I’d heard of the restaurant we were going to. It was fine dining at its most pretentious, but they had an extensive and excellent wine list. Several Zamorano varieties were on the menu.
I’d spent so much time in these stuffy places I was getting a thrill at the prospect of being that person all the rich, stuck-up people stared at with shock.
“Screw lunch.” Ren appeared behind me, his necklaces tickling my bare back as he ground his erection into my ass. “Let’s just blow it off and fuck instead.”
His dirty words sparked another, naughtier kind of excitement in my chest. It was tempting, but after arching my ass against his boner, I pushed him away. “No. I was promised a five-star meal. I’m hungry.”
He groaned but backed away enough for me to change into the denim skirt and low-cut neon green top. I pulled on Toni’s combat boots and held my arms out at my sides, silently asking if I looked trashy enough.
He grinned and licked his lips. “Perfect.”
We showed up to lunch nearly half an hour late. I cracked a joke about sweaty balls and Ren’s leather pants in this heat, and we pushed through the heavy doors of the restaurant, laughing boisterously. Several wide eyes turned in our direction.
Ren’s parents greeted us with pursed lips.
“Would it have killed you to put on a tie?” his father grumbled as we took our seats.
“If I hung myself with it, it just may have.” Ren flicked his napkin with a flourish and a wide grin before the waiter could get to it.
“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” I smiled politely at Sarah. Ren had filled me in on their names on the way—they didn’t bother to ask mine.
She looked at me and blinked, as if surprised I was speaking to her. “It’s much too hot. I abhor the south and this god-awful humidity. I much prefer the breeze coming off the water in the Hamptons.”
“Oh, that sounds refreshing.” I smiled. The ruder and more negative they were, the more it made me want to be over-the-top chipper. “Is that where you’re from?”
“No. We have a residence in Manhattan. We like to spend time at our property in the Hamptons in summer. Renshaw used to love going there as a boy.”
She looked lovingly across the table at her son. The pain in her expression was wiped away quickly, and I almost felt sorry for her.
William and Sarah Pratt had looked vaguely familiar when they barged into the Cottonmouth and accosted their son, but I just put that down to their looking like Renshaw. When he’d told me their names, I got another pang of recognition, but it wasn’t until Sarah talked about where they lived that it all clicked. The Pratts owned Pratt Hotel Group and had hotels up and down the East Coast. I’d bumped into them at any number of stuffy charity galas and exclusive social events. Not that we’d ever really talked, which explained why they didn’t recognize me.
The waiter handed out menus and gave William the wine list.
I picked the bronzed redfish with mirliton slaw and lemon beurre blanc, and an heirloom tomato salad for my starter. William handed the wine list to his wife, but no one offered it to me before the waiter appeared.
William ordered steak and a glass of Pinot Grigio—a horrible combination, as the white varietal didn’t contain the level of tannins ideal for balancing the rich texture of the steak.
Sarah opted for a pasta dish and a martini.
The waiter turned to Ren.
“I’ll have an Old Forester 1920, double.” He smiled.
“And to eat, sir?”
“Nothing. Thank you. I plan on getting tanked on an empty stomach so I can pretend I’m not actually here.”
“Oh, for god’s sake, Renshaw.” His mother huffed.
I clenched my teeth to hold back a laugh as the waiter, not knowing what else to do, turned to me.
I gave him my food order first.
“And to drink?”
“Well, I haven’t had a chance to look at the wine list, but—”
“I’m sure they can get you whatever beer you want, but the wine selection here is a little more complex than red or white.” Sarah sneered at me. The expression on her face was hateful, full of derision as she took in my clothing and heavy makeup, deciding I was trash based on nothing more than her own prejudice.
I’d gone into this wanting to have a little fun, but as I sat across the table from everything I hated about high society, anger bubbled up inside me.
Ren wanted to play into his parents’ prejudice, goad them and try to get a rise out of them by being exactly what they thought we were.
I decided to take a different approach.
I slouched a bit farther in the chair and turned back to the waiter, who looked as if he was considering forgoing the excellent tips and just going home early.
“I’ll have a glass of the Bass Phillip ‘Premium’ Pinot Noir—2016 vintage—with my starter and the Villa Raiano Ventidue Fiano with my main. I find the high aromatics in the Fiano pair well with the medium texture of the redfish. And please bring my boyfriend a bowl of the rosemary chat potatoes. He says he’s not hungry, but he’s only going to end up picking food off my plate.” I chuckled lightly and handed my menu to the stunned young man. He rushed off, and I turned to face three sets of wide eyes and gaping mouths.
I smiled politely and took a massive gulp of my water, letting it trickle down my chin. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and slammed the glass down. “It is a beautiful day, but you’re right, Sarah—it’s humid as the devil’s armpit. I was fucking parched.”
Everyone continued to watch me with shocked expressions. Then Ren threw his head back and laughed. It was a loud, carefree sound with a tinge of relief to it, and it drew the attention of multiple people. His parents squirmed in their seats.
Sarah cleared her throat. “You’re trained as a sommelier? Then why on earth are you wasting your time and skills working at that dreadful bar?”
“Nope. I’m not a sommelier.” I smiled courteously at her and ignored the rest of the rude, passive-aggressive question. What she really wanted to ask was “Why does someone like you know so much about wine?” I wasn’t going to make it easy on her.
Our meals and drinks were delivered, and we suffered through a mostly silent lunch, with Ren’s parents making the occasional derisive comment about his clothes, his choice of profession, his friends, and pretty much everything in his life. By the end of it I was seething. They hadn’t said a single positive or encouraging thing to their insanely talented son.
“While we’re in town, we thought we might see the exhibition of Cindy Sherman’s photography at the gallery downtown,” William mentioned as he finished his meal.
“Yes, your father wants to go.” Sarah all but rolled her eyes. “But I don’t know if I want to. Her work is basically a bunch of selfies. It’s dull and derivative.”
“Derivative? What exactly do you think it’s derivative of?” I may have studied business at university, but like any good little rich girl, I knew my art history. “I find Sherman’s self-portraits to be particularly relevant today. Her work is a critique of gender and identity, an exploration of selfhood and how it aligns with physical appearance.”
Again, everyone stared at me open-mouthed, as if they couldn’t quite believe something so intelligent had come out of the mouth of someone wearing scuffed combat boots and a bra visible under her skimpy top.
I really loved it when people underestimated me. Usually it was a man in a high-powered meeting, but this was even better. Ren’s parents had underestimated me in every way possible, and I was determined to flip their narrow-minded, small, whitewashed world upside down.
Instead of taking the bait, because she clearly knew nothing about art, Sarah decided to change the subject. “Anyway, we are running out of time, and we should probably discuss the reason we’re here.” She gave her husband a pointed look.
William looked like the last thing he wanted to do was raise this topic of conversation, but he sighed and did anyway. “Son, we want to know wh
en you’re coming home.”
“I am home.” Ren crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at his father.
“Renshaw, enough is enough.” She may have demanded her husband start the conversation, but Sarah was the one who actually had the most to say. “You’ve had your fun playing your little instrument, getting drunk, sleeping around.” She raised an eyebrow in my direction and pursed her lips. “You’re an adult, and it’s time to act like it. You have responsibilities, and your father is running out of time to properly train you in the business.”
“You can’t possibly be fucking serious.” Renshaw kept his voice dangerously low, but every inch of him was so tense he looked like a wild animal ready to pounce. “I don’t know how many damn times I have to say it. This isn’t a phase. This isn’t some rebellious bullshit. This is my life. I don’t care about your money. I don’t care about your business. I don’t care about what you want. I spent my entire childhood trying to live up to your impossible expectations, trying to be what you wanted me to be. And I ended up in the damn hospital with several stitches in each wrist.” He held his arms up, wrists out, to illustrate the point. I half expected to see black stitches and blood running down his forearms, but there was nothing but a faint pinkish scar that wasn’t even discernible under the black bracelets until he pointed it out. “When are you going to get it through your thick skulls? This is my life. You don’t get to dictate how I live it anymore.”
Sarah’s eyes were getting misty, but she kept her back ramrod straight, her shoulders pulled back. It wouldn’t be appropriate to show emotion in a public place.
“Ren, you know how much it hurt us both to see you in such a dark place.” William leaned forward on his elbows, his hands clasped in front of him. He looked tired. “We just want what’s best for you, son. We hate to see you throwing your life away.”
Ren threw his arms into the air and let them flop back into his lap. He opened his mouth several times as if to say something, then shook his head incredulously.
Anger continued to churn inside me. I couldn’t believe how dismissive Ren’s parents were of their own son’s wishes. I couldn’t believe how blind they were to how much this stubbornness was driving a wedge between them and their son—their only son. I couldn’t believe how much their pride and arrogance were preventing them from having him in the family.
I’d had enough.
I stood, my chair screeching loudly on the polished floors of one of the most exclusive restaurants in New Orleans, and threw my napkin down on the table for good measure. Once I was sure I had their attention, and probably the attention of half the restaurant, I spoke.
“Have either of you ever even listened to him play? Have you ever even come to a gig? Your son has a talent that is a gift from God. People come to the bar just to see him perform. His voice is ethereal, his fingers like magic as they pluck the strings of a guitar. He has an incredible talent. Can’t you see that all he wants is to be happy? And how the hell can anyone truly be happy if they’re pretending to be someone they’re not? You’re asking your own son to be someone he’s not just so he fits in with your fucked-up idea of how the world works. Just because he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life in a goddamn suit, pandering to the misogynistic boys’ club that is corporate America and marrying some stick-figure, uptight socialite who’s probably never even done anal, does not mean what he’s doing with his life is not worthy or not important.”
I turned to Ren and held my hand out, effectively dismissing the two assholes who called themselves his parents. “I know that was probably out of line, but hey, you wanted me to stir some shit, so here I am—stirring some shit. Now how about we get the fuck out of here and go do something fun?”
Ren didn’t even hesitate. The shock was washed from his face by a wide, surprised grin as he pushed himself to his feet and slapped his hand into mine.
“Fuck, but you know how to cause a scene.” He laughed and pulled me to his side, wrapping his free arm around my back and drawing me against his chest. Not to be outdone, the cocky bastard tipped his head and kissed me—an open-mouthed, messy, writhing, passionate kiss. Right there in the middle of the restaurant.
We pulled apart and marched out without a second glance at his outraged parents or anyone else. I didn’t care to look at anyone but him, mostly because he was so beautiful and I couldn’t tear my gaze away, but also because I just didn’t give a shit what anyone thought.
I’d told the truth, and maybe I’d done it in a somewhat abrasive way, but anyone who was offended or irritated that we’d interrupted their lunch was exactly part of the problem.
It was not lost on me that some of my outburst wasn’t specific to Ren’s situation—that I’d let out some of my own deep-seated frustrations and worries about my own sheltered, privileged life. But in that moment, I was a loud-mouthed, inappropriately dressed chick making a scene at a fancy restaurant as I walked out hand in hand with a tattooed bad boy. I was going to enjoy every damn second of it.
…
A: Causing a scene is fun!
T: Did you dance topless on the bar?
T: Woohoo!
A: What? No!
A: I went to a fancy AF restaurant and acted inappropriately.
T: Hahaha! Good for you.
A: Wait. You danced on the bar topless?
T: I mean . . . I didn’t NOT dance on the bar topless.
A: LOL! You really don’t give a shit what anyone thinks, do you?
T: Nope!
A: I wish I had that kind of freedom.
T: Why don’t you? I mean, you’re literally the only person who controls your thoughts. Just decide not to care.
A: You know, you’re wiser than you look.
T: Fuck off.
A: xoxoxoxoxox
T: xo
Seventeen
Toni
Cutlery clinked against plates, mingling with the soft music in the Winthrops’ formal dining room. The sounds would’ve been deafening in their muted restraint if it weren’t for Caroline Winthrop.
She felt awful for inviting Preston to stay with us, but you’d never know a single thing was wrong from her wide smile and relaxed manner. She’d invited a few people over for dinner, kept the conversation going like a pro, and had Preston distracted better than a magician practicing sleight of hand.
“This venison positively melts in your mouth.” Preston took another bite of his entrée and made a sound of appreciation.
“Yes, our stable master is quite the outdoorsman. He likes to hunt—caught it fresh yesterday.” Caroline smiled widely from the other end of the table.
One of the other guests cracked a joke, and half the room laughed. Grateful they were distracted, I took a moment to wipe the look of disgust off my face. Thankfully, I was already nearly done with my plate—there was no way I could finish it now that I had images of Jack shooting some poor Bambi down in my head.
A warm hand landed on my knee under the table, and Oren leaned in. “Are you OK?”
I gave him a smile and nodded. Just feeling his firm touch made me instantly feel better.
“Is this one of ours, Alexandria?” Preston held up his glass, red liquid swishing around inside it. “It tastes like it might be a Zamorano Merlot, but I can’t be sure. Was this the best pairing? You’re the expert.”
He turned his wide smile to me, and he’d spoken loudly enough to draw the attention of some of the others.
“Oh, I do love a good glass of wine.” A woman about Caroline’s age with strawberry-blonde hair in a complicated up-do called down the table. It was pretty clear she loved a good glass of wine—she was on her third, and we hadn’t even had the main meal. “But I must confess, other than my favorites, I really don’t know much about it. What is this we’re drinking?”
Several sets of eyes turned to me.
Panic seized my lungs. I’d just decided the best course of action was to say I was violently ill and excuse myself for the rest of the night—I
was pretty sure I wouldn’t even be lying about the vomiting.
But then George strode into the room and stopped at my side.
“My apologies for the intrusion,” he said, addressing the whole table, then turned to me, “but you wanted to know as soon as I had an update. The 2004 Pinot Noir was delayed in Houston due to a connecting flight issue. I hope the 2014 has been all right in its place.”
“Thank you, George.” I smiled at him, beyond grateful.
He gave me a curt nod and left the room.
Preston whistled under his breath and leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t want to lose a case of that in Houston, or anywhere else.” He chuckled. “What’s a bottle worth these days? Six hundred dollars?”
The wine lover at the other end gasped. “Oh my goodness!”
“Which is why I wanted to know as soon as possible where it had got to. Sorry again about the intrusion.” I borrowed George’s words and hoped I was convincing enough picking up his lead.
Thankfully, Oren senior started a conversation with his dull old white man friends about the stock market or some other rich guy bullshit, and Preston inserted himself. The next course was served, and everyone forgot about the wine except to drink it.
I wanted to get wasted so badly. Just let the ridiculously expensive grape juice wash away any fucks I had left to give. But I needed to be on alert. One slipup and we were done. No money, no college . . . no more Oren.
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