by Vivian Wood
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. “Tails: I leave you alone. Heads…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.
“Heads, 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 Seventeen
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 glass 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.
Happy Hour ain’t so damn happy at eight PM; the bar is nearly empty before the late-night crowd comes in.
Our usual barbs have softened over the past long 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, a little over 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 Chris 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 stubbornness. 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 la
y 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.”
VIOLET
There’s no honor among the freezing cold in New York.
The cold does something to people, and if you pay close attention to the rushing population, hustling through the streets, huddled in their winter coats, you can see the urgency sketched in their scowling faces, can read the signs that scream Winter Wonderland, my ass as they slip and slide over the icy sidewalks on their way back to whatever borough they came from.
Manhattan wasn’t made for the weak.
The winter months will tell you so. If not, the residents will.
It’s the only reason why when Heath offers me a ride home, I take it. Because Stubborn Spice doesn’t need another warning label printed on her forehead right now.
Not on a day like today.
I’m too close to becoming a jaded shell of my former self, and at this rate, I’ll need to paint a smile on my face for the office, my already hard head becoming even more frigid as the calendar slides into desolate, dreary December.
This used to be my favorite season. Christmas.
The tourist-filled streets outside Heath’s town car’s tinted window seem peaceful somehow—a quiet chaos, and as I watch a fresh wave of snow flurries pave the city streets, I feel a sense of longing, a tiny mourning for the memory of the woman I used to be.
A woman I haven’t been in a long time.
I close my eyes, inhaling as the city passes by—block by block. Heath’s call to his personal car service inside the closing bar only reminded me of the river between us, the gaping rift.
Heirs to rich grandfathers’ fortunes didn’t pair with low-level lawyers, no matter how successful the lawyers seemed.
The Sparrows are a family worthy of Manhattan royalty. Or so the SparrowHead building reminded me every time I stepped inside.
Even sitting inside his rented leather palace sitting on four wheels, I feel small inside the summoned town car, dread pulling my gaze to the safer choice of the driver instead of the New York City prince beside me, the anointed future king of the Sparrow family castle. The peaceful car ride rocks me into a silent state, and with the cheap tequila still running through my system, I let the liquor lift me off into memories I’d almost forgotten. Memories I wish I could.
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until a caress across my face shocks me back awake, my eyes shooting open only to find themselves staring into a pair of dark walnut ones, the lashes surrounding them surprisingly thick and full.
The dark brown brows give him away immediately. I straighten.
Heath.
He pulls back from me, sliding farther along the seat, his brows furrowed. He drops his hand.
“Fuck, I thought you’d slipped into a coma for a second,” he exhales. “You fell asleep. Granted… I’d have done so myself, if this tequila wasn’t carving a hole into my stomach. I’m starving,” he declares.
I finally fully open my eyes. I nod slowly. “Me too.” I glance out the window, taking note of the white blanket now starting to cover the street. “Where are we?”
Heath levels me with a stare. “Your place.”
I sit straighter, staring out the slightly frosted window, my body filled with a sudden awareness. My eyes meet the staircase in front of my building, my heart beat picking up pace.
“How do you know where I live?” I ask.
Heath never stops looking at me. “I found your address in your wallet.”
I scoff. “Thanks for the privacy.”
“When have you ever known me to respect anyone’s?” He grins, his eyes growing lively. “I only looked at the driver’s license, if that helps.”
My tense body deflates. “It does, actually. Thank you.”
His face reveals nothing, his stare suddenly blank. “You’re welcome. I’d like to go on record to say I know nothing about the condom stashed in the side pocket of your purse. Or the Brazilian wax appointment written on the back of your business card.” His stare burns into mine. “I decided to stop searching when I found the license, of course, but Mr. Tequila had other plans. And he won the wager between the two of us.”
“What wager was that?” I glower. “That you’re a raging dick?”
“Close,” he utters, unblinkingly. “The wager that I can’t keep my hands off anything that has to do with you. That I’m struggling like hell to do it right now. And I gotta tell you, Keats…” He hesitates, the car growing hot under his steady stare, the backseat shrinking around us. He raises the partition that separates from the driver, making the space feel small. His voice is a soft rasp. “It’s been too long since we’ve talked—Hell, touched…” He trails off, his stare sinking to my lips. “And I’m too drunk to pretend I don’t want to.”
His thumb follows the line of his eyes. Directly to my lips.
With one hand, he traces the line of my lipstick-painted mouth, circling its small curves. His fingers take a detailed tour along with his heated gaze.
I want to tell him to take his hands off me. To let me out of the car. To let me go.
But my Missus Tequila is just as stubborn as his Mister, and she surprises me by pressing a kiss to the edge of Heath’s stroking thumb, letting the skin slip slowly between her lips—skin which she sucks lightly—lovingly, her touch just as tender as his own.
The touch turns hungry—ravenous. Heath lowers his hand to my jaw, cupping my face with one palm. He stares into my eyes, asking permission, and when I say nothing, he lowers his face to mine, planting his mouth where his hand just lay… and kisses me hard enough to see stars.
I take the deep breath I didn’t know I needed.
One. Two.
Chapter Eighteen
HEATH
I kiss her.
I reach for her, needing to feel all her fucking warmth. With a push of my fears to the side, I replace them with a lust that only Violet can ignite, letting my body show all the need I’ve bottled up.
I bite down a groan.
Violet echoes the noise, with a tiny whimper of her own, a frustrated sound that echoes exactly what I feel.
“Heath,” she mutters as I shower her lush mouth with kisses. “What are we doing?”
My mouth roams lower.
“Exactly what I’ve wanted to do since the last time I’ve tasted you,” I speak under her jaw. “And exactly what we both need.”
I decide that I want to push her over the edge, and my hand lowers between us, cupping one perfect tit. Her formerly dormant hands come alive. My fingers brush higher and higher under her shirt, cupping her bare breasts underneath her silk-laced bra, my thumbs encircling the sensitive nubs that now stand at attention. Tracing a trail with my mouth from her red-colored lips to her collarbone, I reverse direction, sliding my tongue up her long neck until my lips hover above her own.
I speak the words between my kisses, my teeth nipping at her lower lip. I inhale her whimpering sigh.
“Everything about you pushes my buttons, Violet. I’m teetering on the edge of my control. I don’t need another shove.”
She exhales soundly. “I’m—I’m not pushing anything.”
“You are.”
My voice tightens with emotion, turning into gravel. I grind the words out.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to poke and prod a sleeping bear? That someday, you’re going to catch its wrath?” I pause. “I guess not, huh? Because you keep placing yourself in the path of destruction. You push me to a precipice. You drive me to the edge with everything you do. You make me react. And when I do, I don’t know how to find neutral—whether or not to retaliate or apologize—punish you or pleasure you. Maybe it’s a little bit of both…”
I lean in, speaking the words near the curve of her brow, feeling her eyelids flutter beneath my kiss. She bites her full bottom lip.
“Do I have a vote in this?”
My lips curve into a smile and I trail my teeth along her temple, nipping at the nearby skin.
“Always.” I tap two inches below her circle of a belly button, hinting at the sexy space that lies below it. “And what would you say ‘her’ vote is?”
I feel Violet’s racing heart pick up at my sensitive touch. Her brow furrows, a horrible attempt to mask the sudden heat that’s fanning its way down her curvy body.
“Is that all you think about?” she scolds.
“Your pussy?” I pull backwards, separating Violet’s body from mine, meeting her cautious glare. I reach my hands blindly behind her, clutching the top of the head rest, my fingers digging their way into its leather. I grip its edge.
“Actually…yes, Keats,” I continue. “It is all I think about. That’s all I’ve thought about since I tasted it. Since I had my mouth on it and fucked it with my tongue. Since you came on my lips and I sucked you completely dry.”