by Chance : Poison & Wine, book 2

by Sigal Ehrlich

  I don’t even know what day it is when I shut the hotel door behind me and fall on the bed. My head is slightly swimming when I close my eyes. I rub a hand over my face, regretting the extra shots of tequila I did tonight with. . . I furrow my brows, Sandy?

  My second week away wraps up tonight. Two weeks of waking up around noon, fueling up with strong black coffee, and heading to the studio.

  Studio. Fake date. Event. Sleep. Repeat.

  There were so many dates. So many faces I can’t begin to name.

  And then there’s this other thing that’s a burning undercurrent in everything I do. With enough time to dissect it and the repeated stark rejection, I’m led to believe that Vicky was at home the night I came to see her before going away and simply chose not to see me. This reality burns something fierce.

  A lame text that read, I’m fine. Hope you’re killing it in LA, after many unanswered calls and texts would make you come to such a conclusion.

  The woman I’m more than crazy about is fucking ghosting me.

  If she were anyone else, I would have given up long ago, but she’s not. I’m both exasperated and astonished by her reaction or lack thereof. Especially after our last time together. I keep on calling, and she keeps ignoring my calls. Needless to say, it does my head in. I have no idea what happened or what I did wrong. But something has clearly happened.

  My mood is a total dichotomy these days. On the one hand, I’m enjoying the time in the studio with Blake, working on an album, something I never dreamed possible. On the other hand, being away from home, especially away from Vic, and mostly her odd behavior, gets to me.

  Christmas is in less than a week, and when Blake, who isn’t a holiday type of guy, asked me earlier today if I wanted to continue working over the holidays, I immediately agreed. Meaning we’ll manage to finalize the five songs Amanda aimed for and maybe even more.

  I’m so drained that I barely manage to take off my clothes. I yank my shirt off, and there’s a knock on the door. In the middle of the damn night. Better be important! A sudden senseless thought that it might be Victoria at the door shoots me in the direction of the knock.

  With just jeans on and a wistful, pathetic hope, I swing the door open with a start. It takes me a few stretched moments to take in the blonde before me.

  My mouth drops in dismay when she releases the belt securing her robe, letting it reveal her naked, lush body. “I thought you might want some company,” says the model I went to the party with tonight.

  I shake my head in disbelief. “I’m tired, going to sleep now. Have a great night.”

  “We can sleep together,” she says with a voice I’m sure worked on many others before.

  “I’m sorry, but no,” I say and start closing the door. When her smile slips, I step forward and reach for her belt, securing the robe around her. “Good night, Sandy,” I say and close the door all the way.

  Turning back to the room, I let out a manic laugh. I laugh hard, but it holds no humor. My mental state is starting to worry me. Here I am, perks of fame handed to me on a naked platter, but I’m not interested in any of that. All I want is to make music.

  I go to the bathroom, wash my face with cold water, walk to the minibar, and grab a handful of little bottles. I sit down and line up bottle after bottle, setting them in a straight row on the desk. Giving the minibar one last glance, I make sure no ounce of booze is left unclaimed. Reaching for the first small bottle, I unscrew the cap and throw it into the metal bin. It lands with a metallic thump. I set the little bottle back and turn to open the next one. And the next. I continue till all twelve are opened, ready.

  As I swing my legs up to rest on the desk next to the loot, yet again, the thought of Vicky resurfaces. It’s been eating at me—the vacant space inside my chest aches.

  I grab the first bottle from the sturdy desk and down it in one long, burning swig. Grimacing, I look at the empty bottle in my hand for a hollow beat. I hurl the bottle into the trash. An instant shattering sound ricochets into the room, coloring it with the shade of my mood. I down the next bottle before taking my next breath. The following empty bottle finds its doom in angry shards of glass as I smash it into the basket, just like its predecessor. Soon the room fills with sounds of violent collisions, empty bottles shattering one after the other, each crash louder, fiercer. A couple of bottles end on the wall.

  After all, it’s in my contract to cause provocations, so here goes. By the time the bin is half full, alcohol plays a great part in controlling my lucidity. Alas, for some reason, my irritation just seems to grow. I’ve lost count of alcohol and time. Sitting here wasted and wounded, I try not to wonder where she is or who she’s with.

  As I inch up, attempting to stand, opting to crash on the bed and wait for oblivion to take over me, I catch a glimpse of my phone. With a heavy sigh, I fall back onto the chair instead and reach for the device. Another contemplative moment passes before I redial her number. Bracing my elbow on the desk, I lean my pulsing temple on my palm and gaze at the room. No answer, the phone keeps on ringing. With alcohol fueling my action, I text her for the last time.

  Answer my fucking calls.

  Self-Medicating

  Earlier this morning.

  Pandora to Chickens: I miss your feathery heinies. When do I get to see them?

  Kayla to Chickens: Tonight?

  Victoria to Chickens: Drummer girl, always so eager.

  Kayla to Chickens: Been burning to see you, Barbie. Or, as Panda puts it, your feathery heinie.

  Anna to Chickens: Last lesson ends at 7, right after. Where?

  Kayla to Chickens: Vicky’s.

  Pandora to Chickens: Vicky’s 8ish? I’m bringing munch.

  Victoria to Chickens: Vicky’s it is then, I guess.

  “Victoria, what do you say?” Gregory Peters, my boss, asks.

  I trade a look with both my ally and my nemesis, Joe Bello and Luis Dylan. “I think that it’s quite ambitious. That it will be a bumpy ride and maybe tantalize a few departments before we’ll be able to pick the fruits of this merger.”

  “Where do we stand at the moment?” Luis Dylan asks, lacking his usual cockiness. The matter in subject equals rolling up his sleeves.

  Peters circles a fountainpen on the table. “I wouldn’t be talking to you if it weren’t green-lighted by the board. R&D and operations are on board.”

  Joe Bello whistles while shaking his head. “Like Victoria said, ambitious.” His features set into a frown. “What about the outsourced customer support acquisition?”

  “Still on the agenda,” Peters says, studying us with astute eyes.

  “That’s it. Bex is going to divorce me,” Bello says as we file out of the room, heading to our own offices.

  “I say bring out the big guns. It’s time for jewelry.” I smile at him.

  “I don’t think it’ll cut it this time. She made me promise I’d cut down my hours a little. She wants to go back to work.” He shakes his head. What the boss just shared with us means we’ll be working crazy hours, all of us, for a long, long while.

  Luis Dylan rubs a hand over his face, splotches of pale skin starting to show below the fake tan. “This is ridiculous.” He glances at us. “We’ll have to fire people and make the rest work harder.”

  For the first time, we’re all in agreement.

  Closing the door to my office, I slump onto the chair, leaning my head back with my eyes closed. It feels like the past four weeks passed in a blink. I drowned myself in work, so much so that I hadn’t seen the girls, not even my sister. While drowning myself, I tried to control what I’m feeling for a certain someone who robbed me of my ability to keep my emotions intact. You know what they say. Stay away from temptations that help feed your addiction. And boy did he become an addiction. There’s a little earthquake inside me whenever I think of him. It’s not just the undeniable attraction; I ache for the guy, body and soul.

  The next day after Ricky left my apartment, he was supposed to travel to LA
again. He called me to tell me that he was going to be away for a couple of weeks. I take a deep breath, trying to push down the heaviness weighing my stomach, thinking how I didn’t answer the door when he came by before going away. When he buzzed the intercom, and I saw it was him, I leaned on the door and waited out his persistence. It was hard to do, but I was so shaken by my feelings for him that I just couldn’t deal with it all. In other words, I’m a huge coward. I was so unraveled by this new, inexplicable need for someone. Still am.

  He texted me that night, and I replied the next day with some lame excuse about being swamped with work. My plan was to take the time away to detox. No communication whatsoever. In other words, cold turkey.

  The weekend we spent together changed something in me, something I’m not sure I can handle at the moment. It seeded in me a hope for something I never considered allowing to happen. It scares me and unsettles me, like getting too close to the fire. I’ve never made so much space in my life for someone. Space in my life and my heart—I’m utterly overwhelmed by it all. And unsure. This sort of thing leads to dependence, attachment, and sharing I’m not ready to do. And worse of all—promises. Feeling this way for someone means handing them the power over you. And, in turn, you become vulnerable. Weaker. I can’t allow myself to do that.

  I square my shoulders, tack my mask in place, and decide to think of it as one booty call too many.

  I shake myself out of it and dial my go-to sushi place—ordering takeout for dinner with the girls.

  “So, do tell, Ricky and you?” Panda asks, shoving a chunky roll into her mouth.

  “Ricky and I, what? Friends.” I focus on the sashimi I’m trying to catch with the chopsticks. “Didn’t we have this conversation already?” I add flatly.

  Panda narrows her eyes at me, and the silence between us prompts Anna and Kayla to turn my way too. Panda breathes a laugh. “Funny, I don’t know the size of my friends’ penises, Miss Slip of the Tongue on Hensgiving. BTW, speaking of tongues, did you, you know, size it with your tongue?”

  “Panda!” Anna shrieks, clutching imaginary pearls.

  Panda grins devilishly. “Withdrawn.”

  “Friends,” I insist, though I can’t help but grin. The woman is hilarious.

  “So . . .” She skews me with an amused look. “Friends as in braiding each other’s braids or friends as in braiding each other’s braids off?”

  Kayla chuckles, throwing a crumpled napkin onto her plate. “What does that even mean?”

  Putting on a posh accent, Panda rephrases. “Are you guys actively banging?”

  I shake my head, somewhat animated. “You’re a pain in the ass, Pandora Wilkins. We. Are. Just. Friends!”

  Panda twists her mouth and turns to the room like she’s a detective in a police procedural. “Ladies and Hens, the award for the best bullshit answer of the year goes to Victoria Nielsen.” She claps at me.

  I just roll my eyes and start piling up the empty plates. “Are you handling this thing?” I ask Panda, referring to the chocolate fondue set. Yeah, that was Panda’s idea for dinner. I’m glad I didn’t rely on her and ordered the sushi just in case.

  Panda is quiet as she fiddles with the fondue, adding chocolate into a ceramic bowl.

  “Which chocolate are you putting in there?” my sister asks.

  “Don’t you dare come near it,” Panda scolds animatedly.

  “Or attempt to put anything above sixty percent chocolate in it,” Kayla adds.

  Panda points her finger at my sister. “You ruin it with your healthy crap, and I will personally take you to the slaughter, chicken!”

  I chuckle at the nonsense and skewer a chunky strawberry on a stick, dipping it in the heavenly smelling pool of glistening chocolate. I close my eyes, indulging in the sweet goodness. When I open them, it’s to Panda’s eyes on me. “What now?” I ask flatly.

  “You know, we have some exquisite males in our group. I mean, Liam—hot doctor. Jonathan is yummers. But Patrick Hart? He’s like the forbidden apple. That’s . . . that’s another level of exquisite deliciousness.” She turns to Anna and Kayla, who both nod in approval. Attention back at me, she resumes with, “Now, if you are more than friends, you know, friends who show each other their private parts, it’s your poultrian duty to dish, chicken. Let us all get some of that vicariously.”

  “Poultrian duty!” Anna hollers with laughter.

  Kayla snorts with an amused smile.

  When I remain silent yet shake my head with merriment, Panda resumes with, “Do you ‘just friends’ each other often?” She places air quotes around friends.

  I roll my eyes. “I see him as much as I see the rest of the guys, my other friends.” I pop a chocolate-coated grape into my mouth. “Is the inquisition over? Can I please go pee?” And before I’m even able to close my mouth, the intercom buzzes.

  The girls look at me in question. I shrug, indicating I’m not expecting anyone.

  Panda jumps to her feet and heads to the hall. A few moments later, Panda speaks so loudly the neighbors probably hear her too. “Oh, hi Ricky, are you here to braid Vicky’s hair?” She pauses. “Hey Vic, there’s a rock star person at your door.”

  My heart beats a chaotic techno song tempo as I make a beeline to the bathroom like a real chicken and lock the door behind me. Granted, hiding in the bathroom isn’t a solution, though I’d love it to be.

  When I finally walk into the living room with enough nonchalance to reward me with an Oscar, my friends and my threat for an ulcer are engaged in light conversation.

  “Welcome back.” I hide the turbulence wreaking havoc inside me behind a casual, friendly smile.

  The smile Ricky is radiating at my friends turns into something much less welcoming when it turns my way. If there ever was a homicidal smile, this would be it. I can’t help but notice that he looks a little tired, his eyes slightly shiny. He’s still ridiculously gorgeous, but something about him is a little off. The notion worries me. Though I work hard to pretend it isn’t so, this person means the world to me.

  Glancing my way, my dear-dear friend has a sparkle in her eyes. Panda looks at Kayla and Anna wickedly. “Don’t you just love it when your rock star friends pop by unannounced? It happens to me all the time!” She emphasizes friends so much even my late grandma got the hint. May she rest in peace.

  “Hold up,” my sister says, smiling at me. “What happened to you? As far as I remember, no one is allowed to pop by unannounced besides Mom and me?”

  Yeah, they’re whooping my tush for the “just friends” conversation from earlier. I shrug, murmuring, “I seem to be breaking a lot of my rules lately.”

  Panda asks next, “And what about your harem? Do they get to visit with no notice? I’m starting to think you’re a bit of a dick. Are we the only ones who should submit a formal notice before visiting her highness?”

  I’m squirming in my seat now, avoiding Ricky’s eyes at all costs. “I told you, the guys are on a hiatus.”

  Kayla squints her eyes at me. “Oh right, the Stud Brigade is on a break.”

  “I heard the brigade had been disbanded,” Ricky says humoredly, but there’s an angry bite to his words.

  Panda leans back, narrowing her eyes at Ricky, then turns to me. “So, what’s really going on here?”

  That’s it. I’m going to kill her.

  “My friend Ricky came for a visit, just like the rest of you,” I say with feigned nonchalance.

  Panda turns to Ricky. “So good of you to stop by and see your friend Vicky,” she says, emphasizing friend with a smile.

  Ricky shakes his head, his lips twitching at the jab.

  Panda turns back to me. “You know everyone here’s deepest secrets, yet you dish nothing? I think I’m a bit offended.” She turns to the girls. “Don’t you feel offended that this is a one-sided thing, that Victoria Nielsen doesn’t love us, and doesn’t tell us anything?”

  The other two morons just grin at me. Oh, wait, the four of them do.


  Finally, my sister remembers that I’m her own flesh and blood. “Panda, are you that bored? Here, have another strawberry.” She smiles at me. “You do whatever makes you happy.”

  With her mouth full of strawberry and chocolate, Panda says, “No. Do whoever the fuck makes you happy!” The pleased smile she’s sporting now is smeared with chocolate.

  Thanks to Kayla, the conversation steers into more comfortable waters when she asks Ricky about LA. To my relief, they talk shop for a while, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

  Of course, Panda can’t leave well enough alone and shakes things a little again with, “Hey, Rick-Rick, dip your stick in our sweet pot!” She gestures to the fondue bowl.

  Kayla and Anna’s headshakes come synchronized.

  Ricky chuckles, throws me a look that has my breath catch, and says in his graveled, delicious voice, “Maybe later.” His stare shifts back to me, the one that’s so intense it feels like he’s reading my deepest thoughts.

  I can try to deny it from here until eternity, but dammit, I missed his voice and the way he looks at me.

  Grinning at Anna and Kayla, Panda says, “Chickens, I think it’s time to take wing. The boy looks hungry.”

  And before I’m able to protest, they follow her lead and start tidying up. As my friends collect dirty plates and glasses, Ricky clears his throat. He absently scratches his scar, saying, “Hey, before you go, there’s this event for the release of my song with Tyler Lee Adams, and I can invite some friends . . . do you want to come?”

  Anna, Panda, and Kayla stop as if they practiced the move for years. Three sets of eyes—blue, hazel, and brown—turn effervescent.

  Panda puts her hand on her heart. “You want us to come? I never thought you’d ask!”

  Ricky chuckles. “It’s in LA, but the label will cover all costs, plane tickets, hotel . . .”

  “Hell yes,” Kayla answers for everyone.

  I see the girls to the door. Anna hugs me. Kayla just leans closer and whispers, “He’s so worth it,” so only I can hear.