Vines (The Killers Book 1)

by Brynne Asher

  I roll my lips in and exhale.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “You’ll stay close to me tonight.”

  It’s a statement, not a question, and it confuses as much as surprises me. Especially following his sweet compliment, making me frown.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Stay close to me,” he repeats.

  “Why?” My voice comes out stronger and even more baffled.

  His hand returns and this time his touch is firm, his big hand wrapping around the top of my knee, giving me a squeeze.

  “I want you close. You’ll stay at my side.” Again, a statement. And, sort of an order.

  “I don’t understand.”

  His tone and expression aren’t soft like before when he told me I was his most beautiful carpooler ever. Or his most beautiful anything ever. He’s adamant, resolute and like I said—I don’t understand.

  His fingers press into my skin before letting go. Putting his hand back on the wheel, he raises his brows and gives me a single nod when he states, “Trust me, Addison.”

  When he looks to his rearview mirror, I realize we’re backing up cars from the winery and he slowly pulls out. He doesn’t say another word as he turns and heads east.

  I have no idea what he meant or why he said it. But his tone and demeanor are back to sharp, making me nervous. I really wish I knew what to expect from him. I’ve trusted few people in this world, and the one I trusted most died of cancer two years ago. I’m not used to depending on people, and for the most part, I haven’t had to. I’ve done okay on my own.

  Do I trust Crew Vega?

  I don’t know. But something about him certainly makes me want to.

  *****

  The drive to DC is a haul. Between my wine being served in the President’s home and Crew demanding I stay by his side without reason, I think it’s safe to say I was a tad bit on edge during the trip.

  Or, barely hanging onto the edge with the skin of my fingertips, but whatever.

  Crew set the music to a satellite station that was a good mix of the last three decades. It wasn’t really rock, metal or pop, just the best of the best. This should’ve helped me relax—but knowing we might enjoy the same type of music on top of everything else, almost did me in.

  Between being close enough to Crew to breathe in his clean-after-shave-manly-smell, the Laffy Taffy incident, feeling like he sees more in me than he should, liking the same music, him making weird demands, having dinner in the White House, and him touching my bare thigh, I did what I hate to do more than anything.

  I rambled.

  My mom taught me not to ramble. She explained haphazard words are a sign of unorganized thoughts, coming across sloppy and inattentive to others. I used to do it all the time, but she made me mindful of this, and for the most part, I can control it.

  Until I can’t.

  So, while trying not to think about how good he smelled or how I still had the itch to touch him, I gave in and started to ramble.

  I worried out loud about guests liking my wine tonight. It didn’t matter how much I spent on advertising, you can’t beat the real deal when it comes to word-of-mouth. My little vineyard could use some positive chatter after the past four owners botched up the business.

  During my ramblings, I had an epiphany. It occurred to me tonight could have the opposite effect. What if people hated it? What if they thought it tasted like Kool-Aid? Or worse—dry, bitter, acidic Kool-Aid? I’d been so excited about this opportunity to showcase my vineyard, I never imagined people hating it. If customers like your product, you pray they tell their friends. But when people hate something, they always seem to shout it from the rooftops. It’s the law of practically everything.

  I’d be out of business faster than Harry could say, “Moo.”

  Then, just because I was nervous and couldn’t stop, I continued my thoughts verbally, brainstorming how I could play matchmaker to Mary and Evan. They’re so cute, I really want them together.

  Then it was nonstop, me going on about the intricacies of pulling off grape stomping at a wedding reception. I blabbered about how to clean people’s feet without it turning into a backyard BBQ from hell.

  I thought out loud for the first time to anyone about how I’ve been secretly thinking about getting another cow. I wanted a calf, maybe an orphan who didn’t have its mom for some reason. I could bottle feed her and she could bond with the others.

  Then I informed Crew—like he cared—that I was going to throw a surprise baby shower for Clara. Even though it’s her fourth baby, she’d gotten rid of all her baby necessities, and a baby shower is always fun.

  This brought me full circle, and I returned to freaking out about tonight. I explained to Crew how people were counting on me. I’m an employer and responsible for livelihoods, not to mention my enormous business loan that would set me on the path to bankruptcy if the business took a nosedive.

  All through my ramblings, Crew settled back casually in his driver’s seat, maneuvering us through traffic and commented when he could get a word in. He told me tonight would be fine, to leave Mary and Evan alone, how people will be too drunk to worry about cleaning their feet. He told me I should get a calf if I want one, but he didn’t say boo about the baby shower.

  Finally, he reached over and touched the bare skin of my thigh again, making me jump. He gave me a squeeze, his warm hand searing into my skin reminding me of my itch to touch him, when he smiled warmly, but looked amused. “Addison, calm.”

  Yeesh, easy for him to say.

  I’m not sure I calmed, but I did bite my lip. It was plain to see I was making a fool of myself.

  Traffic wasn’t terrible, we made it in a little over an hour. Not too bad for rush hour. But once we turned from Pennsylvania Avenue, into the gated and probably most secure drive in the world, there was a guarded booth to our left and other uniformed officers on the right. Who knew how many invisible guards were watching.

  Crew pulls up and lowers his window. “We’re here for the Veterans Dinner.”

  The guard stoops low to look in the car as two other guards with dogs stalked around Crew’s car, sniffing about. The officer’s eyes are assessing, looking in the two-seater until his eyes come back to my carpooler and frowns. “Vega?”

  Wait, he knows Crew?

  “Hey, Jackson. It’s been a while,” Crew responds blandly.

  “A while? Fuck. Forever. How long has it been?” he smiles big.

  “Almost ten years.”

  “Damn, has it? You back in the area?”

  “Yeah. My name should be on the list.” Crew cuts him off and turns to me holding out his hand. “Need your ID.”

  “Of course,” I mumble, digging through my clutch, wondering how Crew knows the guard at the White House.

  I hand him my license and Crew gives them both to the guard.

  He checks the list with our IDs and bends back down to look at me. Then he grins at Crew. “Nice. You’re good to go. You know where to park—enter through the East Garden Room. You’ll know where to go from there. But man, we’ve gotta get together. I can’t wait to tell some of the others you’re back. You took that job and disappeared. It’s good to see you.”

  Crew hands me my license, but doesn’t promise to get together with his long lost friend, simply offering, “It was good to see you, too.”

  How odd is that?

  When he rolls up his window and pulls through the gate, I turn in my seat as best I can. “How do you know him?”

  He slowly pulls up the drive, barely giving me a glance. “I used to work here.”

  I frown deeper. “You worked at the White House?”

  He pulls into a parking spot, quite far away from where we’re going. I’m glad my shoes aren’t too uncomfortable. When he turns the car off, he moves a bit to look at me and explains. “I was with the Secret Service, but not as an Agent. I was uniformed police.”

  “Really?” That’s…more than impressive. I’m kicking myse
lf for using the hour we had in the car to ramble selfishly about myself rather than give him the third degree, maybe learning something about him. I’m such an idiot.

  “It was a long time ago. I worked here for a year and a half before taking a job with my current company.”

  “What do Secret Service police do?” All of a sudden, I have to know everything about him.

  He shrugs. “What you just saw, plus working the grounds and the roof. Basically all over the property. My dad was a cop and I always wanted to work in law enforcement, but I wanted to be an agent. Starting with uniformed police was a foot in the door.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  After a small pause, he tips his head. “I got a different offer. My path changed. Sometimes things just drop in your lap.”

  “What did your dad think?”

  I see his jaw lock and his eyes narrow, contemplating something. Actually, it feels like he’s contemplating me.

  “Crew?” I call for him.

  He takes a breath and says on an exhale, “He never knew. He died before I quit.”

  I’m taken back by his words. “How?”

  “He was killed on the job.”

  “Crew,” I whisper, instinctively reaching out for his hand as my voice comes out soft and pained. I feel his anguish in a place he’ll never know, but right now, I wish he knew how much I do understand. I want him to know more than anything.

  “It was eleven years ago. I’m good, Addison.” His voice is steady as always, but he does thread his fingers through mine.

  “It doesn’t matter how long it’s been, I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve reconciled it,” he says with conviction.

  I tip my head frowning, wondering what that means. Do men reconcile hurt and loss? I’ve dated, but I’ve never been close enough to any man to truly understand how they tick. As a woman and daughter, I understand loss better than I should. But to reconcile it?

  That’s a strange description when dealing with such an emotion.

  He gives my hand a squeeze and his eyes go from sharp to soft. “Let’s go. I’m sure you want to see people drink your wine. We don’t want to miss that.”

  And before I know it, I’ve lost his touch and he’s rounded the car to open my door. I give him my hand so I can maybe make a graceful exit. He helps by hauling me up and out, pulling me close to him. It wasn’t completely graceful but it wasn’t a fail, either.

  I put my hand over his tie, smoothing it down his chest before looking into his eyes. There, I keep on in a whisper. “Thank you for telling me about your dad.”

  He doesn’t respond, but his eyes heat before he finally lets me go. Placing his warm, firm hand to the small of my back, Crew led me in the direction of the East Garden Room. With an emotional start to our evening, I let him take me to see my wine served at the White House.

  *****

  Standing in the East Room of the White House, I’m awestruck being here. I caught a glimpse of the President earlier, but he’s already ducked out. Who knows what world emergency he had to deal with.

  I’ve been able to relax into the evening as no one gagged on their wine. I’ve met many interesting guests and even handed out business cards to those interested in visiting the vineyard. Who knew I’d be networking in the White House when I started this venture a year and a half ago?

  The significance of this very room isn’t lost on me as I swirl a glass of The Delaney in my hand. I do this while tipping my head way back to look at the enormous painted portrait of President George Washington. I also do this frowning.

  I never had anything against George Washington until I moved to Whitetail and those around me told tales of my Ordinary being haunted. I’ve never believed in ghosts, but I also didn’t live alone in a massive, centuries-old farmhouse attached to a historic building, said to host our first president for a night.

  Do I believe in ghosts now? I haven’t decided. But do I go into the Ordinary at night by myself? No way, no how.

  I do wonder what he was like, though. The portrait hanging in front of me depicts him as an older man, wearing a long black cloak, holding a sword in one hand and his other arm extended. Sipping my wine, I frown deeper, wondering what he’s beckoning in this painting.

  “Dolley Madison rescued him.”

  Startled, I look to my side and Sheldon O’Rourke is standing next to me, also looking up at George Washington.

  “Sheldon,” I greet him, extending my hand. We’ve had dinner, presentations were made and guests are now milling about. “It’s nice to see you again. Thank you for arranging everything. It might not be a big deal for anyone else, but it’s quite something to see my wine served at the White House. I’m grateful to experience it.”

  “I apologize I haven’t been a better host. I’ve been busy with business this evening. But I see you’ve been preoccupied, as well.” His hand and eyes linger before looking back to our first President. “This is a replica of the Lansdowne painting. The original is hanging in the National Portrait Gallery. Dolley Madison is credited for saving this national treasure just prior to the mansion being taken over by the British during the War of 1812. Brave woman. Otherwise it would have been burned to the ground with everything else.”

  “I didn’t know that.” I look up, thinking it’s enormous and wonder how they wrestled it out in the chaos.

  “You’ve never visited the White House?” he asks.

  I turn to him, happy to take my mind off George Washington. “Never.”

  “I obviously don’t have access to everything, but would you like me to show you the state parlors? Most people know them as the color rooms. They’re right next door.”

  I can’t think of anything better and look across the room. Crew excused himself to take a call and said he’d be right back. He’s across the room, now involved in a conversation. This shouldn’t take long—I’ll just be next door. “I’d love that.”

  He takes my almost empty wine glass and sets it on a table before leading me to the next room. I get a private tour of the Green Room, Blue Room and when we finally get to the Red Room, the buzz of the conversation from guests is muted by the distance. Sheldon’s told me what he knows of some of the furnishings and artwork.

  As I stand at the fireplace admiring the antique gilded candelabras on the mantle, thinking very few people probably get a private tour of the President’s home, I hear his voice dip lower from behind me. “You look like Anne.”

  I gasp and then freeze.

  My vision goes fuzzy as I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck. Pulling in a deep breath of air, I try to overcome the shock of his words, turning slowly to look at him. He’s standing in the middle of the room with his head tipped, studying me.

  I do my best to look confused, which isn’t hard because I am, even with my heart beating a mile a minute. “Pardon me?”

  “Yes.” He tips his head the other way. “As a child, I thought you resembled Wes. But you’ve grown into a beauty, just like your mother.”

  With that, I fight my legs from buckling and force myself to breathe. All of a sudden, the room is warm, though the tingles down my bare back resemble an arctic blast blowing through the Red Room.

  “You must be mistaken. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I force my voice to set at steady. Trying to relax my stance, the only tension visible in my body would be my white knuckles, fisting the clutch at my side. “My mother’s name is Delaney. You have me confused with someone else.”

  It’s everything I can do to stand strong when he shakes his head and takes a step, closing the distance between us. “No, I’m not mistaken. You’re Anne and Wesley’s daughter. I knew you as a child, but you were too young to remember me.”

  “Sheldon.” I pause, my voice quivering with the pounding of my heart and my mind begs my body to pull itself together. There have been times I’ve had to remain composed in life, but not like this. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re just
like Anne,” he keeps on. “I was friends with your parents before your father’s death.”

  The blood instantly drains from my head. I can’t hide the tremor in my voice when I lie, “You have me confused with someone else. My father’s very much alive.”

  He simply shakes his head, his voice dipping and he’s not friendly anymore. “Now, now. We both know that’s not true.”

  I say nothing, but do feel myself start to shake.

  “You were there when he was killed.” My heart drops as his words shoot through me like daggers. He takes another step toward me and narrows his eyes. “Do you remember, Addy? As unfortunate as it was, I do hope you remember every detail. Those memories should serve you well. It would be a shame for you to meet the same demise as your father.”

  My insides clench and my head spins. I’ve no idea what he has to do with my parents, but I do know the door to the Blue Room is behind me and the Green beyond that. This happened to my mom once, someone from the past approached her—threatened her. We moved on immediately, but she didn’t explain it to me until I was older.

  It’s never happened to me. I need to get out. I don’t know his intentions, but I don’t think there’s anything he can do to me in the White House. I’ll scream bloody murder if I have to and we’d be instantly surrounded, I’m sure of it.

  Oh shit. All of a sudden, things are hitting me all at once. Crew told me not to leave him and thinking back to the look on his face, he knew something. This must’ve been what he meant, but how could he know anything?

  I can’t think about what he knows or why he told me to stay at his side. But for some reason, I want to trust him. At this moment, I’ve never needed anyone like I need Crew Vega. I need to find him and get away from here as fast as I possibly can. It’s all I can handle right now—I’ll worry about everything else later.

  *****

  Crew –

  Watching her look up at our first President’s portrait, I find her amusing. I stepped away to take a call from Asa, but never took my eyes off her. She’s got a frown playing on her face and after finding out she’s freaked about her Ordinary being haunted, I wonder what she’s thinking.