by Banks, R. R.
No. I can't think of him anymore. I especially can't think of him like that right now. He'd taken advantage of me and I'm still angry about it. And I was upset even before the stunt he pulled at his house earlier. No, I won't let myself think about Connor Grigson or the fantastic, unbelievably delicious things he did to me.
“If you just gave Bryant a chance –”
“I'm not interested in giving him a chance, Dad,” I say, cutting him off. “I'm not interested in him. Period.”
“Zoe,” he says, his voice growing deeper and gruffer – a tell-tale sign he's getting upset. “You are going to go out with Bryant. You are going to give him a chance. One dinner is not going to kill you. Do you understand me?”
A dark look crosses his face as his jaw clenches, and his eyes flash dangerously. My father has always been very good at intimidating people without actually threatening them. He just has an air about him that somehow puts you on edge. Makes you tense. That makes you afraid.
Having grown up with it, I know what’s coming. I feel my stomach clenching and my heart beating a staccato rhythm against my breast. Even though I know he'd never physically harm me, just seeing that look on my dad’s face never failed to terrify me. It continues to terrorize me.
“Dad, I –”
“This is not up for debate, Zoe,” he says. “Bryant is a good man who wants to get to know you better. There's nothing wrong with that. You should be grateful that he even wants to be with you, because frankly, I think you can use a man like him in your life.”
The key word there being, “my” life. It's my life, not his. He doesn't get to choose who I'm with. That's my choice to make. Right? Rage flows through me and I find myself about to tell him exactly where he can stick his opinions about my life.
But when I see him sitting behind his desk, glowering at me, I feel the steel in my spine weaken. I'm trying to summon that strength within me but losing out to the little girl who's afraid of disappointing and upsetting her father.
“Am I clear, Zoe?” he presses.
I try to rally the courage in me and open my mouth to speak. And when I do, I grimace at the words that fall past my lips.
“Yes,” I reply as disgust and dismay surge within me.
“Good,” he says, his demeanor suddenly brighter. “I think you two will be great together. I really do. All you have to do is give it a chance and you'll see it too. I'm sure of it.”
I roll my eyes as that sinking feeling settles over me once more. Just when I thought I was taking some positive steps forward in the right direction, moving toward reclaiming myself and my life, my father storms in like a Category 5 hurricane and blows down all of the defenses I’d constructed over the last few days.
I sigh. This is a setback. I know there will be others along the way. All I can do is try to learn from it and keep moving forward. Just because I'm going to have dinner with Bryant doesn't mean anything. It certainly doesn't mean we're suddenly a couple.
It's one dinner. I can endure it. And perhaps, the next time my father tries to bully me into something, I'll have learned enough from this experience to stand up to him.
“You're dismissed,” my father says and turns to his computer.
I turn and leave his office, my footsteps feeling as heavy as my heart. My stomach churns and roils and I'm silently berating myself for not saying something. For not standing up for myself. Again. I begin walking in the direction of my office, frustrated and angry with myself.
“Zoe. Hey Zoe.”
My teeth grit at the sound of Bryant’s voice and I keep walking. He's the last freaking person I want to deal with right now. I hear his footsteps behind me and then feel his hand on my arm, trying to stop me. I spin around and yank my arm out of his grasp. The ferocity of my movement – and perhaps, the rage on my face – makes Bryant hold his hands up and take a step back from me.
“Just trying to get your attention,” he says, that smarmy smile I hate so much plastered on his face. “Still feeling feisty, I see.”
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Just wanted to let you know to be ready at seven,” he says. “I'll pick you up for dinner. I'm dying to take you to –”
“I'm not going to dinner with you tonight,” I snap.
He looks at me like a parent would look at an unruly child. “Didn't your father talk to you?”
“Yes,” I say. “And?”
“I'm pretty sure your father –”
I glance around, suddenly aware that some of the office staff are watching us – even though they are trying to be discreet about it. Who doesn’t love some good office drama and gossip? I feel the heat burning in my cheeks and know that I'm probably turning an unnatural shade of red. Maybe this would have been a better conversation to have behind closed doors after all.
I let out a long breath. I know there's no way I'm getting out of this. Both Bryant and my father will make my life a living hell if I do. Maybe if I go and show him that there's absolutely no chemistry between us, that we will never be a couple, and make him every bit as miserable as he makes me on a day-to-day basis, it will put a stop to this once and for all.
Maybe, the sooner I bite the bullet and do it, the sooner I'll be able to get the noose that is Bryant Brooks off my neck.
“Fine,” I say. “But, not tonight. I have things to do.”
It's petty, but I'm not going to let him dictate everything to me. It may only seem like a small act of defiance, but it’s an important one for me. At least I can assert some form of control over the situation I’m in.
“Tomorrow then,” he says and smiles wide, as if he thinks he's won.
“Fine.”
Without another word, I walk away, storming into my office and slamming the door shut behind me. The day has gone from crappy to outright garbage.
Chapter Eleven
Connor
I hold the glass of wine up to the light, studying its color. It's a new wine Henri has been tinkering with for a while now, and now that a run of it is done, he's eager to get my opinion. Unfortunately for him, I can't seem to think about anything but Zoe. What a strange, fucked-up universe we live in for the two of us to meet again like this.
Even worse, I haven't been able to get her out of my head since the night at the hotel. Yeah, typical addict response to something they really like – gotta have more, right? But, there's something different going on this time. I don't know what it is. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it's unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
All that chaos going on in my head has the potential to lead me down dark paths – ones I have no desire to go down again. So, it's necessary for me to step back and put a little routine in my life. It's a trick one of my many therapists taught me. When I feel overwhelmed, I have to step back and give my life order and discipline. It's always worked well for me.
“You alright, boss?”
“Yup,” I say. “Just fine.”
I set the glass back down and look over at Henri, my master vintner. He's a small-statured man of French and Native American descent, who, despite being in his late-forties or early-fifties, has a head of wispy, white hair. He has an incredibly positive outlook on life and has served as my role model in many ways.
Henri is a good man. And when it comes to making wine, he probably forgets more about it every day than I'm ever going to know. When I first got out of rehab and became interested in winemaking, I thought I was doing pretty well. But, when I brought Henri on board, he took Six String to another level – and another beyond that. He's taken Six String to levels I never would have thought possible.
“You seem unusually focused today,” Henri says.
I laugh. “Just one of those days I need to pour my energy into something.”
He nods and gives me a knowing smile. Henri knows all about my struggle with addiction. About my past. We've sat here in the tasting room many a night, putting a couple of bottles back, talking about our lives. I feel completely at ease a
round him. As much as he's taught me about winemaking – and I hate that I'm going to sound corny as fuck for saying this – he's taught me even more about life.
I don't have many people I feel like I can truly open up to, but Henri is definitely one of them.
“What's got your head all twisted up?” he asks.
I pour him a glass from the bottle I just opened and then set it down. Henri picks up the glass and swirls it around the bowl, scrutinizing every detail. Henri takes great pride in his work and is never fully satisfied with anything. He’s always striving to improve. It's something I have always appreciated and admired about the man.
“I don't know really,” I say. “My head is just – all over the place.”
He nods, that knowing smile on his face again. “What's her name?”
I take a sip of the wine and let it sit in my mouth a moment, absorbing all of its flavors and nuance. I swallow it down and grin.
“I think you've outdone yourself here, mate,” I say. “That is amazing. This here is going to win you some awards. We're going to submit it everywhere.”
“I thought it turned out pretty well,” he says. “I was pleasantly surprised.”
“I'm not,” I reply. “You're a damn genius, Henri.”
“Well, I don't know about that, but thank you,” he replies. “Now, who's the girl?”
“What makes you think there is one?”
“Age and experience, son,” he says. “I'd know that look on your face anywhere.”
“Oh?” I ask, a wry chuckle passing my lips. “And what look is that?”
“The look of infatuation,” he replies. “You look like someone with a raging case of puppy love.”
I laugh and shake my head, taking another sip of his new wine, more than impressed with it.
“I don't know if I'd call it that,” I reply. “Maybe, morbid fascination.”
“Sounds like there's a story there.”
I nod and drain the last of the glass, then pour myself a second. I tell Henri everything – including how I met Zoe. He listens to my story, and laughs heartily when I’m finished, shaking his head. He takes a sip of wine and sets the glass down before looking over at me.
“The universe, or higher power, or whatever it is, certainly has a way of kicking a man in the balls, doesn't it?” he asks.
“Tell me about it,” I say. “I feel like the butt of some goddamn cosmic joke.”
“Maybe you are,” he says.
“That makes me feel better, thanks, mate,” I say and chuckle.
“Or maybe, this is the universe's way of nudging you toward something good. Something better than what you've had.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” I say. “You're not going to get all mystical and New Age, touchy-feely on me now, are you?”
“New Age isn't really my style. I still prefer the ways of my ancestors,” he says and laughs. “I do, however, believe that things happen for a reason. The circumstances around you meeting this woman are – strange.”
“To say the least,” I reply dryly.
“And yet, despite that strange, coincidental meeting, she's now back in your orbit,” he says. “I don't think that's without meaning.”
“And what might that be?”
He shrugs. “That's for you to figure out.”
“Maybe it's something simple, like the fact that she’s a gorgeous woman who's amazing in bed,” I say. “And I really want to keep screwing her.”
He shrugs again. “It could be that,” he says. “It would fit your usual MO with women.”
I cock my head and look at him. There's something in his voice I can't quite place. He looks at me with a playful twinkle in his eye and a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“But you don't believe that,” I say. “That I just want her for sex.”
He shakes his head and takes a sip of his wine. “Not in the least, actually.”
“Enlighten me then,” I say.
“I was up in your studio yesterday,” he says. “I came to the house looking for you, but saw that you had guests, so I slipped out quietly.”
“Yeah, that would have been Zoe and her father,” I say. “And some other idiot lawyer.”
He nods. “Anyway, I saw the new painting you have in there. The one of the dark-haired woman,” he says. “It's a stunningly beautiful painting, Connor.”
“Thank you?” I say, not in the least bit sure where he's going with this.
“Anyway,” he says, “It occurred to me that you don’t paint a woman like that without some real feeling. Real emotion. There is a lot of love in that painting. In every brush stroke. You can see it, Connor. You can feel it.”
“Yeah, I've known her for like five minutes,” I say. “At this point, I’m pretty sure it’s not love.”
Henri gives me an even look, holding my eyes with his. “No need to play coy,” he says. “I was not speaking literally, and I think you know that.”
A rueful grin crosses my lips. “Yeah, probably.”
“Just by that painting, I can see you have feelings for this woman. To create something so beautiful, it takes genuine care and emotion,” he says. “Seeing your face light up when you speak about her only confirms it.”
“I think that is just because I've got some gas, mate,” I say.
He laughs. “You want to know what else is telling me otherwise?”
“I'm on the edge of my seat.”
“The fact that you haven't brought up needing to get laid today,” he says. “Not even once. Every single day, you talk about needing to get your fix. Have sex.”
“Well, to be fair, I usually do need to.”
“But, not today,” he says. “Today, you're all business. Not even one single word about sex. It's interesting, isn't it?”
“Fascinating,” I say, my voice dry.
I lean back on my seat and let out a long breath. Feelings. For Zoe. It seems preposterous to think that after spending so little time together, I could actually have feelings for her. But, I also can't deny that when I'm in her presence, I feel a natural chemistry between us. A connection.
To me, it's strong and it's palpable – and entirely foreign. If I'm honest, it’s kind of unsettling. Since I gave up drugs, women have been my outlet. My fix that satisfies those oh-so-familiar cravings and urges that still well up within me. Part of me fears that if I don't have women, I'll slip back into old habits. Destructive habits.
There’s no use denying that there is something about this woman I find compelling. Alluring, even. Zoe is entirely intoxicating – which is why I'm so completely unsettled by it. I'm not, as they say, great boyfriend material. And I'm sure as fuck not husband material.
I'm selfish, egotistical and I like to fuck women. I’ve never seen myself as the type to settle down and be content with fucking one woman the rest of my life. I'm pretty goddamn sure that's not in my DNA.
“You know me, Henri,” I say. “Do I look like the white picket fence, two-point-five children, happily ever after kinda guy to you?”
He gives me a crooked little smile. “Ten years ago, did you have any idea you’d become the clean, relatively sober, successful winery owner, artist, folk music singing, beautiful suburban home in a picturesque valley, kinda guy?”
I can't help but laugh. No, ten years ago, I could never have imagined the man I’d become. Back then, my motto was to live for the moment and suck every possible ounce of pleasure out of life. The music couldn't be loud enough, I was never high enough, and I never had too many groupies in my dressing room.
Back then, I was all about the life of excess. Of a rock star. Or, you know, the exact opposite of the life I'm living now.
But still, that doesn't mean that I'm going to become suddenly wrapped up in Zoe. It could be that she's just a hot piece of ass that I want another bite of. It’s probably something as simple and basic as that, meaning that I'm overthinking petty, meaningless shit.
“People change, Connor,” he says. “Y
ou're living proof of that. And as we get older, our needs and priorities sometimes change too. Maybe, just maybe, this woman will help you enter the next phase of your life.”
When I turn my eyes to Henri, I see him smiling and know that he can read my thoughts. Hear the internal debate in my head.
“And you got all of that,” I say. “From one bloody painting?”
“Don't take my word for it,” he says. “Test yourself. Go find another woman – see about getting your fix – and see what happens. Maybe I'm wrong.”
“You're definitely wrong,” I say. “Definitely.”
“Only one way to find out.”
~ooo000ooo~
I walk into the Azure Room, one of the local lounges I sometimes play. It's not as large or nice as the Orchid, but it's still a pretty decent place. It's furnished in dark woods and rich, deep greens. Soft jazz music is playing and the bartenders all wear button-down shirts and vests. The place is classy and tasteful without being ostentatious.
It's a popular local watering hole for professionals and soccer moms alike. I can usually cast a line out into the waters of this little fishing hole and reel one in without too much trouble. I can't say the Azure Room hasn't been good to me in that regard.
I stroll over to the bar and drop down onto one of the stools. May, one of the regular bartenders, gives me a nod and a smile. She’s a five-foot-two Japanese-American woman with dark eyes and even darker hair. Her black hair, swept up in a topknot, accentuates her slender neck and body.
She's a student up at Sonoma State, and a cute, easygoing girl, but not one you’d ever want to piss off. Given that she's a black belt in judo, it's best to stay on her good side. I once saw her utterly humiliate a guy that was at least twice her size. She put a beatdown on him in mere seconds.
“What's up, Connor?” she asks. “Are you playing tonight?”
I shake my head. “Nah, not tonight, love,” I say. “I’m just in for a drink.”
A smirk tugs at one corner of her mouth. “A drink?” she asks. “Or a playmate?”
She slides a beer down in front of me, unable to keep from smiling at me. May sure is a sharp one. I always thought I was discreet about the ladies I've taken home from here – after all, some of them are soccer moms who have husbands in the area. I'm nothing if not considerate. I guess May sees all.
