by Natalie Wrye
The second I settled in my seat at Le Petite Pony, part of me knew it was a mistake. But with no other current recourse, I set out to regain my sense of sanity—to recapture real control in a world that is quickly spiraling out of it.
I may not be able to rewind time. But I can certainly make it stop thanks to tequila.
I hold a deep breath, counting to myself as I wait for the burn to hit my tongue.
One. Two.
The clear drink goes down like an atom bomb. I clear my throat, pushing the hot liquid the rest of the way through my esophagus, and with my hand still wrapped around the liquor glass and my collar unbuttoned, I do the only thing I can think to do in that moment.
Ask for another.
I’ve never liked tequila. And it hasn’t exactly been a fan of mine. But when the sting of a sunken love and a forgotten life is still sitting on your shoulders, pricking at your skin, you do a lot of things to numb yourself. To desensitize. To lose control.
To forget.
I’d like to forget today ever happened, but the leery eyes of the men in suits to the left of the bar won’t let me. The first guy approaches, his middle finger pushing the edge of his glasses up the bridge of his crooked nose, his blue eyes roaming my figure before they land back on my face.
He grins.
“Hello there.” His voice is as annoying as his creepy stare. “You looked a little lonely over here.”
I don’t glance at him. “I wasn’t.”
He continues undeterred. “My buddies and I were just over there, making a bet. We bet which one of us could guess which firm you work for. And I’m sure I’ve won.” He glances at the stool beside me. “May I sit down?”
I motion to the bartender, ignoring him. “No, thanks. Really.” I finally glance in his direction, throwing him a small smile. “I’d rather drink myself to death in peace if you don’t mind.”
The barkeep brings me a double of whatever cheap concoction I just swallowed, and Mr. Can’t-Take-A-Hint—still standing there—laughs at last, his affable eyes crinkling at the corners. He points at me.
“You’re funny.” He looks down at the briefcase at my feet. “I couldn’t help but notice your briefcase. Patent leather. Nice.”
He couldn’t be more boring if he tried, but I oblige him—a rare attempt not to be a total bitch on one of the worst days of my life. I nod, sipping from the edge of my glass, regret hitting me instantly. I wince. “Glad you think so,” I say without a hint of inflection. “I stole it.”
He leans in, laughing a little too hard. “See? There. That’s funny.”
As if he can’t believe a person with tits is capable of humor. I’m starting to lose mine. “Listen…” I hesitate. “Ben.” He looks like a Ben. “Honestly,” I say, the liquor still sitting on my tongue. “I’d really like to just be left alone, if you don’t mind.”
His warm eyes grow cold. “Are you always this guarded?”
“If I say yes, will you scram?” I ask, lifting my eyes to meet his. He blinks, literally walking backwards, his shiny black shoes retreating fast, and I release a long breath, the alcohol in my system scrambling a few more brain cells as I reflect back on this morning.
The knife in my heart (and back) was currently twisting—finding out about my ex-husband’s baby, and for the first time in a long time, hot tears built behind my eyes, burning me from the inside out. A scream surfaced on my mouth but wouldn’t come out.
I feel the scream inside me even now, but I squelch it with the bitter cocktail sitting in front of me on the bar. I prepare to do more squelching, lifting the glass to my lips when I hear another set of footsteps settle beside me, stopping just short of my leather stool.
I set my drink against the nicked tabletop, hearing my heartbeat in my ears. I close my eyes.
“Lemme guess,” I slightly slur, my mouth too lazy to try harder. “You guys made a bet this time as to who could annoy me most?”
I wait a beat. And finally two.
The smell of espresso-tinted smoke reaches my nose, and I inhale, adding leather to the aromatic mix swimming suddenly inside my nostrils. The air smells…warm—rich. I feel intoxicated as I sit there in the almost-empty bar built for young professionals. Professionals like I used to be. And a sadness I’d forgot I’d had spreads again in me.
But not as strong as the masculine scent currently wafting over me, hitting me with tiny waves of nostalgia. The aroma pokes at pieces of my tequila-singed memory. But the voice that follows is like a sledgehammer, knocking me back into the past. It startles my eyes open.
“A bet about who can annoy you most…” The voice flows overhead. “I think I would win that.”
I glance up to find a pair of mocha brown eyes staring back at me, a smile hidden behind them. The man they belong to smirks, the side of his beautiful face lifting upwards, and the deep breath I’d taken moments before evaporates in my lungs, along with every bit of air in my body. My heart stops.
“Hi, Keats.” Heath glances down at me.
He never did learn to say my name. And I let him get away with it, not caring or daring enough to stop him.
Heath Sparrow was supposed to be a whisper in the wind. At least in my mind.
This was my safe spot, my yuppie antidote. I’d picked it out of the many in Manhattan because it wasn’t fancy like the others, wasn’t packed with the usual Wall Street pricks perusing their local coffee shops to send innocent baristas into an early grave.
Men with more money than God weren’t supposed to be here, dawdling in their expensive leather loafers, dressed to kill. He sidles up beside me without another word, motioning for the bartender, his cufflinks winking in the low light, and I say nothing, my teeth stuck together as I grit them to keep from screaming.
My eyes flit across his frame without my permission, getting their fill of the charcoal suit sitting on his broad frame before finally landing back on the bartender. My new best friend behind the wooden partition gazes expectantly at Heath, who shrugs off a coat that costs more than my car. Heath taps the edge of my glass, his gaze caressing me like a second skin. He smiles.
“I’ll have whatever she’s having.” He fishes out a hundred dollar bill, laying it on the bar. “And make it two.”
He takes a seat, surprising me. My heart hammers an odd-sounding beat. I still say nothing.
“You’re awfully quiet for a woman just about to bite my head off.”
I find my voice. “I wasn’t about to bite your head off.” I motion with my eyes. “I was about to bite the head off one of those guys in the corner. But now I see I should have saved my earlier snarls. You should have showed up sooner. I’m all tapped out.”
“You? Out of snarls?” He laughs lightly, making a shiver run across my skin, the sound of his laughter as rich and heated as his scent. “Never.” He sets his suit jacket aside. “I’d die of shock on that day.”
“Promise?”
My brain cells are finally starting to recover, and with each passing second that Heath Sparrow is in my presence, I find more pieces of my incinerated memory. The memory that recalls very vividly…how much I hate him.
I take a shaky breath, using it to calm my simmering skin—made hot by Heath’s unwelcome company. I release it.
“What are you doing here?” I spit at him. “I thought you were off, scaring my most important client.”
He accepts the drink that the bartender slides across tabletop, his long fingers tapping the edge. He gazes down at me. “I was.” His brown eyes burn. “And then she scared me. I signed the deal, Keats.” He places his large hands next to mine on the bar. “And I’m going to help you try this case. You’re going to need as much evidence against Chris Jackson that you can get.”
My eyes narrow at him. “And by evidence, you mean ‘dirt’.”
His almond-shaped eyes spark. “That’s what the law is, Keats. Dirt. And lots of it. All’s fair in love and the law, and if you want to stay clean, then I’d seriously consider another line o
f business.”
I shrug. “I have considered another business. Contract killing’s looking better and better.” I take a sip of my drink. “And when exactly are you heading back to LA?”
He smirks. “Eager to get rid of me already, Keats?”
I hate it when he says my name like that. Like he owns it. The hair on the back of my neck pricks, and I stare up at him, doing nothing to hide the teary gloss still gleaming over my eyes. I sniff back a wave of emotion. “By any means necessary, if you haven’t noticed…” I glance over my shoulder. “Like I told the guy from the corner over there, I’d just rather be alone.”
Heath analyzes me with his eyes. “Boss give you a rough time today?”
“Why don’t you ask yourself that question…boss?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He takes a sip of his new drink finally. “I’ll take this cocktail you ordered as a double-fucking-yes. This shit is disgusting.”
I almost grin. “I told the bartender to pour me the strongest drink they had.”
Heath raises an eyebrow. “I see. And by that, I’m guessing he thought you meant gasoline.” He glances down into his glass. “A fast way to get shit-faced.”
I exhale, still smelling Heath’s aroma all over me. I shrug. “Is there any other way?”
“Sure…but none I want to know about,” he answers. “Keep pounding those that way, and someone’s going to have to carry you out of here.” He grins, and I hate it when he’s right. He tilts a perfectly unruly head of hair, regarding the drink. “Still don’t want company?”
I say nothing in response, not knowing how to say no after his little spiel. He cuts into my silence before I can speak another word.
“I’ll tell you what,” he starts, reaching into his slacks; pocket. “I’ll flip a coin.” He set a quarter on the oak counter, his fingertips touching the edge. I swallow hard. “Heads: I leave you alone. Tails…I stay.” I raise an eyebrow as he smiles. “For one more drink…”
He flips the coin swiftly in the air, catching it with the back of his hand. Uncovering the quarter, Heath winks at me as the face of George Washington’s seems to do the same.
“Tails, it is,” he announces. “In that case…” Heath hits me with a pointed look. Unhooking the crisp cuffs of his white collared shirt, he raises his arms, sliding the immaculate sleeves up to his elbows, the flash of his muscular forearms making my stomach swirl. I glance away. “I’d better catch up.” He drains what’s left of his drink, raising his hand for another. “I’m never going to reach the shit-faced phase, sipping at this pace.”
Chapter 17
HEATH
This woman could out-drink a fish.
Seven shots in, and I am barely scratching the surface of where Miss Violet Keats, Esquire, is, my brain practically pounding from chugging all the cheap alcohol.
The taste of the cocktail on my tongue is sickly sweet, and I order another cup of the bile, my ego not letting me lag too far behind the petite redhead beside me, swinging a pair of long legs along her sturdy stool.
The hour is late, the bar nearly empty.
Happy Hour has turned to Hysterical Hour, and through the haze of bad tequila and even worse memories, Violet and I reminisce together, our laughs long and loud as we re-tell the story of the last time we talked, nearly a year ago, at Elsie and Brett’s surprise engagement shin-dig.
Violet wipes at her eyes, swiping away tears of laughter instead of sadness this time, her hand brushing against her pretty face. She pokes me with a free finger.
“What about you, Mr. Scotch on the Rocks? That dancing?” She giggles, holding a hand over her pink mouth, her blue eyes bright. “You looked like a baby bird crawling away from the nest for the first time.”
“Hey,” I answer, swinging my latest cocktail through the air, the liquid sloshing over the side and onto the floor. “That was the scotch dancing. You kid, but some of my best moves come out when I am completely, utterly and irrevocably fucked up.”
I take another swallow, the swill in my mouth barely burning this time. I close my eyes briefly, feeling better than I have all week.
When’s the last time I laughed this hard? Drank bottom shelf liquor and talked about something other than business?
Too long ago, that’s when.
Being a professional investor was killing me. Literally.
I’d had two near strokes in the last week, watching the stocks swing, my mood constantly dependent on the market. The trip to New York hadn’t helped, and as I prepared to possibly win—or lose—the bet of a lifetime, my nerves could be shredded on the edge of a needle, they were so thin.
To add insult to injury, my best friend Brett was caught in the throes of his infamous father Christopher Jackson’s court case for fraud and a pre-wedding planning nightmare.
My promise to take part in Marilyn’s pre-nuptial festivities was quickly spiraling into a lie, and though the wedding was weeks away, I feared that me fucking up my father’s firm was going to drag me away from Brett’s special day.
A day I was secretly dreading.
In my eyes, marriage was more a prayer than a holy matrimony. And I’d stopped praying long ago, my last plea to the universe ending at the tender age of eight.
I swallow another gulp of the tequila, chasing the memory of my youth away with its bite. I glance at Violet.
“And what about you, Stubborn Spice?” I ask, my eyes fixed to her smiling face. “Who knew that every lyric from the Spice Girls movie would come flying out of your mouth as soon as the DJ cranked the music?”
“Listen,” she warns, pointing a painted nail in my direction, her red hair now loose, flowing down the sides of her face. Her fire-tinged auburn brows lower, making me laugh. “That Spice Girls movie was a classic. Classic,” she emphasizes, tilting the glass to her mouth. She drains the last drops, setting it back down. “You’re not going to tell my ten year-old self that Spice World wasn’t the greatest album ever made in the history of music.”
“Okay, now, if we’re going to talk classic eighties and nineties music, then I’m going to need for us to discuss the ‘true’ greatest singing group of all time.”
“Which is?”
I slip my phone from my slacks. Tapping into my Music app, I turn the phone several seconds later, letting the voice of George Michael blare out over the bar. I squeeze my eyes shut, lip-syncing the lyrics, and Violet grabs for my cell, her pretty blue eyes staring at the screen. She groans out loud.
“Oh no, say it isn’t so…”
“Uh huh.” I interrupt, nodding. “That’s right.” I snatch my phone back, swiping it from the center of her tiny fingers. “Wham!” I mention the formerly popular singing duo. “And only the greatest Christmas song of all time…” I place the black square back in my pocket. Last Christmas was a goddamned classic as far as I’m concerned.”
“Key word: Was, Heath,” Violet giggles, sipping her seventh—no, eighth—shot. “But that was back when hairspray was a religion and hoop earrings were a way of life. For the women and the men. And especially for George Michael.”
I tap a finger on the bar. “Maybe so. But I am going to tell your twenty-seven year old self that you should seek therapy for screaming the song Wanna Be at the top of your lungs. You practically scared everyone at Brett and Elsie’s engagement party away. Me included.”
She raises her empty glass. “Then, mission accomplished. I should have run you away.”
I stare at her, the memory of that night swirling around my mind. “If only you’d been so lucky…”
It’s a mistake the second it comes out of my mouth.
Violet shuts down, her oceanic eyes dimming at my declaration. She shifts atop the leather stool, her gaze swinging away from mine. In a sky-blue blouse and black skirt, she looks both business and pleasure—an intoxicating mixture of the tangled two. Lips red, her strawberry hair long and silky, she is the very picture of the lusty lawyer I’d met just a year ago.
All ego. All stubbor
nness. The tiny tip of her upturned nose pointed in the air. Especially towards me.
But I’d broken down her barrier. If only for one night…
It’d been a hell of an after-party in my room after Elsie and Brett announced their engagement. A party with only two guests invited.
The festivities, in my mind, had ended too soon, and I’d often replayed the flashback in the back of my brain at the oddest moments.
Doing something different, acting somehow better.
In my head, I’d say the very answer she’d needed to stay, but in reality, I was just as fucked up, just as lost for the right words as I was with any other woman.
Though, Violet Keats wasn’t like any other woman.
The small fingernail scars on my skin from the night still remind me so. I internally grin. Just as she starts to stand. I stand, too—staring. She pushes her stool away, reaching for her wallet. Fortunately, I reach for mine first, and I lay a couple of large bills on the tabletop, tipping an imaginary hat to the bartender as Violet shoves her arms inside of her jacket, flipping her red hair from its collar. I’m tempted to touch it, the tequila making me think irrational thoughts.
Like grabbing her by the wooly fabric and pressing her tiny body into mine.
My tongue reacts before my hands can. I open my mouth to stop her.
“Don’t leave so soon. I’ll take you home.”
She glances down at the floor, grappling for a briefcase I hadn’t seen there. “No, thanks.”
“At least, let me call you a cab.”
“I’d rather walk.”
She starts to turn towards the door. I call after her, my voice a growl, my shout shaking the empty air between us, making it hum. I clench my fists, my forearms pulsing from the effort. My skin is hot.
“For God’s sake, Keats, let me make sure you get home safely.” I point outside the glass windows. “It’s starting to snow… Let me see that you reach your destination. Then you can keep hating me. I promise I won’t deduct points from the Fuck-you-meter you have for me.” She glances over her shoulder, and I raise my right hand, fighting the urge to follow her. I exhale slowly. “Asshole’s honor.”