“Love is possible, it’s powerful, and it’s all around us.”
“I’m sorry; did I open the door to my winery and walk into a Disney movie?” I snorted.
“Okay, pick all you want. Love is possible,” she replied, poking a finger in the air.
“You’re right. It’s possible, just not for me,” I replied, looking back at her. She flipped her blond ponytail off her shoulder, folded her arms over her chest and geared up for an argument. It wouldn’t be a new one for the two of us. “And that is okay. I’m good with how my life is, Karleigh. Some people aren’t meant to have the storybook endings. We have to go without so that someone else can have them. I am perfectly content with giving that up. I have a chronic illness, one that I never want to inflict on someone else, especially not someone that would possibly want a family. I have to keep my life simple, and relationships are complicated.”
“And boinking Lukas?” she asked with a huff. “That’s not complicated?”
I sighed as she referred to my “friends with benefits” situation. . .with her big brother. He was attractive, clean, funny, and most of all he was protective. Lukas looked out for me in more ways than one. Our arrangement allowed me to be fulfilled in a non-committal, non-promiscuous way. And what guy doesn’t like to have sex without all the emotional strings?
“It’s safe,” I grumbled.
“Safely complicated,” she muttered under her breath.
“Your brother and I have an arrangement—a”
“Yeah, yeah, what happens beneath the sheets stays beneath the sheets, Frankie,” she interrupted, walking toward the bar with a wave of her hand. “But when things get ugly, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Things are not going to get ugly.”
“Oh?” she questioned.
“I won’t let them get ugly.”
“I forgot you are proficient at staving off clusterfucks.” Karleigh rolled her eyes, grabbing at bottles of wine, uncorking them. “But in the off chance that your clusterfuck detector goes on the fritz, maybe you should get out into the dating pool. Figure out something else before you ruin the friendship you have with Lukas.”
“Do tell, how did we get from Bridezilla 2.0 to my sex life?” I huffed, grabbing the freshly opened bottle of cabernet franc from her hands, holding it beneath my nose and inhaling deeply. I could easily pull out the notes of black currant and raspberry with the tiniest hint of spice. This was the Francesca Reserve, originally blended by my father and named after me; and it’s always been my favorite. Call me narcissistic.
“It was quite an easy turn of events, really. And to be totes honest, you brought it on yourself.”
“If you’re going to start saying ‘totes,’ I will have to cut you out of my social circle. Seriously. I don’t need to be dumbed down any further.”
“Frank, if you cut me out of your social circle, you’ll have no circle. You don’t really have one as it is. It’s more of a triangle, connecting three pegs.”
Before I could respond to her, the bell chimed as a group walked into the tasting room, bringing a gust of cool air with them. Karleigh smiled at me knowingly, as if she’d actually won. And maybe she had, that round at least. The battle, it would be ongoing and eventually, I would get the upper hand. It was how our dynamic worked.
“Welcome to Winter’s Night Vineyards,” I smiled to the guests, walking toward the kitchen as Karleigh handed them wine lists.
I smiled as I listened to her joke, changing her Outkast disc for Birdy, and settled into my routine. My life hadn’t been simple, but it had become manageable. I worked every day to rehabilitate myself, to remember that I was chronically ill. But I also worked to remember that I was still just a normal girl, working hard, trying to live a normal and happy life. Somehow, I was finding that.
Chapter 2
I leaned against the bar, waiting for the group of ladies to tell me their selections from the wine list, knowing exactly what they were thinking from the judgy and horrified looks on their faces. Their eyes said what their mouths dared not. They were wondering what the owner could have been thinking hiring some white trash looking girl like me to work in his fine establishment. Sure, I was attractive, but in the eyes of the majority, I marred that attractiveness with tattoos and piercings. I didn’t really mar a goddamn thing. I found my inner voice and I let it shine. My right arm was covered—from shoulder to wrist—with a sleeve of skulls, flowers, clouds, and a gorgeous sailboat surrounded by birds in flight. My left wrist was a cuff of ink, the words, “Never let your fear decide your fate,” were surrounded by vibrant colored feathers. The sparkling gem in my nose was icing on the cake. What these ladies didn’t realize, I owned the entire joint, along with all one hundred and fifty acres it sat on. Imagine that, tattoos and business sense. Score for nonconformists.
They placed their requests, and I filled their glasses, all of them beginning to walk toward a table in the corner.
“Is Rick in tonight?” My smile, the one I struggled to hold on my face all night fell slightly as the short woman that hung back asked about my dad. I grabbed the towel on the end of the bar, needing something to keep me distracted, and began swiping it in lazy circles.
“I’m sorry, but, Rick has passed away.” The words were bitter on my tongue, and I was irritated with myself for apologizing. She should be sorry for bringing up something that was painful in my life.
“Does Margaret run things herself now?” she replied. My sadness fizzled away into mild anger.
“Actually, I run things,” I replied, letting go of the towel, placing my palms on the bar. “How do you know my parents?”
“My husband performed their wedding ceremony,” she replied with a ghost of a smile, and I had the decency to feel a little like an asshole. “Which one are you?”
“Frankie,” I answered, relaxing my defensive posture.
“You look a bit like Margaret; it’s in the eyes.”
My eyes were like liquid amber, just like my mother’s. They were quite possibly my favorite feature of myself; they lit up my face. Something needed to; I tended to wear a perpetual scowl. Along with a nasal piercing and heavy makeup.
“How could you be in this small town, yet not know my dad was gone, Mrs.?”
“Oh, honey, call me Edie,” she replied, taking a sip of the wine that sat in front of her. “We moved down to Georgia about ten years ago to be closer to our daughter and grandchildren. I didn’t know he’d passed. I’m sorry for your family’s loss. Might I ask what happened?”
“Cancer,” I replied, my face heating, as it always did when he came up. He was my most adored and loathed subject—the source of a million happy memories and one final and devastating one.
“It’s a terrible disease; steals too many good souls.” She frowned before a light smile returned to her face. Edie lifted her glass, her smile widening. “You’ve done wonderful things with this place. I think your father would have been proud. Please give my respects to your mother.”
“I will,” I replied, watching her walk toward her friends. “Thank you.”
I leaned back against the counter, looking out into the groups of customers seated throughout the tasting room. I watched Karleigh maneuver her way around the tables, delivering pairing platters as she went. Every table was filled with patrons. Some of them were laughing, some loving, all enjoying the wine and the ambiance. This was how it was supposed to be. Edie was right, Dad would be proud.
“You all right, Frank?” Karleigh came to stand next to me, looking out into the crowded room.
“I’m better than all right, Karls,” I replied.
“Yeah, I think I know something that will change that.”
“What’s that?” I asked with a furrowed brow.
“Elise is getting married. . . in two days,” she sang, holding two fingers in front of my face.
I groaned. Cotton candy nightmares had been haunting me. Along with the thoughts of dancing and socializing, being an overall perso
nable human being. Getting through her wedding would be the best thing to happen to me. . . this decade.
“I have mixed feelings regarding this event,” I sighed, pouring myself a glass of ice water. “On one hand, I couldn’t be happier for it to be here and fucking done. Then I can burn that awful dress.”
“The one that I am convinced she picked just to punish you.”
“No doubt,” I agreed, taking a sip of water. “On the other hand, I wish I could avoid it for just a little longer. My skin crawls with the thought of everything that will be involved with the actual ceremony and reception.”
“Maybe there will be a hot groomsman you can hook up with,” she laughed, and I rolled my eyes. “You know, pull your attention from Lukas?”
“I have rules, Karleigh.”
“Rules are meant to be broken.”
“Not my rules; they exist for my survival,” I replied, ignoring her raised brow and dropped jaw. She moved her lips as if to come back at me with a sharp retort, but stopped, placing her palms against the counter. “You’ll be here in the morning to help, right?”
“I wouldn’t dream of abandoning you now, Frank. Besides, I have to be sure you are all set and ready for rehearsal dinner.”
I smiled at a group of patrons that walked through the door, approaching the counter. Sliding them a list of the wine selections, I waited for their choices, and answered questions regarding the wines. Filling their glasses, I turned back to Karleigh and dropped my smile.
“I hope you find a new friend before you decide to get married. I’m never doing this shit again.”
“Come on, you are the best damn maid of honor anyone could dream of. And you will of course be mine, Frankie. I’ll need the dysfunction that you’ll bring.”
“Dysfunction?”
“You are the poster child of dysfunction, but that’s what makes you so fucking fantastic. You are dysfunctional and tragic and hopeful.”
“That has to be the most complimentary insult I’ve ever received.”
“I mean it, from the bottom of my heart,” she smiled, popping a cube of cheese into her mouth.
I shook my head, laughing as I walked away from her and into the kitchen. She had a point. I was tragic. . . and dysfunctional. It had been my way of life for longer than I could remember. But there comes a point when dysfunction becomes your way of functioning. It becomes your nature. To think of changing, that would become the tragedy.
**
“Elise—”
My words were cut off by a long, unintelligible stream of curses that I listened to while tightening my fists and clenching my teeth. I continued to hang ropes of white lights around the tasting room; the room that could hold an easy one hundred guests that Elise wanted to make last minute floor plan changes to. She was dangerously close to me telling her to jump up her own ass.
“Elise—” I waited a moment as she wound up for round three, collected my bearings, and then began, “You can continue to cut me off all you want. I have a lot to finish before I have to be at the church. Your wedding starts in four hours, Elise. There will be no further changes. None.”
I hung up as she began a new rant, sliding my phone into silent mode, and continued with light hanging. Karleigh and I had worked on decorating and rearranging after the rehearsal dinner until eleven. We worked until my feet and fingers ached, and my eyes refused to focus any longer. And I fucking resented Elise. I resented her and her happy little bubble, as well as her demanding requests. I even resented myself for the unending need running through me to fulfill every one of those requests.
The rehearsal dinner had been a nightmare. Half of the wedding party—including the infamous best man—was M. I. A., and Elsie was the biggest bitch known to man. Colin spent half the evening outside, on the phone with his best man, trying to confirm he would actually make it to the church for the ceremony. And then the caterer, which would be providing the food for the wedding as well as the rehearsal dinner, served nearly raw chicken. Not only did Elise send her plate flying, her mouth went off, threatening to fire them on the spot. It took my mother, my sister Palma, and I to talk her down from that ledge. The last damn thing I wanted was to find myself saddled with cooking food for one hundred people.
Every second I was more tempted to flee. Weddings are a fucking nightmare.
They cost a fortune and are frightening to plan. Ten million things go wrong for every one thing that goes right. For all the time, money, and stress that they take, it would be so much more worth it to go to the JOP.
If I ever thought marriage would be worth it in the first place. Which, I never expected to ever believe that nonsense.
Chapter 3
A few drinks.
A couple pills.
Two gorgeous women with tits to beat the band.
Two grand and seventy-two hours in Atlantic City can do wonders for a lost man looking to escape. The only problem is when your troubles are mental and emotional, they pack a fucking bag and follow you. Your escape—imaginary.
As I blew through all two grand, even took as much as I could as a cash advance on a credit card, Ryan was there. He sat in the corner, watching, taunting. I chased him away as best I could. I drank until I was oblivious, took too many pills to keep track of, and had semi-average sex with two locals. It was fucking pathetic.
The engine redlined as I rushed from Jersey to Ohio.
I had less than an hour to make it to some church, in the middle of no-fucking-where, to stand in as the best man for a childhood friend. Colin had lost his head when he decided to ask me to be such an important part of the biggest and greatest day of his life. I even lied my ass off to him to escape the rehearsal. I overstayed my welcome in A.C. and risked missing the fucking wedding too. And the goddamn rain wasn’t helping. It was relentless, pulling me from one side of the road to the other.
I struggled to fish a ringing cell from my pocket, barely keeping the car on two wheels and the road.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“O’Neill, it’s Duke.”
I rolled my eyes, sighed deeply, and waited for what would be coming next. It was never good getting a call from the bookie’s right hand man. Especially when that man could make your face look like raw rump roast.
“Hey, man. What’s going on?”
“Doogan is refusing your bet,” he grumbled, and my hand tightened on the wheel.
“That’s fucking bullshit!” I snapped.
“Hey, don’t you be raising your fookin’ voice at me,” Duke replied. “He says you cannot place anymore bets until you pay off your last debt. And even at that, you have to guarantee you will pay promptly.”
I ground my teeth. I couldn’t pay Doogan. It would seem I had spent that payment on booze, gambling, and whores in Atlantic City. If I still wanted kneecaps, I needed to find a cash reserve to tap into. Soon.
“He’ll have his money next week,” I ground out between clenched teeth. “Will he take the bet then?”
“Guess we’ll have to wait and see, O’Neill.”
The line went dead, my blood boiled, and I pressed the pedal into the floor.
“Fuck!” I roared, tossing my phone into the seat next to me.
I tapped the brakes, watching as a classic, red Ford pickup came into view—driving way too goddamn slow. Following closely to the bumper, my mind flipped through idea after idea, looking for a sensible solution to my Doogan dilemma. Brake lights flashed from the back of the Ford, and I slammed the brakes, attempting to slow or stop, the car continuing to slide on the slick road. It continued forward until it met the resistance of the truck. The telltale crunch of metal rang in my ears.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I shouted.
My curses quickly faded as I watched long, lean, bare legs that were accented with vibrant ink climb from the cab. This could get interesting, I thought, opening my door to walk out into the rain.
**
The rain fell in thick sheets, pelting the truck as I rushed to get to t
he church. The inside of the tasting room was decorated and ready for the reception, even if my nerves were far from ready. Elise had called me no less than fifteen times to inquire on the progress of the decorating as well as my ETA at the church. Her final call ended with a threat from me: either leave me to what I needed to do or I would disappear, to Canada. The thing with my threats, people really never knew if I’d make good on them or not. I was just that unpredictable.
Headlights flashed at me from the rearview, and I glanced back, grunting at the sleek black sporty looking car that tailgated me. We were in the middle of a torrential rainstorm with standing water on the roadway, along with high gusts of wind; only a fucktard would think it smart to tailgate. But that’s what we deal with in this county—fucktards and booze hounds.
The light ahead turned yellow, and I tapped the brake, the truck pulling in the water that made the pavement slick and difficult to navigate on. By the time it switched to red, I regained control, coming to a complete stop, until a car slammed into the back of the tailgate, making me lurch forward. The seatbelt locked, cradling me tightly to the seat.
“I don’t have time for this,” I breathed, placing the truck in park. I grabbed the umbrella from the seat and opened the door, jumping out into a puddle, my black Chuck Taylors instantly submerged. I was sure I was a sight to behold in my gorgeous (not) pink gown, which I punked up with a denim jacket, complete with skull patches, and my Chucks. I walked to the back of the truck, ran my hand along the gouge in the bumper as well as the bottom of the tailgate. “Sweet Christ!”
“Ooh,” a deep, semi-husky man’s voice breathed behind me. “I’m real sorry about that.”
“You’re sorry? You were driving like an idiot!” I shouted, looking up from the mangled mess that was my beautiful truck. I glared into bright blue eyes that were framed by thick brown lashes. I looked at a pretty boy who probably sweet talked his way out of every trouble he faced in life. It was quite possible that that pissed me off more than the fact that he’d recklessly slammed into the back of my classic.
Madness Page 2