“Is that what you think this is?” he gasped. “Christ, I could have slept with at least seventy women since you.”
“Is that supposed to win me over?”
“Yes,” he answered seriously. “I have no problem picking women up.”
I didn’t doubt that. Hadn’t since the night I’d met him. It was the charisma, the mega-watt smile, the sultry sex-filled voice. His body, smile, voice, and touch promised a good night in the making if one simply took his hand.
I want to take his fucking hand. . .
“Good, then you won’t be alone tonight,” I replied, moving to rise from the table when he reached out and grabbed my arm, stopping me.
“I don’t want other women, Francesca. I want you,” he said, the smile missing from his face. “I’ve wanted nothing but you since November.”
I shook my head.
“I’m not like other women, Mr. O’Neill.”
“Please, call me—”
“Rory, it doesn’t matter what I call you. The message will remain the same.”
“Didn’t you ever stop to think that maybe that’s what I like about you?” he countered.
No, no I didn’t. Being different is what set me apart—in a bad way. That’s what makes people dislike me. Not that I mind that—being disliked. I’ve spent the majority of my life being different, being an outsider. I am the woman that I am, with the issues I have, and that fact will never change. I’m proud of the obstacles I have overcome and look forward to defeating the ones that are waiting in the wings.
“You don’t know me to know whether you like me or not,” I argued. My dad had always told me I’d be great for the debate team.
“I know what I felt with you.”
“You felt tequila,” I replied. “And my vagina. Go find some Cuervo and a willing participant and repeat.”
“First, I have a high tolerance. That tequila barely touched me. Quit trying to downplay what happened between us. Take a little responsibility.”
“Ha!” I belted, placing a hand over my mouth. “Listen, we had a really great time. But I don’t date, I don’t do romance or happily ever after. That’s not written in my stars.”
“What is written in your stars?” he asked with a quirk of the brow.
“A bright future with me, myself, and I.”
“Along with random acts of sexing with your friend’s brother?”
My eyes widened in surprise. How in the name of sweet corn did he know about that?
“You should talk quieter,” he suggested.
“Listen, my personal life is not of your concern—”
“Was it hard to go back to him after being beneath me?” he toyed. “Was it hard to feel him inside of you after I marked you? After I kept you up all night, screaming my name over and over. . .begging me to never stop?”
“Excuse me?” I seethed.
“Was I talking too softly?” he asked. “Surely, he can’t fuck you like I did.”
“Whatever you think happened between us, you imagined. Mostly due to the tequila—”
“I’m not a fool, Francesca. You are different. So am I. That thing that is inside of us, that thing that makes us different, it found immense comfort in being with a kindred spirit. I’ve never felt that with someone else, and if you take a second to be honest with yourself, you will see it’s the same for you. He may give you physical comfort, but not like I could.”
Goddamn him for being right. And shame on me for not having the strength to turn away from him while I still could.
“Tomorrow night, six o’clock,” I responded, standing. “Meet me in the parking lot.”
“For a fight? Or. . .”
“One dinner, Rory.” I knew it would probably turn out to be a monstrous mistake, but something whispered to me saying he’d never stop unless I gave in.
“All right, dinner. Tomorrow,” he answered.
“It will not end in a sleepover,” I added. “And you will have one chance to make me believe that you are worth seeing again.”
“No sleepover,” he agreed, rising to stand above me. He placed a rough palm to my cheek. “But, Francesca, you’ll never want to not see me. Not after tomorrow.”
That was already the case, it had been since fucking November, and I was spiraling out of control at a cosmic rate.
**
Fear, confusion, and maybe even hope danced in her eyes. Hope—that was what I wanted to grab ahold of more than anything. She held onto a glimmer of hope.
This woman, this gorgeous, fiery, and intense woman was full of fear for what could lie ahead. What happened to her? Did someone break her heart? No, she didn’t seem to have trust issues. At least not with others; maybe with herself? Did she lose someone that she loved more than she loved herself tragically, spending every day suffering the burden of their absence? There was something fractured about her. Even as she stood up to me, fought me at each pass, laughed and screwed with the best of them, she was shattered somewhere deep inside—in that special and sacred place that keeps you whole. Just like me.
Her lips parted, a wistful sigh escaping her perfect mouth. The sigh was followed by her tongue sweeping over her bottom lip as she glanced down at mine. The hunger that I felt for her grew infinitely, and before I could think about the reasons it could be wrong, I lowered myself to her waiting mouth. My lips sealed over hers, my tongue seeking the warmth of her mouth, and my veins alighted with fire as a moan snuck from the back of her throat. Frankie’s body melted into mine, fitting perfectly in every nook as I wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her tightly against my body. She felt perfect, like she belonged right where she rested. And fuck me if I didn’t want to keep her there—forever.
“Don’t be a minute late, Mr. O’Neill,” she murmured against my lips. Her eyelids fluttered, matching my heart.
“Bubbles,” I mumbled back, feeling more intoxication from her kiss than I would feel from a bottle of whiskey. “I’ll be an hour early if I have to, just to make you see I am looking for more than a repeat fucking. I am looking for you. Only you.”
Frankie pulled away, taking a few unsure steps backward. Her lips curved up into a bright smile.
“I hope you show up with your game face on. . .”
She turned on her heel and walked toward the kitchen, sneaking a quick peek at me from beyond the doorframe. I threw a few bills onto the table, walking toward the door.
“I’ll have more than just my game face with me,” I mumbled, bracing for the blast of the cold January night.
I’d show up with everything I contained if it could mean a possibility of another night with her.
Chapter 12
I didn’t sleep a goddamned wink.
I spent all night staring at the ceiling, thinking of what would come of a date with Rory. What would he say, what would he do? One thing I didn’t question was his ability to make my heart flutter and mouth water. He made wild claims that made my mind whirl with possibilities. It also pulsated with new questions.
What was it about him that had drawn me in to begin with—that thing he spoke of that made him different? It made him different from everyone else, yet the same as me. It was frightening, alluring, and intimidating. I was buzzing with excitement and nervous energy.
With a change of clothes and a makeup kit, I checked into the vineyards early. I had an exorbitant amount of pent up energy to burn, and my workroom, my experimenting, was the best medicine. It was the place where I could shove ear buds in, crank up Death Cab for Cutie as loud as my ear drums would allow, and disappear. I could leave the world of fears and pains, and find myself in a world of possibility and joy.
That was the one place where I could always thrive. And I always knew as I settled into a routine, as I settled into my skin, I knew that was why my parents had given her to me. They knew that when I was losing myself in the world, I could be found again right in these walls. These walls that I felt my father’s presence in every time I walked the steps. This was wher
e I could wash away my deep sorrows and walk away renewed.
Since the night I foolishly staggered into bed with Rory, I’d spent a lot of time in my workroom. I had been seeking clarity although I never really found any. I wouldn’t until I followed Karleigh’s advice. I had to sit with Rory, talk with him, and get to know him. That would be the only way I’d ever be able to find the clarity I so desperately needed.
It was more obvious with each meeting that there was an underlying chemistry, a connection that deserved further evaluation. No, I didn’t do romance or love or relationships, but I owed it to myself to see what was happening between the two of us.
At five o’clock, I packed everything away and moseyed up the stairs, looked in on Karleigh as she spoke with patrons in the tasting room, and then found my way into the bathroom. I changed into black skinny jeans, a turquoise flowy tank, and knee-high black boots. I tousled my hair, allowing the waves to fall loose and recklessly around my shoulders, and applied fresh and minimal makeup. I looked and felt as feminine as I could.
Karleigh stood at the counter in the kitchen when I emerged, filling a pairing plate. She glanced up at me and smiled wide—like the cat that ate the canary. I rolled my eyes, tossing my bag into the office as I grabbed a black cardigan, my thick coat, and leather handbag from the chair by the door.
“You are dressed an awful lot like a woman who cares what comes of the night, for claiming so vehemently that you do not.”
“I am doing what you suggested, Karls,” I answered, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. “I am going to get to know him.”
“You’re going to freeze your tits off in the process,” she laughed. “It’s negative twelve with the wind chill.”
“Well, Mother, I have a sweater and a coat. I happen to have a hat and mittens too,” I crowed.
“You look excited, Franks.”
“You mistake nervousness for excitement.” I opened the water and drank swiftly. “It’s been over two years since I’ve dated. And I don’t think you can really refer to wild promiscuity as dating.”
“But you are going on a date with a man that’s already seen you naked. That is half the battle, you know. He already knows the prize that waits beneath the wrapping.”
I snorted. He couldn’t remember much of the prize. Or maybe he told me the truth, and he remembered a whole hell of a lot. And in that case, I wasn’t any more at ease than I had been before. If anything, I was more nervous yet.
“And what will you be drinking tonight?” Karleigh asked with brows raised so high, they nearly touched her hairline.
“Seltzer with lime, Mother.”
“Good girl,” she replied. “Remember, a lady never puts out on the first date. Wait, you’re not a lady. . .and you’ve already put out.”
I was already three steps out of the kitchen as I raised a wild and willing bird to my dear and loving best friend. Her laughter reached my ears, and I matched it with a smile. I glanced at my watch. Five thirty-five. I reached the window facing the parking lot and looked out, the night was near pitch black, and streetlights lit up the space. A handful of cars littered the snow covered lot, one in particular grabbed my attention—a black, late model muscle car.
I could make out a shadow within, and I knew without a doubt it was Rory. The windows fogged slightly from his breath. I slipped into my coat, fitted the wool slouchy beanie over my ears, and walked out into the cold. I reached the car and rapped on the driver’s window. It went down slowly, Rory looked up at me.
“Good evening, Francesca.”
“Evenin’” I replied.
“Wanna hop in and get things started early?”
“Maybe I’d like to drive. After all, you are deadly behind the wheel.”
He laughed. It was that sound that reached me in my most erogenous places and awoke something I had long ago put to rest.
“I’m safer than you’d like to think, Bubbles,” he replied.
“I really must insist, Mr. O’Neill.”
The window rolled up, and the engine died before the door opened and Rory climbed out. He held a hand out, motioning for me to lead the way.
“I do look forward to seeing the inside of that classic,” he relented. “Do I still get to decide the destination?”
“You do,” I answered. “I take direction well.”
“Trust me, that I remember.”
I rolled my eyes as we reached the truck and climbed in. His presence was overwhelming in my space and his scent was stifling. He smelled of sandalwood and cedar with a hint of motor oil. It was the most amazing scent I’d ever come across second only to my wines.
“You going to tell me where we’re headed?” I asked, pulling out onto the road.
“You’ll see when we get there,” he replied. “Make a left up here.”
**
The restaurant was packed.
Rory had made arrangements for us to have a private table at the back of the building, seated in close proximity to one of the three fireplaces that roared wildly. I was thankful that I’d made the choice to wear the tank and carry the cardigan for backup. It was more than cozy.
We’d ordered drinks—Bordeaux for Rory and seltzer and lime for me. The waiter returned and we ordered dinner—chicken platters for the both of us. Silence settled over the table as we waited, and my nerves grew.
“Did you grow up in Knotted Vines?” Rory asked, taking a sip of wine.
“I did,” I answered. “I lived there my whole life with the exception of the two years I spent in college.”
“What did you major in?”
“Nothing,” I answered, my hands knitting in my lap.
“Nothing?”
“I dropped out.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he replied. “Happens to plenty of people.”
“I’m not ashamed, Rory. I carry a lot of difficult memories from that time.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Nope,” I answered, sipping my seltzer. My stomach roiled with unease as it typically did when I faced that time in my life. The time I had been the lowest of low. “Not until I feel I can trust you with my scars, and not until I fully understand your motives.”
“You and your friend keep mentioning games and motives. Bubbles, the only games I play are of the naked variety. And motives—my motives only exist to achieve nakedness.” I pierced him with an uninterested glare as he smiled knowingly. Rory housed more charm than an entire dorm of frat boys. “And the next time we play those games, you will remain in my bed to play more in the morning. You won’t run away from me again.”
“There is no shortage of confidence in your repertoire.”
“Depends on the subject,” Rory replied, leaning close over the table. “I’ve been with enough women to know when it isn’t working, you feel it. What I felt with you damn near rivaled the fire of a thousand suns.”
“Do those lines really work for you?”
“I wouldn’t know. Never had to use them before.”
“To be honest, you sound like a fucking girl when you talk like that.”
Rory settled back in his seat, intrigued. He studied me, a slow smile curving his lips. I wanted to reach forward and touch those lips, just to see if they felt as soft as I remembered. Instead, I knotted my fingers together in my lap.
“You keep mentioning all the women you could be with—have been with—are you involved currently?” I questioned, narrowing my eyes.
“It’s been years since I’ve been in a relationship. I’ve not had a desire to allow myself the attachment.”
“What’s changed?” I asked.
“You.”
I’d be lying if I said that answer did nothing to me; if I said it didn’t stir a deep, undeniable desire inside to let all the walls down and accept whatever he was willing to offer. I’ve never wanted to fall in love—not that I thought that’s what this was—or let anyone into my fortress. I’ve only ever allowed outsiders see the parts of me I was wil
ling to have scrutinized. And those parts were few.
“I think you are chronically FOS,” I laughed, tucking a wild wave behind my ear.
“‘FOS?’” Rory asked.
“Full of shit, buddy.”
Rory opened his mouth to argue, stopping short as the waiter reached us, placing our plates on the table. He asked if we needed anything else before leaving the table. The chicken looked and smelled delicious, and my stomach growled greedily.
“For the record, I’m not full of shit. At least not completely. Last I checked, I was only half-full.”
I ignored him, taking a bite of my dinner, enjoying it more than I could have imagined.
“So, Mr. O’Neill, what do you do for a living?” I asked between bites.
“Auto body repair.” That would explain the slight hint motor oil mixed in with his cologne.
“Is that how you keep up with all the damage you cause?”
“Bubbles, I don’t cause a lot of damage. You took my virginity,” he replied, cocky grin back in place.
“Now that is something I highly doubt.”
“You continue to insult me, Francesca,” he soothed, shoving a ketchup dipped fry into his mouth, slipping into silence as he chewed. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I’ll have you know, until I met you, I had an impeccable driving record.”
He flagged down the waiter, ordering another glass of Bordeaux.
“Impeccable?”
“Bet your sweet ass,” he answered, his eyes studying me. “How old were you when you got your first?”
Rory nodded toward my arm, and I knew he meant my first tattoo. I smiled at the memory. I had to beg Lukas to take me. Something in my blood told me I’d find immense comfort in the inking process. I found much more than that. I found a voice.
“Twenty-one,” I answered. “I’ve been back often over the past few years.”
Madness Page 9