Caught Up In Raine

by L. G. O'Connor

  “Speaking of romance, I got the covers you sent.”

  I sit up straighter. Enthusiasm returns to my voice. “What did you think?”

  “They’re very good. There’s no denying the guy has talent, Jillian. And he’s hot with a capital H, but I still don’t think we’ll have much luck getting the publisher to approve them.”

  “Don’t give up, B. I really want to use him,” I say with conviction. Now that I’ve seen the covers, I can’t imagine there being anything better suited.

  She sighs. “Don’t worry. I haven’t. Call me tomorrow.” Then she quickly adds, “And have fun on your date!”

  “Will do.” I hang up and eye the clock. Time to get moving.

  After a deep breath, I walk into the bar at Huntley Tavern, an upscale restaurant known for its wine bar and Arts and Crafts theme. High tables are scattered in front of a line of booths in the two-story room which also boasts an open kitchen, a long bar covering one wall, and a fireplace at one end. The low-lit room is warm and welcoming.

  I smile at the hostess and walk past her to find a seat at the bar. My eyes dart around looking for Gerald. Not seeing anyone who fits his description, I pull out my phone to make sure he hasn’t canceled at the last minute.

  My stomach tightens as I wonder if I can make it through a whole dinner. This makes my third blind date since I ventured into this online dating adventure. The first two were okay, but clearly not a match, no pun intended.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I turn.

  “Jillian?” he asks. I recognize him from his picture, only I wonder how long ago it was taken. At forty-seven, Gerald looks much older than Robert did when he died at forty-eight.

  I force a smile. “Gerald?”

  “That’s me.” He points back to the hostess. “Our table is ready.”

  “Lead the way,” I say and slip off the bar stool. In my high heels, I’m his height. Why did I think he would be taller? Rather than waiting for me, he walks ahead. . . way ahead. He’s already lost points and we haven’t even sat down yet.

  I count to five and say a silent prayer asking for patience and fortitude.

  They seat us in my favorite area on the covered porch. Removable window panels insulate us from the chill of the outside air.

  “Are you a wine drinker?” he asks, picking up the menu.

  I unfold the napkin onto my lap. “Yes, but I prefer red.”

  “Let me guess: Merlot?” he says with a snide undertone.

  My jaw tightens and I will myself to relax. He seemed much nicer on the phone. “That depends if I’m drinking it with or without dinner. Usually, I prefer a nice Australian Shiraz or an Argentinian Malbec unless I’m having beef, and then I prefer something heavier like a Cabernet or a Cote de Rhone.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says, giving me a tight smile.

  I return his smile with an equal degree of tightness. “You didn’t.”

  “Why don’t we order by the glass then,” he says.

  “Great idea.” I clench my hands under the table and wonder if I’ll make it to the appetizer. Beyond his comment rubbing me the wrong way, I already know he’s not for me. His sports jacket doesn’t hide the fact that his mountain biking isn’t having the desired effect on his waistline—which I can overlook. It’s the pinched look of unhappiness on his face that I can’t. I’ve had enough misery touch my life, and I’m not in the market for any more.

  The waitress takes our drink order and leaves.

  “What kind of law do you practice?” I ask to kick it off.

  He folds his hand in front of him and seems to relax. He would actually be handsome for an older man if he focused on something positive. “Intellectual property, mainly. There seems to be no shortage of work these days. Especially when it comes to piracy over the Internet. So, you’re a writer?”

  I smile and this time it’s genuine. “Yes, I’m actually in the middle of writing a novel right now.”

  “Oh? What kind of novels do you write?”

  My glass of Shiraz appears in front of me, as does a glass of scotch for him. I wonder why he’s starting with hard liquor after he grilled me about the wine.

  “Romance, mostly.” I take a sip from my glass.

  His eyebrows rise. “My ex-wife was a big romance reader. She was especially intrigued by that Fifty Shades of something trash.”

  My hackles rise and I take a breath. “I don’t write erotica, but if I did, I wouldn’t mind having that author’s success or her following.”

  He takes a sip of his scotch. “But I’m sure your novels contain sex just the same?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Generally, to sell a romance, it needs to contain sex to satisfy the reader, yes. And your point would be what?”

  “Well, no point really. So you like sex then?” he asks and his stare slithers over my skin. How the hell do I answer a question like that?

  “What are you asking? Are you wondering whether I like writing about it or having it?”

  “Both.” He gives me salacious look before taking another sip of his scotch.

  “I think it’s a little too soon to ask something so personal. Don’t you?” My hand chokes my napkin under the table.

  His lips purse and I wonder if he’s trying to be sexy. “Just sizing up my chances for later.” Then he winks at me.

  My stomach turns. As if! “I take it you’ve never actually read a romance novel, have you?”

  He sniffs in disgust. “No disrespect, but no, and I don’t think I ever would. I prefer nonfiction.”

  Irritation swirls inside me, and I decide to switch topics. “Your profile says you like to travel. Have you been anywhere interesting lately?”

  “Not lately with the divorce and all. But I’m thinking my next trip will be to the Far East. I’d like to see China since its economic rise.”

  Finally, something that seems like a safe topic. I sit up in my seat. “That sounds interesting. I think I’d like to see Europe before I expand my horizons into the Far East.”

  “You haven’t already been there? I’d think by your age you would have ventured into Europe several times.”

  By my age? I bristle at his assumption. “My husband wasn’t much of an international traveler. Since I married young, that leaves a lot left for me to see.” I have no reason to add that Robert had a morbid fear of flying.

  “I suppose,” he says. “What did your husband do?”

  “He was a real estate developer in New York City and northern New Jersey.”

  He perks up with interest. “Oh. That must have left you sitting pretty. I can’t imagine writing romance pays very well.”

  My anger flares at the audacity of this guy. “That would be none of your business, and as a New York Times best-selling author, I do quite well on my own.” I drain my wine glass as the waitress approaches the table. “You know, I’m wondering if maybe we should skip dinner. I think we might have a compatibility issue.”

  A look of shock washes over his face. “Why would you say that? I thought we were getting along quite well.”

  “I don’t understand how you could say that. You’ve insulted me from the moment I sat down.”

  “How have I done that? Was it my comment about romance novels?”

  Seriously? I try to keep my jaw hinged shut. “If you don’t know, that’s a problem.”

  I place my napkin on the table, and push my seat back ready to leave.

  “I find it appalling that you would end a perfectly good date. I can’t imagine you’re getting a lot of offers.”

  I freeze and stare at him, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

  His eyes travel over me, and I cringe. “For one, I wouldn’t be wearing such a formfitting dress when you could stand to lose ten pounds. Not to mention, I expected you to look . . . younger. I thought I was being generous offering to have sex with you.”

  My face flames red and fury rises inside me with the intensity of a force five hurricane. “
Are you serious? I think you have it wrong. The situation is actually reversed. I’d be the one doing you a mercy, grandpa!”

  I throw a twenty dollar bill on the table and storm out as my eyes fill with tears. As much as I don’t want to believe his cruel words, they still cut me to the quick. He’s obviously a bitter, miserable jerk. I’m surprised his wife didn’t divorce him sooner for his pompous attitude.

  Rounding the corner, I thrust the valet ticket and a five dollar bill at the boy standing there and dab my eyes with a tissue. With incredible speed, my SUV is waiting with the driver’s side door open. I slide in and close the door. My hands grasp the wheel and I sit paralyzed. To think that I could’ve taken Raine up on his offer tonight instead. But as the thought enters my mind, Gerald’s words come back. I look down at my midsection under my coat. Is this dress really too tight? My shoulders slump. The bulge is small but it’s there. I glance into the mirror and stare at the crow’s feet around my eyes and the fine lines around my mouth. A subtle honk comes from behind me. I step on the gas and pull away.

  Tears blur my vision. I don’t think I look that bad. I hunger for someone to take me into his arms and tell me it’s okay. No, not just anyone. I hunger for the feel of Raine’s arms, strong and sure. I think about the playful look in his eye as he gathered me up and held me close at the photo shoot, and I want that . . . right now.

  I hate that I let those ugly words affect me and remind myself that even though words have power, it’s up to me to take that power away.

  My car takes me through Summit and into Chatham, but it doesn’t stop. It snakes its way all the way to Morristown. It’s only eight forty-five when I park across the street from The Grasshopper. My hand trembles as I turn off the engine, and I check my makeup in the rearview mirror. I’m not thrilled with what I see, as if I’m looking at my face through creepy Gerald’s eyes.

  Glancing across the street, I see a group of young people, the same age as Raine, hanging outside the door next to the bouncer. Lights pulse on the other side of the darkened, steamy windows. The band must be on stage. The girls are all twig thin, dressed in short skirts with long flowing hair. They look like Jenny, and I look like I could be their mom.

  I keep my seat belt on until tears once again cloud my vision. I feel foolish. I said I’d go to dinner with Raine next week. I must be crazy. What the hell am I doing here now? My discomfort grows as I think of walking in there with puffy eyes feeling like some old cougar on the prowl for young flesh. How desperate is that?

  I sit immobile behind the wheel. If I go in, what good will come of it? I can only imagine how dark and noisy it will be, having to scream to be heard. Raine is bartending, so he won’t have time for me anyway. I can’t put him in the position of having to make up for my bad night. Worse yet, what if he rejects me, too?

  After brushing away my tears, I start the engine. I tell the weaker part of me that wants to rush across the street into the bar to shut up and let the stronger part drive me home.

  I haven’t felt this lonely since Robert died.

  Chapter 10

  Raine

  I POUR FOUR TEQUILA shots and almost miss the fifth glass. I swat Fiona’s hand away from my ass as she passes behind me.

  My first impulse is to yell at her, but we’re reduced to using nonverbal communication. With the band playing, it’s impossible to hear anyone not close enough to scream in your ear over the thump of the bass.

  So I give her the evil eye.

  She winks and grabs a bottle of Shiraz.

  The bar vibrates underneath the shot glasses. I could use an aspirin to counteract the headache I’m getting from the pulsing lights. The two guys take their tequila and step away.

  Two busty blondes belly up to take their place. One of them gives me a come hither look and leans over the bar. Her tits almost spill out of her shirt.

  I squelch my urge to laugh and give her a sexy but compulsory smile. “What can I get for you?”

  She wraps her hand around my neck and pulls me closer until her lips touch my ear. “Sex on the beach and a Merlot.”

  Smirking, I pull away and grab the vodka and peach schnapps. Bottles hit the bin under the bar next to me as I mix the cocktail. A quick pour of Merlot, and I hand them over. “Fourteen dollars.”

  The girl smiles pretty at me and hands me a twenty with a slip of paper. “Keep the change.” She and her friend melt back into the dense crowd.

  I ring the sale, throw the extra six bucks into the tip jar, and open the paper.

  Brandy 973-555-3568

  Figures. I take the pen next to the register, write “Mac” on the back, and throw it into the jar next to the tips. At the end of the night, we’ll count the number of come-ons. The bartender or server with the highest number gets an extra twenty bucks.

  After serving up another couple of beers, I look down the length of the bar. Declan’s brother, Liam, and Fiona are covering it with me. I know it’s silly, but I’m jonesing to check in with my friend Sean who’s working the door to see if Jillian has made an appearance. I wonder what her plans were for tonight and hope it wasn’t a date. But if she was seriously involved with someone, I’m almost positive she would’ve said something. She strikes me as pretty honest.

  I’ve been racking my brain since Thursday trying to decide where to take her to dinner. Someplace nice, but I can’t lose sight of the fact that I need to gather a deposit for someplace to live. Of the three hundred bucks she paid me, I have a little over one hundred left after buying books. And tonight I should do really well.

  I don’t notice Fiona’s fiery red hair until she’s standing on her tiptoes next to me. She pulls my head down to get her mouth close enough to my ear. Her heavy brogue pierces through the pounding music. “Mac! Will ya stop yer woolgathering, and pay attention? I’ve been trying to signal ye for five feckin’ minutes. Ye have comp’ny at the other end of the bar.”

  My heart leaps. I leave Fiona behind to cover for me as I stride down to the other end and stop dead. It’s not Jillian.

  My eyes narrow and I scream across the bar to be heard since I refuse to get anywhere near her. “What are you doing here, Nessie?” I size up her sexy fashion model get-up. Glossy and beautiful, she’s like a tainted chocolate—something that’s pleasing to the palate, but makes you sick as hell after you eat it.

  Vanessa glares at me. “Don’t call me that.”

  “It’s better than ‘bitch,’” I say, feeling less than charitable.

  She takes a FedEx envelope out of her purse and shoves it at me. “I was trying to be nice.”

  “How did you even know I’d be here?” I ask, and snatch it away from her. There’s only one thing this could be—the paperwork for my internship in New York City over the Christmas break. All my regular mail goes to a post office box in town. It makes it easier when you move as much as I have. But FedEx won’t deliver to post office boxes.

  “I called Mikey to find out where you were staying, and he told me you’d be here tonight,” she says and glances around with her lips puckered in a sour look. “It didn’t take you long to come back here. Are you sleeping with Fiona again, too?”

  I grit my teeth. “It’s no longer any of your business who I sleep with. Got that?”

  A good-looking guy with dark hair emerges from the crowd behind Vanessa, and drapes his arms possessively around her. He’s glossy, just like her. Fucker probably drives a Mercedes. Leaning in, he whispers something in her ear, and she smiles.

  My blood pressure shoots up. That bitch! “So, maybe I should be asking who you’re screwing. How long were you cheating on me, Loch Ness?”

  The guy’s head snaps up. “Hey, man. Back down.”

  I put the FedEx envelope under the bar, ball my hands at my sides, and try to swallow down my humiliation. “You don’t have the right to speak to me, so fuck off!”

  Her green eyes blaze. “Does it really matter? It’s been over with us for a long time.”

  I lean across the bar
and feel the anger etch deep into my brow. I keep my voice as low as I can for her to still hear me. “Oh, really? I thought things were going pretty well until you turned into a total fucking bitch about two months ago.”

  She leans into me. The vein in her neck that pulses when she’s pissed is jumping wildly under her skin. “You know what, Raine? It took me that long to figure out what a loser you really are, and that you’re only good for one thing. When that stopped, there wasn’t anything left.”

  My nostrils flare, and my nails bite into my palms. “Get out before I have you thrown out,” I say through gritted teeth. My cheeks burn as I stalk away. I leave Liam and Fiona behind the bar and press my way through the crowd into the employee locker room. I need to cool down before I hit something or someone. Too late. I slam my fist into one of the metal lockers and leave a dent, welcoming the sting on my knuckles.

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. Her words resonate with what Jenny said to me on the driveway, and it hurts. A lot. Is that what Jillian sees when she looks at me, too? A hot, young guy that she’d like to fuck? Only good for one thing? Someone not to be seen with in public? Did she really have something else to do tonight? Maybe she only said yes to the date next week because of the release form. What do I really have to offer her anyway? I hoped good conversation and companionship would also mean something. Jillian certainly doesn’t need me for my money, and if everything goes well, I’ll have a white collar job at some point and make a decent living anyway. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that good enough?

  I don’t understand it. I’m not a bad person, a slob, or painfully boring. I’m going to school, trying to better myself as fast as I can and be productive. So why is it that people always try to make me feel worthless?

  I check the clock. It’s already midnight. If Jillian planned to stop by, she would’ve been here by now. I hate to admit it, but I could’ve used the boost.

  My mind shifts to the slips of paper in the come-on jar, but going there would only make me feel worse and give credence to what Vanessa said.