by Chance : Poison & Wine, book 2

by Sigal Ehrlich

  I can’t wipe my own smile off. “I don’t need to; I’ll remember.”

  She calms down with a staccato of dimming chuckles. “God, Ricky, you’re so weird!”

  I grab her phone from the coffee table and extend it to her. “Go on, then. Add it to your calendar. Humor me.”

  She shakes her head with merriment.

  I push the phone forward, gesturing with my chin, do it.

  Vicky takes the device from me, laughing as she brings up the calendar app. Shaking her head, she types rapidly. Grinning, she shows me the screen.

  I chuckle, reading the new event she just added.

  New Event

  Title: Betrothal

  Location: Never-never Land

  A message lands on Vicky’s phone while it’s still in my hand. I glance at it, managing to glimpse a name and half a sentence, Felipo and something about keeping in touch, before handing her the device. She reads the message, and her entire demeanor alters into something less soft and much more guarded—her usual stance.

  The words escape my mouth before I’m able to think. “A friend?” I ask, letting her know I managed to get a glimpse.

  “You can say that.” She puts the phone on the low table, facing down. “You know, your performance tonight, you should do what you do on a much larger scale.” She changes the subject entirely, a fact that doesn’t bode well with me. “You guys were phenomenal,” she goes on.

  I scratch the scar high on my cheek. “Thanks. It seemed like a lot of people responded to it.”

  She hugs a throw pillow to her chest. “Your cover was better than the original.”

  “Now you’re just playing favorites.” I throw her a hint of a smile.

  “You may be one of my favorites, but I still stand behind what I said.”

  My smile grows, thinking, “one of” isn’t cutting it, babe. Favorite is more like it.

  It seems like we talk for hours because it’s way past midnight. Exhaustion is taking its toll on me, triggering a downshift in my energy. When Vicky’s attempt to hide a yawn fails, I grab my phone and wallet from the table and stand. “I’d better go. I don’t want to drive too tired.”

  She nods, joining me at the door. I grab the helmets and loop both on my left forearm. Walking out the door, I turn to face her to say goodbye.

  “Hey, Ricky,” she says through the gap of the door, smiling at me. “You know, you’re the only man who ever called me babe and lived through it.”

  My lips twitch at the corner.

  “You’re also the only one who ever threatened to pop the question without even attempting to kiss me.”

  I cock my head, studying her. She smiles teasingly in return.

  Taking her by surprise, I step forward, snaking my hand around her neck, threading my fingers through her hair. Holding her head, I seal my lips on hers. She lets out a startled sound of pleasure before opening her lips for me. I taste her, and an avalanche of heat cascades down my skin. Newfound energy surges through me when her fingers tangle in my hair. I send my free hand to cup her chin, aligning her face for me to reach deeper. It’s our first real physical connection, and it feels like embers are flying, quickly turning into a wildfire. It’s not a kiss anymore; it’s a whole-mouth make-out session. The sounds she’s making and the way she sucks on my tongue, I’m a goner.

  It’s the kind of kissing that has only one ending—fabrics ripped, buttons flying, backs scratched, and sheets a-scorching. Instead of following the fated outcome, I slow the kiss, cupping her cheek with my hand, and ease even further till it’s just lips hovering lips. Slowly, I inch back to gaze at her. She flutters her glazed eyes open, her lips pink and swollen. It’s an act of immense resistance not to pin her to the nearest damn wall. It’s not that I don’t want with every goddamn fiber of my essence to fuck her seven ways to Sunday right here and now. I know that with Vicky, I should handle it differently. While I want her desperately, I don’t want to screw it up. I want her, no doubt, but for something much more than a quick lay.

  It took only one night with her to know that she is it for me.

  Mad, right? I know.

  Vicky is uncharacteristically quiet. I’m dying to know what is going through her mind. I lean in to nuzzle the nook of her neck with my nose, taking a lungful—high on the heady scent. I slowly trail my lips leisurely over her skin, up her neck, to the line of her jaw, till I reach her lips. I press my mouth to hers for a final, chaste kiss.

  “Night, babe,” I whisper and draw back.

  I hold her stare for a moment and turn away.

  Waking Up to a Damn Dream

  “Fuck’s sake,” I grumble into my pillow, yanked out of a deep sleep. I wait for my phone to stop ringing off the hook. “Somebody better be fucking dead,” I mutter, patting my way on the nightstand, looking for the damn device. Rubbing a hand over my face, I don’t even check who’s calling and rasp, “Yeah.”

  “Hello, this is Amanda Linden. I saw you last night and—”

  Pissed for being woken up for this bullshit, all because Kevin probably gave out my number to one of the chick’s at the gig . . . again . . . I immediately cut her off. “Tell Kevin to fuck off,” I say and end the call.

  I throw the device back to the table and fall back on the bed with eyes closed, more than ready to fall back asleep. My eyes rip open once again to the persistent ringing. I wait for it to stop. When the third round begins, I grab the device, exasperated to new levels. I open my mouth to speak, but I’m unable to thread in a word, what with the tirade coming from the other end.

  “Mr. Hart,” a severe tone. Pause. “I suggest you listen to what I have to tell you.” Pause. “My name is Amanda Linden. Google me; I’ll call again in five. It’s Amanda L-i-n-d-e-n. Five minutes. You got that?” And she hangs up.

  “The hell?” I murmur and do as told, not entirely sure why, but something in her voice makes me feel like I am a teenager back in the principal’s office.

  I bring my hand to cover my gaped mouth when the information loads up.

  About 13,900,000 results (0.74 seconds)

  Amanda Linden - Wikipedia

  Amanda Marieanne Linden (born July 15, 1980) is an American media proprietor, entrepreneur, talent developer, and record executive. In 2018, Fortune magazine named Linden to its “40 Under 40” list in media and entertainment.

  Linden currently manages some of the biggest names in the entertainment industry, including . . . I skim through a few names, and my mouth drops.

  “Fuck me,” I murmur, trying to recall what I said before hanging up in her face earlier. I look at the device in my hand for a few beats, bemused. I jerk in surprise when it rings and hastily swipe to answer.

  “Okay then, I assume you read a little about me,” she says with no preface.

  “Ms. Linden, I’m sorry.” I wince. “About earlier, I—”

  “Bygones, Mr. Hart,” she dismisses me flatly.

  “It’s Patrick,” I say.

  She chuckles lightly. “I thought you went by Ricky. That’s how people referred to you last night.”

  “Or Ricky,” I say, somewhat giddy, keen to cut to the chase and see why she’s calling me. For a second, I wonder if this is a prank. Because holy of all fucks! One of the most successful music industry agents out there called me.

  “Okay. First-name basis,” she says. “It’s Amanda from now on, then. Now, I guess you’re wondering why I’m calling you.”

  I’m fully awake now, sitting naked on the bed, curious to hear more. “Yes, I am.”

  “I saw you perform yesterday at that bar, and I took the liberty of filming it. I . . .” She stops for a moment, then adds, “I guess I better send you the link first, so you’ll understand what I’m talking about.” It sounds like she is talking to herself rather than to me. “Hold up, I’m sending you a link. Okay, sent. Check it and call me back.” And she ends the call.

  The HELL? I stand, waiting for her message. When it arrives, I immediately click on the YouTube l
ink. It’s a video of me titled Ricky Hart—Forever (Tyler Lee Adams cover.) I blink a couple of times, noticing the number of views, and slump to sit on the bed. I stare at the screen, stunned. My eyes crawl to the number of views again, and the initial shock intensifies. Fuck. Me.

  1M Views. 100k Likes. 5k Comments.

  A million views . . . overnight.

  A million fucking views. I let out a baffled chuckle. The phone ringing in my hand yanks me out of my state of shock. Apparently, Amanda doesn’t like to wait around.

  “How?” I manage to voice under the surrealism of the moment.

  I can hear the smile in Amanda Linden’s voice when she says, “I sent the link to a few influencers I know and got the word out, and well, as you can see, people seem to like you—your performance.” She pauses. “Not to mention Tyler Lee’s reaction.”

  “Tyler Lee’s reaction?” I repeat unintelligently.

  She laughs briefly. “Yes, Tyler Lee’s reaction. I shared the video with his manager, Eli Cohen. We go way back Eli and I. I don’t usually do freebies, but this one’s on the house. I had a gut feeling about you. And as you can see, I was right.”

  I swallow hard and croak, “What was his reaction—Tyler Lee’s.” My damn idol.

  “Wait, I’ll read you the tweet. Hold on.”

  There’s a tweet! About me? By Tyler Lee Adams? I’m speechless as she reads Tyler Lee Adams’s comment on my adaptation of his song. “So this is what Tyler Lee had to say,” Amanda mutters and reads the tweet, pausing after every fragment for a dramatic effect. “I penned this one. Crafted it. Sang it. You gave it a new meaning. Respect.”

  I fall silent.

  “So here’s the deal, Ricky. I want to meet to discuss things. I’m in town till tomorrow evening, then I fly back to LA. How does your day look? Can you do lunch?”

  Discuss things? Lunch? Today? Christ! “Sure, lunch sounds good.”

  “Great. I’m staying at the Four Seasons on Union Street. Meet me at The Goldfinch Tavern at one.” And she hangs up.

  I drop the phone on the bed and press the heels of my hands into my eyes, flabbergasted.

  The valet eyes my bike with an eager smile. I fling the visor up and shake my head, communicating no way. I don’t ever share my bike. Or my women.

  He points at a section of raised pavement near the entrance. “You can park there. I’ll keep an eye on it for you.” I nod and roll the bike to where he pointed.

  “Appreciate it, man,” I say a few minutes later, passing him a note through a handshake. I unzip my leather jacket, push my hair back from my eyes, and scan the place for a sign that might lead me to The Goldfinch Tavern.

  Amanda Linden signals me with her hand the moment I step foot into the restaurant. She’s sitting by the vast windows across the space in a dark suit, red lipstick, and a dark bob. As I make my way to her, I notice how she studies the patrons’ reaction to me. I get attention, but it’s nothing new to me. She seems to appreciate it, though, welcoming me with a pleased smile.

  I return the gesture and shake her hand.

  “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me today,” she says, handing me a menu.

  I take a seat, hold the menu, my attention solely on her. “Thank you,” I say. “For everything so far.” She waves a hand in a don’t mention it dismissal.

  Not long after, a server takes my order, and Amanda starts firing questions my way. She seems to know quite a lot already, even though there’s not much about me online, aside from some info about Broken Chords.

  “Okay then,” she says a few minutes after our food is served. “Let’s cut to the chase.” I don’t touch my food, waiting for her to speak. “If it wasn’t obvious, I’m interested in representing you.”

  I clear my throat. “You mean, us—the Broken Chords?”

  She inhales, shaking her head, albeit though with a flat smile. “I’m afraid not. Not Broken Chords, just Ricky Hart. Look, Patrick, I’m running a business. I believe that adding you to my client list will benefit us both. I have plenty of very talented musicians you’ll be able to work with. I don’t want you as a band member. I want you as a solo artist.”

  My heart is beating at double pace when I cut her off with, “What if that’s a hard pass for me?”

  She twists her lips in displeasure yet doesn’t seem surprised by my reaction. “Then we’ll have lunch, I’ll thank you for your time, and wish you all the best in the future.”

  I nod, stone-faced, masking the lurch in my stomach.

  She forks her salad and brings it to her mouth. I take a fry from my plate and drop it right back, my appetite lost. I’m too excited and concerned and tense to eat.

  Amanda wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Look, I’m not a prophet, but I’m predicting meteoric fame for you. I have the record to show that I know what I’m doing.” She takes a sip from her glass. “I want to sell you as the next heartthrob. It’s not going to be just about your music.” She winks at me. “Winston Churchill once said that attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference. You’ll be the next singer every woman wants and every man wishes he could be. And the only way we shake hands on this is if you agree to follow my instructions to a T, no questions asked.”

  I’m about to open my mouth to speak, but she raises her hand, telling me she isn’t quite done.

  “I want to sell you as a ‘bad boy.’ It fits your appearance, your voice.” Her stare challenges me. “Did you read some of the comments on the video? Gritty, obscure, mesmerizing, sinfully good-looking, that’s how I want you on and off stage.”

  I frown, listening attentively.

  “I don’t care if you are a choir boy who delivers food for the homeless in your spare time. What you show the world is the image I’m going to create. I’m going to sell you as a package, fifty percent music, fifty percent appeal. Get ready for stardom, kid.”

  I’m quiet, processing the downpour of information, but it doesn’t deter her from going on. “I need you to appear single, never linked to anyone, at least not seriously. We want to leave everyone guessing about your love life. Indoors, do whatever you want, but anywhere phones or cameras are, you’re what I tell you to be.” She raises a brow in question, checking if everything is getting through.

  “That’s a lot to take in,” I say pensively, mostly troubled by what she told me about dropping the band.

  She nods. “I’m well aware of that. And I’m sure some of what I said isn’t easy to accept. But on my part, I can assure you I’ll do everything in my power to make you the next ‘it’ boy. In fact, I already talked to Tyler Lee’s manager about the possibility of collaborating on a song to be released for Christmas.”

  I blink at her, dumbfounded.

  “You’ve got something, Ricky. Something special. I mean business.”

  “I’m starting to realize that.” I glance at my plate but reach for the water, entirely dazed.

  “Just so we’re clear, Patrick, no relationships unless it’s under wraps.” She eyes me and then asks, “Will the blonde from the bar be a problem?”

  Whoa, I think you’re breaking all the rules of privacy right now. I bite my tongue as my eyes cut to hers at the mention of Vicky. A vision of Vicky right after I kissed her last night materializes before my eyes, and it’s hard for me to answer.

  “Is she your girlfriend?” Amanda probes further.

  “No,” I add a moment later.

  “Listen, my cards are on the table,” she says, grabbing her purse. “Just say the word, and I’ll have my team draw up a contract. There will be a nice signing bonus and a record deal, but we can start negotiations once you decide. You don’t have to answer right away. Sleep on it, talk to whoever you need to, and call me with your decision.”

  “It’s a lot to take in,” I murmur once again, then quickly add, “but, I’m . . . wow, grateful for the opportunity, it’s—”

  “I know.” She smiles self-assuredly. “Only thing, Patrick, I’m open to negotiate the financial terms
and the artistic details, but aside from that, everything I told you today is nonnegotiable – the band, your image, your relationships. If you don’t think you can fully comply with that, don’t waste my time or yours. Understand?”

  I nod and shake her extended hand before she disappears out the door. I stay in the restaurant long after Amanda leaves, staring at the ocean. When the server asks me for the third time if I want anything else, I shrug my jacket on, zip it, and head out to retrieve my bike. My head is in a daze as I mechanically mount the vehicle, put the helmet on, and start the ignition. Glancing backward, I squeeze the throttle and zoom off. I drop by home to make sure Gramps had dinner, took his pills, and didn’t need anything else. I keep him company for a while, absently responding to his questions about the weather outside and if the Dodgers have a chance at the playoffs this year. Finally, I jump back on the bike and go for a long ride to clear the buzzing in my head. Who knew singing a song to a woman you want could turn your world upside down?

  Oh, the Promise of a New (Doomed) Insatiable Obsession

  “Boss?” Adrian’s voice pulls me out of a momentary daze where I’m sitting with my chair back to the room, blankly gazing at the night sky through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I touch my lips with the pads of my fingers, thinking of Ricky and that ridiculously orgasmic kiss.

  I swivel to look at Adrian. “What’s up?”

  “Call it a night, and go home,” he orders.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  He eyes me suspiciously, holding a bag of miniature macaroons. “After eight. Let’s wrap it up for today.” I nod, watching the snack in his hands. His stare follows my line of vision. “Stop objectifying my goods!” He exclaims. When I don’t stop, he huffs, takes a handful, and drops the bag on my lap with an admonishing headshake. “Now, can we go home already?”

  “You can go. No one’s stopping you,” I say, popping one of the macaroons into my mouth.

  “I know, but you should go home too. You’ve been here since seven. Go. Home.”