Madness

by J. L. Vallance

  Chapter 5

  “It’s beautiful in here, Francesca. You outdid yourself.”

  I smiled, standing next to my mother, my arms folded over my chest, admiring the work she complimented. The tasting room was filled with guests, servers setting plates of food down at each table. Music thumped in the background, providing a soundtrack to the incessant and excited voices.

  “As long as Elise likes it,” I replied, meeting Mom’s eyes. “As long as this gives her the perfect memory that she deserves, then it was worth every God-forsaken moment.”

  She laughed lightly in response, placing a gentle hand to my arm. “It’s more than perfect. And I do believe you are being melodramatic.”

  “I have an extensive call log that begs to differ,” I laughed. “Go eat, Mom. Enjoy this night, it’s a big one for you too.”

  Walking away, her face held onto a faraway sadness, one that I felt on a deep level. She missed her partner, wished for him to be able to share in the biggest moment of their daughter’s life with her. I wished for that just as much as she did—for her as much as I wished for it for Elise.

  Eighteen months pass in a mere blink of an eye. But when you miss someone, someone that took up over half of your heart, the days seem to drag on for an eternity. Each day seems longer than the one before it. And no matter what everyone tells you, the pain that comes with losing someone you love doesn’t get better. You just get better at living with it.

  “I must admit, I liked the heels better, Bubbles.”

  I released a full, heavy breath before looking through my lashes at Rory. My hands instinctively dropped, resting on my hips. The moment we finished taking photos at the church and a nearby covered bridge, I stepped out of the three-inch heels and back into my Chucks. Some humans may find heels sexy; some may even find them comfortable. I consider them to be torture devices that will one day do untold harm to the female species. Give me sneakers or give me death.

  “And I must admit, I liked you better from forty feet away,” I replied.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  I stepped away from him, standing behind my bar, finding more comfort being in a familiar and safe place. I had a role to fill in that space; one that came with a predetermined script, making social interactions much simpler—rehearsed even. It was as if stepping behind the bar allowed me to slip into different skin. I could disappear.

  Rory leaned up against the bar, his arms resting on the rich dark cherry surface, lacing his fingers together. His bright blue eyes traced my movements as I pulled a bottle of water from the fridge.

  “So, what do you recommend?” he asked, a smirk spreading his lips.

  “Depends on your preference,” I answered. “You like it dry or sweet?”

  “Always dry,” Rory replied, leaning closer. “Dry wine and sweet women. Never mix the two.”

  “Do you think saying those ridiculous things will ever get you anywhere?” I asked, grabbing a bottle of Francesca Reserve from the shelf beneath the bar, filling a glass, sliding it toward Rory’s folded hands.

  “Come now, you mean to tell me that you don’t find me utterly charming, Bubbles?”

  “I barely find you remotely personable. I mostly find you nauseating.”

  “Liar,” he soothed, lifting the glass to his lips, draining it of half the contents. “Mm. . . this is a cabernet. Is that currant and blackberry I taste?”

  I narrowed my eyes, wondering what his next possible angle could be. He’d approached me five different times, with five different angles since the reception began. And I shot him down each and every time. He certainly wasn’t a quitter.

  “It is, and if you’d like more, the bartender has plenty over at the actual bar.”

  “What do your folks call this one?”

  “Francesca Reserve,” I answered, pulling the bottle back out from under the bar, topping his glass off, allowing him to hold onto the belief that Winter’s Night was not my own.

  “Full, rich, exotic. . . much like its namesake,” he flirted.

  “What is your end game here, Mr. O’Neill?”

  “I want you to drop some of those many barriers you have constructed, and at least talk with me. Maybe then you’ll see I’m not quite the twat you take me for.”

  I laughed, tilted my head back and laughed a full belly laugh. I met his gaze from across the bar, saw the fire burning brightly in their depths, and sighed.

  “I have little doubt that you are very much the twat I take you for,” I cawed. “Do you have your toast ready?”

  “It’s all right here,” Rory replied, tapping a finger to his temple. “I’m more of a speak from the heart in the moment kind of guy. I’ve known Colin my entire life; this will be a breeze.”

  I amped up, my retort on my lips, although it was sadly swallowed up as the DJ announced that all the food had been delivered and asked for everyone to return to their seats to eat. I left the bar, leaving Rory behind as I approached the head table. Elise sat close to Colin, murmuring God only knew what into his ear. Whatever it was, it made him grin from ear to ear.

  Sitting down beside her, silently and as motionlessly as possible, I unfolded my napkin and set it in my lap before digging into my salad followed quickly by the plate of pasta. I washed it down with sips of the water sitting before me, and every time I moved to grab my glass, I could see Rory from the corner of my eye. He watched, his breath held tightly with each minute movement I made.

  How the fuck do you make eating pasta rigate look sexy?

  “Where have you been?” Elise asked, turning to her plate as I was finishing mine, pulling me from my thoughts.

  “You mean while you’ve been tonguing your new husband’s ear?” I replied with a lifted brow. “Eating my food and trying to keep it down as each slurp elicited a sharp reaction from my gag reflex.”

  “I was not tonguing his ear!” she whispered. “I was just describing what the rest of the night will be like.”

  “And leaving him with major wood as his friends and family approach the table? Not cool, Elise.”

  “You are such a jerk sometimes, Frankie.”

  Elise began eating her food, turning from time to time toward Colin, laughing at his jokes. They were so easy with each other—so open and loving and simplistic. I adored Colin for the life he gave to Elise, especially after we lost our father. He revived the coldest, most lonely parts of her.

  And that was far from an easy job.

  “What is with that Rory guy?” I questioned, watching as her face fell momentarily.

  “He’s been friends with Colin forever, lives in Cyprus, and is trouble,” she replied, taking a sip of wine.

  “Trouble how?”

  “I’m not sure of all the sordid details. I just know that he gets into trouble often, like he makes really poor decisions.”

  That wasn’t a complete shocker. From what little contact with the guy I had, I could tell that he’d be mischievous. He totally struck me as a guy that made piss poor decisions. Plus, he couldn't drive for shit.

  “Why do you ask, Frankie? You interested?”

  “He’s a goddamned irritant. And, he hit my truck on the way to the wedding.”

  “You are interested. . .”

  I rolled my eyes and released a puff of air.

  “What gave you that impression—was it when I called him an irritant, or when I groaned about him hitting my truck?”

  “It’s all in what you didn’t say,” she answered. “Look, you are single, at this wedding alone; he’s not too bad to look at. Have a good time and never look back.”

  “You’re encouraging promiscuity?”

  Of course she would encourage me getting out, letting the walls down, and having a good time. It was a rarity I did anything spontaneous or exciting. And my family had been on my ass about dating for the past year. They had no idea what went on between Lukas and I. This was most definitely for the best.

  “No. I’m encouraging a
good time, Franks and beans. It’s one night. What trouble can come from one night? It’s not like I’m telling you to marry the guy. Relax and enjoy yourself.”

  **

  The DJ began calling the wedding party, asking them to move to the dance floor. As he called my name and followed quickly with Rory’s, Wonderful Tonight by Eric Clapton began to play. Rory approached me slowly, cautiously, holding out a hand for me to take. As I slid my fingers into the palm of his hand, he spun me quickly, pulling me up close to his body when I came back around. He smiled down at me, his eyes continuing to hold on to some of that fire from earlier.

  “Your speech was perfect,” he soothed. “You had the right amount of humor that you mixed with touching memories, as well as tearful ones. It was the quintessential maid of honor toast.”

  “And you managed the half assed, let’s talk about mooning and drinking and acting like absolute dickholes before you managed to snag a lovely ol’ gal quintessential best man speech. Well done.”

  “I hear that you can be trying sometimes. You know, real obstinate.”

  “Oh, I heard that you are trouble,” I retorted, mid spin.

  “You’ve been asking about me?” he asked with a wrinkled brow.

  “And you’ve been asking about me?” I countered. Rory grinned and nodded his head.

  “I am trouble, Bubbles. That doesn’t make me any less worthy of your time and attention,” Rory added, his grin turning obnoxious.

  “I don’t need trouble, Mr. O’Neill.”

  “I really wish you’d call me Rory. Mr. O’Neill sounds so. . . formal.”

  “I really wish you’d stop calling me Bubbles.”

  “Whatever you wish, Francesca.”

  My name sounded like silk coming from his lips. It also caused an almost imperceptible, albeit unwelcome shiver to race down my spine. I studied his face, the stubble covering his cheeks and jaw, his crisp blue eyes piercing mine as they met. Great googly moogly, he was real fucking easy on the eyes.

  “Everyone calls me Frankie,” I finally said, my words barely above a whisper. The man may have been an irritant, but my mind forgot to mention that to my body.

  “I think I’d prefer Francesca; it makes you sound more the woman you appear to be.”

  “You and Colin go way back, huh?” I asked, sidestepping his glaring charm.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “He was there for me through a lot of really shitty times.”

  I knew the look that crossed Rory’s face, and I found it much more enticing and intriguing than the cocky smirk he’d held all day. It was a look of loneliness, of deep-seated pain, one that gives the tiniest glimpse into a broken soul. I knew it so well because I lived it more days than not, and I was intrigued by it because I felt an instant connection to someone that could be as lost and broken as I was. He was a kindred spirit navigating his way through the impossibility of life. That empty and forgotten place inside of me begged to know more.

  “I’ve always hoped to one day get myself clear enough that I could do the same for him, if he ever needed.”

  We were silent, dancing around the floor, my body tense and tingling from the contact. Someone should explain to Mr. O’Neill that he’s much more enticing when silent or pensive. His brash mouth and bold attitude kill his appeal. Most of it anyway.

  “Not that Colin is the kind of guy that would ever find himself in the shit I’ve been in. He’s got it together, always has.”

  He spun me again, pulling me back up into his body, holding me tightly. It felt good to be held by someone foreign. It felt good to just let go a little bit and feel, interact, and to be accepted. But then, he didn’t quite know what he was accepting.

  “Take it from me—someone having a lot of personal experience with being a total idiot when it comes to life—it’s never too late to let go and start living,” I advised, watching his jaw tighten. “Life is full of surprises, of ups and downs; it’s up to us to move past all that and enjoy the little things that make it worth living. Some days you have to squint as hard as you can and look through a lot of roughage, but you’ll always find the blessings well camouflaged.”

  “Come sit and have a drink with me, Francesca,” he begged, his face a few inches from mine. “You make me feel. . . you just make me feel.”

  “I call bullshit, Mr. O’Neill—”

  “Rory,” he reminded roughly.

  “I call bullshit, Rory. You’ve known me for no more hours than can be counted on one hand. I can’t possibly make you feel anything besides base attraction and maybe a little excitement below the deck.”

  He laughed deeply; it was a melodic and erotic sound that set my nerves on edge.

  “There is that, I won’t even attempt to lie,” he soothed, pressing into me, allowing me to feel that excitement. “But don’t tell me that you can’t feel a connection.”

  I laughed, meeting his cool gaze, feeling his intent from the tight press he left on my hip.

  “I feel agitation and maybe a little resentment.”

  “Resentment?”

  “My truck, Rory. I resent that you wrecked my truck.”

  “Christ woman, you’re like a broken record,” he grumbled. “I will take care of the fucking truck.”

  “How do you know you didn’t do damage that cannot be undone?” I asked. To him it may have been just a truck, maybe even a pretty one. To me, it was my stronghold to my father. It was a living, breathing incarnation of our combined blood, sweat, and tears. I helped him rebuild that truck from the day I turned sixteen until he became too ill to continue.

  “Trust me, the old girl will be just fine.”

  He turned us as the song ended, dipping me low before pulling me back into his chest. Rory stared down at me, his eyes melting into mine, his full lips perfect and inviting. My eyes were captivated, attempting to memorize every detail of them as my tongue darted out, moving across my bottom lip. He moved closer, lowered his head, and I began the stretch toward his lips.

  “Come on, Franks and beans, time for a drink with the bride!” Elise screeched, grabbing my hand, pulling me from Rory. I followed begrudgingly, my face heated, matching the rest of my body.

  I chanced a look back at Rory; watched him run a thumb over his bottom lip as he followed me through his lashes.

  “No drinks, Elise,” I called as I turned back, knowing she ignored me.

  We stood in front of the bar, the two of us and the rest of the bridesmaids, as Elise asked the bartender for shots of Patrón to go around. He poured them, and I looked down at the shot sitting on the bar before me. It had been twenty weeks and three days since the last time I drank. I didn’t keep track because I was recovering, I kept track because that was a marker of the last time I went off the rails.

  I had gone out with Lukas and Karleigh, hitting multiple bars and multiple faces. I’d become sloppy drunk and begun a melee at a bar just outside of town—a fight that I won, but a fight no less. I had little control when I started drinking. I rarely knew when to quit and almost always made colossal errors in judgment when inebriated. Therefore, I kept the drinking to an extreme minimum.

  The Patrón seemed to be winking at me from the shiny glass resting on the bar. The lime that Elise shoved into my hand, followed by the salt shaker that she pushed my way after she licked and poured it on her hand, wasn’t making my choice any easier.

  “It is your wedding. . .” I rationalized. “And I imagine you will only ever get married once, twice max.”

  “Frankie, shut the hell up and take that shot. You need to loosen up!” Elise encouraged, lifting her shot, throwing it into the back of her throat. I smiled, licked my hand, and poured salt on my wet skin. I lifted that shot glass from the bar, ran my tongue across the coarse line of salt, and downed the shot of tequila. It burned all the way down into the pit of my stomach, igniting a fire in its wake. I slammed the shot glass back onto the bar, sucking the lime into my mouth.

  “Another round!” Elise ordered, and I cheered. Heat s
pread throughout my entire body as I pounded two additional shots of Patrón.

  “You feelin’ loose now, Frankie?” Elise shouted over the music.

  “I’m feeling tingly.”

  “Good. Now go and enjoy yourself.”

  I walked away from the bar with a beer in hand, my body warm and light, and made my way over to the head table to sit and people watch. I was comfortable in my bubble for a few moments, until the chair beside me slid out, scraping across the tiled floor.

  “I thought you said you don’t drink?”

  “Rory,” I replied, my words heavy. “It’s my sister’s wedding. She asked me to have a shot with her; how could I resist that?”

  “How about one with me?”

  I turned my head, met his curious gaze, and smiled. Why had I been fighting him all evening?

  “Just one, Mr. O’Neill.”

  Chapter 6

  My head pounded like a motherfucker as I opened my eyes to the blazing sun shining through big, bright windows. My stomach lurched, whatever contents that lie within threatened to come up if I moved too rapidly or at all. I closed my eyes and groaned. Reason number one hundred and two that I didn’t drink—the hangovers were real fucking sluts.

  I moved to sit up on the side of the bed, needing water, whatever the vomiting risk may be. My mouth felt and tasted like I fell asleep munching on cotton balls—no, like dirty goat balls. All movement stopped abruptly at the sound of a deep snore. I’m fully awake. . . who is in this bed with me?

  Hitting me as fast as the bile at the back of my throat, memories of last night came crashing into being with a vengeance.

  I stood at the bar, nursing my beer, sharing not one, but four additional shots of tequila with Rory. With each shot, my body became more alive, more heated, and freer. I danced on the edge of control, begging to tumble over it. I moved closer and closer to him until we stood separated by only a breath, and even that seemed too far.