

  I stand and place my hand in his offered one before he leads me to the darkened bar area where I watch him pour me a glass of Glenfarclas John Grant 60-Year-Old. His body moves underneath his suit as though every movement is thought out in advance—he’s very sure of himself in a physical way. If he wants to fuck me right here on the bar top, I won’t stop him for a second.