by Chance : Poison & Wine, book 2

by Sigal Ehrlich

  The guy watches Ricky enter the car, and when Ricky closes the door, he notices me and lifts the camera to his eye. Stepping on the pedal, I don’t allow him the chance to take the shot. Not a moment later, the sound of a motorcycle close by has me glancing at the rearview mirror only to find out he’s on our tail.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” I tell Ricky in dismay.

  It takes him a moment to understand what I’m talking about, and then his features tense as he curses under his breath. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs next. I’m about to tell him that it’s not his fault, but he stops me by pointing at the next turn. “Wait for the light to turn and step on it.” I wait for the light to turn yellow, and just before it turns red, I push the pedal. “Take a right, then left,” Ricky says, and I do as ordered. He throws the side mirror a glance and tells me to park in a semi-packed parking lot. “Kill the engine. Let’s wait, see if we managed to ditch him,” he says, nothing but annoyance coloring his graveled voice. He exhales in frustration. “Madness. I’m sorry you have to go through this because of me.” His frown deepens. “This is so fucked up. The one time we finally go out, and this . . . ”

  “Hey.” I send a hand to his bristled cheek. “I had a great time with you.”

  He smiles at me, but the smile still carries frustration. Needing to lighten his mood, I send a hand to the back and pull out a bottle of whiskey from the “farewell party box.”

  “Join me for a drink as we wait, Mr. Hart?” I beam at him, successfully pulling a smile out of him. I open the bottle and take a sip that burns all the way down, then pass Ricky the bottle.

  He takes a swig and gestures with the bottle ahead. “Classy,” he says next, and we both crack up at the absurdity of the situation.

  As it happens, we found ourselves in the parking lot of some seedy motel, drinking scotch out of a bottle in a parked car. The epitome of class, indeed. “I’ll drink to that,” I say and take another drink. We mock the situation, laughing and drinking, oblivious to the fact that more than half an hour has passed and more than half of the bottle is gone now.

  By the time we realize that we’ve been sitting here enough time for the “threat” to clear, we’re both more than a little tipsy. Highly amused, Ricky pulls down his chair and tells me to climb him. We laugh even harder when I playfully and very clumsily position myself over his lap. It’s all fun and games till I feel his response to me.

  My laughter turns into a breathy moan just before Ricky pulls me into a kiss that, in a blink, turns into a full-on make-out session colored with sounds of desire and skin-catching fire. “Babe,” Ricky utters, a little slurred. “We’re in a damn car in a parking lot, and there’s just so far I can control myself.”

  I raise my head and look around us. For a moment, I forgot where we were. I eye someone walking along the corridor of the building with an ice bucket in hand. I realize I might be more tipsy than I thought. More like full-on drunk. Luckily, at least one of us still has his wits about him.

  “I have a brilliant idea,” Ricky says to my mouth, sealing his words with his tongue meeting mine again.

  “To get undressed right now?” I say, the cadence of my words sounding different, as though I’m talking over a bunch of marshmallows in my mouth.

  Ricky laughs, and I join him, not even sure what I’m laughing about. The rest of the evening flashes before my eyes like a fast-paced psychedelic movie from this point onward.

  Scene one,

  Getting out of the car. Grabbing the nearly empty bottle of scotch, cradling it to my chest like a precious child. Ricky supporting me since my legs act a bit funny—walking straight is a real effort.

  Laughter. Ours. Mixed.

  Scene two,

  Florescent illuminated, funky-smelling reception. The guy with a wifebeater stretched over his beer belly, leaving an unappealing underbelly view of pimpled skin and dark hair over pasty skin, eyeing me in a way that makes my skin crawl, yet I find myself giggling.

  Scene three,

  Ricky, trying to open a door with an unsteady hand while we both laugh in hushed tones like teenagers.

  We’re inside the dark, musty-smelling room with the burn marks on the carpet that has seen better days. With a dramatic wave of his hand, Ricky declares, “Welcome to the Le Chateau de le Crap, love,” sending us into yet another round of laughter.

  Scene four,

  Another swig of the burning liquid, looking at each other, and something snaps. Sex. Sex that begins on the rickety desk, then the sink, the wall, and ends on the floor with pants and groans, and sweat, and stars exploding before my eyes.

  And it’s a wrap.

  I crack open a heavy eyelid with much effort, and the impact of the light is a hammer to my head. My temples throb, and I close my eyes tight. My mouth is as dry as the desert, and the smell in the room makes me want to gag. Another attempt to open my eyes has me staring at Ricky sound asleep by my side in this foreign room, on this uncomfortable bed. I take a deep breath and last night’s shenanigans come back to me in a montage of alcohol and bad decisions. I say Ricky’s name, but he doesn’t even stir, deep in sleep.

  I manage to sit up, and the sharp pain in my head is almost too painful to bear. A glance at my watch has me jump up, ignoring the agonizing headache, and look for my scattered clothes. Eight, I’ll have to stop at home, clean up and run to the office. There’s a good chance I’ll be late to my nine o’clock. I’m so screwed. I fish my panties from the stained lamp and the rest of my attire from the dirty carpet. Sober, I wouldn’t step a foot in this place, not even for a substantial amount of money, let alone get undressed and have sex on these contaminated surfaces. Revolting. Ricky’s words from last night come back to me as I search for my bag, and more importantly, the sunglasses it holds inside. “Welcome to the Le Chateau de le Crap, love.” I couldn’t have put it better.

  One last glance at Ricky, I shrug my sunglasses on and step out to what seems to be my first walk of shame in a decade. I curse under my breath when I notice the people milling around. The public indignity of a walk of shame is paramount. I decide to grab a coffee from the motel’s vending machine. It’s probably the worst coffee in history, but I don’t care at this point. Caffeine is caffeine, even when it’s shit. I drop some coins in the machine but never get to grab my fix; what with the guy a few steps away from me saying, “Good morning miss, what’s your name?” Aiming that gigantic camera from last night at my face.

  A few things happen concurrently. With a bedsheet around his waist, Ricky opens a door and calls for me, luckily using my pet name rather than my real name. Me throwing him a panicked glance and bolting to the car. And the third thing, Camera Guy firing away as if he were in a shooting range.

  Hightailing it out of Le Chateau de le Crap parking, shaken, I can’t help but think how my worst walk of shame will be plastered all over social media or worse. Thank god for huge, dark sunglasses. Bless you, Jackie O.

  Know your worth; this was hammered into our heads by my mom ever since I could remember. Know your worth. I think about it on the way home. Once you know your worth, she used to say, you won’t let anyone treat you less than you deserve, not even yourself.

  My phone rings from my bag, but I don’t answer. Not only am I driving but I also need a few minutes for myself to think. So whoever it is, they can wait.

  This is so wrong. I can’t let something like this happen again.

  As I see it, any time before your thirties, you’re allowed to do stupid, reckless shit. Live as you’d like. It’s your time to fail and make mistakes, stupid ones, awesome ones, learn, grow. The cutoff time is midnight of your twenty-nine years on earth. Then you need to shape up, get your shit together, and adult the fuck up. The Pulling Stupid Shit train left my station a while ago.

  As soon as I enter my place, I down a couple of painkillers, jump into the shower, and put on my best suit. My suit, in a way, is my armor; the better the suit, the better it hides my emotional state. My suits are my c
ape.

  About to leave for work, I check my phone. Ten missed calls, one number. I dial Ricky’s number, with the phone pushed to my ear by my shoulder, locking the door behind me.

  “Babe, you okay? You didn’t answer my calls.”

  “I’m fine.” I pause. “I think.” I remain silent, considering my words. “We need to talk.”

  “Vic,” he urges.

  “We need to talk, Ricky. Can you come over in the evening?”

  “Sure,” he says. “Vic, please don’t let this change things,” Ricky says in a voice that mirrors what I’m feeling.

  “We’ll talk about it tonight,” I say and end the call. Tears sting my eyes as a realization drops on me. I waited for the other shoe to drop, and it did. And it’s not just a regular shoe, it’s one made of glass, and it didn’t just drop. It shattered into a million smithereens.

  You Know Where to Find Me

  “Oh boy, do you deliver,” Kelly, my publicist, says with joyful satisfaction. “The one with the bedsheet around your waist, this is what PR dreams are made of.”

  I wince, repeating what I said before. “Kelly, I don’t know how you do it, but make sure no one digs into the woman in the pic.” By some miracle, the pictures the paparazzi managed to take of Vicky aren’t clear, to say the least. It could be any other tall, lean blonde with huge sunglasses. Keeping her anonymity is my only objective right now.

  “On it,” Kelly says. “If it matters, this is exactly what we were looking for.”

  And the very last thing I was looking for.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go,” I tell her, impatient. This day . . . I feel like I’ve been pushed to my limits.

  Fortunately, it was a busy day with a few radio interviews and working on my music, but nothing was enough to take my mind off thinking how things with Vicky will play out tonight. Maybe it’s our bumpy start or Vicky’s tendency to flip, but I’ve been restless the entire day guessing what our “talk” will bring with it. Now that she’s finally mine, the thought of maybe losing her is intolerable.

  Before heading to her place, I pass by the living room, looking for Grandpop. Earlier today, he told me it’s time for me to move back to my place. I want to make sure it’s for the right reasons—that indeed he needs his space, and he’s not doing it on account of me.

  “What are you making?” I ask, finding him in the kitchen, hunched over a cutting board.

  “Grandma Lilly’s stew.” His words mix with the chopping sounds. He slides a pile of chopped onion to the side with the large knife, sets the knife down, and turns to me.

  Absently, I scratch my scar. “You know, I don’t mind staying here. Anyhow, I’m away half the time. It’s no trouble at all. I—”

  “Son,” he cuts me off midsentence. “It’s time for you to return to your apartment. With everything that’s happening to you at the moment, you need your place, somewhere comfortable to return to and unwind. You need your space.” His lips tip at the side. “Somewhere to bring your beautiful woman to.” He winks.

  I chuckle. “As I told you this morning, I don’t mind. I enjoy spending time with you.”

  He takes a moment to study me. “I’m proud of the person you have become. And I’m grateful for everything. Not many people your age would sacrifice their comfort like that. But it’s time for you to move back to your place. This old schmuck is ready to get into some shenanigans again.”

  I laugh briefly and step over to squeeze his shoulder. “Whatever you need, I’m—”

  “I know.” He doesn’t let me finish my sentence again. “Go on then, and say hi to Victoria for me.”

  I nod twice. “Don’t forget to take your medication,” I say out of habit. I get a mocking eye roll in return and chuckle, but as soon as I close the door behind me, all hilarity vanishes at once. Time to see what my woman has to say.

  By the time I park the bike under her apartment, the tension in my gut grows.

  When Vicky opens the door with a mournful smile, the tension in me grows dramatically. I lean in to kiss her, and she kisses me back, but I can tell something is off. I follow her to the kitchen on edge, watching her closely, waiting.

  She pours herself a glass of wine, asking me if I want one.

  I fold my arms across my chest, saying, “It depends. Am I staying the night?”

  Something happens before she replies. Her mask, the one I’ve grown to know . . . and detest . . . falls over her beautiful features. “Water then?” she says, opting for sass that I don’t appreciate.

  “Babe?” I say. “Can we cut to the chase? What’s up?”

  Vicky turns to me, and the next words that come out of her mouth leave me stunned. “Listen,” she says. “While you were playing with your music, I’ve been working my ass off in a hostile environment of privileged men who saw me as a nice piece of ass. Well, I’m a VP of a multibillion-dollar company now. And I won’t let this thing we have turn me into a joke. Give power to those who think I should be sitting in the level below and serving coffee to the real decision makers.” Her eyes shine with irritation. “I’m not going to be the butt of every joke of every tabloid known to man. The pathetic woman shame-walking out of a cheap motel. That was on me, but it was the first and the last time. I’m not some quick lay on a drunken night.”

  “Playing with my music?” Anger tints my voice. “This thing we have? Some quick lay on a drunken night?” I repeat incredulously. “Are you hearing yourself?”

  Her frown deepens. “My photo is everywhere.” Her tone takes a higher note. “Thank god I had those huge glasses on, and he wasn’t able to get a good angle. But this can never happen again. I’m not risking everything for—”

  “Me,” I interrupt. “For me?” The blow to my gut is tangible. I shake my head, staring her down. And here we go. Vicky pushing me away again. Same old dance. Maybe it’s the tension I’ve been holding inside all these hours, but something in me snaps, and words leave my mouth unfiltered. “I’m done. I’m so done. You know what? Maybe you should go back to the puppies you collect that obey your every whim. Maybe that’s what you need. Keep it on the surface; never dive too deep. No one gets attached, no one cares, no one gets hurt. Good luck with that.” I hold her stare. “When you need something that’s more, something that’s real, you know where to find me ’cause I want that with you.” I laugh humorlessly. “Goddammit, how I want that with you.”

  Something breaks in her, and her eyes mist over. Before she manages to let out another word, I step forward, taking her in my arms. Vicky buries her face in my chest, and her voice breaks when she says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said and how I said it. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  I hold her tighter in my arms, kissing her hair. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have gotten worked up like that. And I’m sorry for what you had to go through because of me.”

  Vicky stays in my arms as I keep my lips on her hair, holding her tightly to me.

  “We can’t keep doing this,” she says in a voice brimming with pain. “It’ll break us before we begin. It’s not the right time for us. I want to be with you but not like this. Not when it’s a threat to this magnificent thing that’s happening to you or my career. However you look at it, it just doesn’t work, not right now.”

  “Babe,” I whisper, really saying, please don’t break us.

  “I’m saying that I want to be with you open and out there, but not like this, not with this image they’re trying to build for you. I can’t be associated with your public persona. I don’t blame you. I’ve sacrificed more than enough to get where I am. And you’re building your own career now, and if this image is what’s taking you there, that’s what you need to do. That’s what you need to focus on. As much as I hate saying it, we can’t be together. We need to break it off before greater damage is done.”

  I inch back to look at her, and she raises her eyes to mine. “Vic, I hear what you are saying, and I know it isn’t the ideal situation, but I’m asking you not to do this. Pl
ease don’t do this.” I hold her gaze, my heart thudding with the idea of losing her. With the thought of how much I love her. “Babe, I love you. I’m deeply in love with you. I don’t want to lose you. Please don’t do this.”

  A tear escapes her eye, and more follow down her cheeks, but her stare doesn’t waver, transmitting agony but also determination. “You know what? I think I might feel the same way.” Her voice is softer when she adds, “But this is still goodbye.”

  I hold her stare, and the amount of pain traded between us is unquantifiable. In a low, graveled voice, I say, “I won’t be able to be around you and pretend I’m okay with it. I want you too much. We crossed a line, and I can’t go back.”

  “I know. I don’t think that I’ll be able to pretend I don’t want you either,” she answers.

  I bring my forehead to hers and close my eyes, slowly shaking my head, unable to let her go. When a soft whimper escapes her, I hold her tighter to me and kiss her softly. She returns my kiss with shaking lips. We deepen our kiss, holding each other. Neither of us says a word as I lift her in my arms. We keep silent as I walk us to her bedroom. Not a word is uttered as we undress each other slowly. We remain silent while I bury myself in her for the very last time.

  I leave after holding her in my arms in the dark for hours, and it’s the damn hardest silent goodbye I’ve ever said.

  Easier Said Than Done

  “It feels like I haven’t seen you guys in forever,” Kayla says, pouring a round of rosé from a chilled bottle.

  I take a seat, joining my friends in our booth at Poison. “Sorry. The meeting lasted longer than planned,” I say, excusing my tardiness.