by Hayes, Lane
Wes regarded me with a patient stare before answering. “It means complex flavored and richer tasting. Hey, stop freaking out. This can’t be about pouring wine or even Ryan. What’s really going through your head?”
I held his gaze for a moment then looked into the sea of smiley faces cradling wineglasses and chatting happily about their adventures in wine country. I glanced back at Wes with a resigned shrug.
“I don’t know how to talk to people.”
He regarded me warily, but at least he didn’t laugh outright. Yet. “You’re the CEO of a well-respected firm. What exactly do you mean?”
“I don’t do the talking. At least not when it’s important. I’m in charge of ideas. Eric knows better than to put me in front of people. I always say the wrong thing. I’m either too honest or I freeze and don’t say anything at all. It’s a known issue.”
“You ooze confidence, Nick. Sometimes inappropriately so. I have a hard time believing you’re shy.”
“I’m not shy. I’m socially awkward.”
Wes scoffed in apparent disbelief. “Socially awkward people don’t usually attend gatherings at a stranger’s house looking for sex.”
“I wasn’t looking for sex!” I retorted a little too loudly, generating a few bemused stares. “I was looking for Finn and hopefully some information.”
Wes pulled my hand and led me through the arched doorway and around the corner to a semi-private hallway. Before I could open my mouth to ask what he was up to, he pushed me against the wall and shoved his knee between my legs. He hovered over me with a dangerous half smile that wasn’t exactly pleasant.
“And Finn was looking for the same thing earlier,” he hissed. “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on, Nick?”
“Nothing is going on,” I answered a little breathlessly when he brushed his nose against mine.
“Hmph. Have you found anything useful?”
“I don’t know if it’s useful, but I found out he has a secret older lover. Someone I may know.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it isn’t me.”
“I didn’t think it was you,” I countered.
Wes rested one hand on the wall behind me then leaned in to bite my bottom lip. “But you were hoping I knew something. You aren’t socially awkward. You’re a borderline sociopath. Your lack of conscience is astounding. You don’t do anything that isn’t attached to an outcome that might benefit you. I don’t think it’s about money either. It’s ego. You steamroll until you get your way and selectively turn on the charm when it suits your needs like a spoiled brat who never learned how to play nicely with others.”
“That’s not—”
Wes slapped his hand over my mouth and growled in my ear. “You’re a fucking open book. I’m starting to think I know you better than you know yourself. You may fuck like a dream, but you’re the kind of pain in the ass that doesn’t fade the next day. I should kick you out of here and ban you for life, but I can’t seem to resist a challenge—no matter how hopeless it may be.”
I should have been angry. I’d never been manhandled so effortlessly by a lover. But fuck, he turned me on. I put one hand behind his neck and tugged him forward. “What are you going to do to me?”
He shook his head and gave me a roguish smile. Crooked and dangerous. “Such a naughty boy. Still looking for a free handout. Here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to pour wine for me. And if you do a good job…I’ll reward you.” Wes grabbed my denim-clad cock and squeezed. Then he licked a seductive trail across my lips and took a step backward.
“What do mean? Are you saying you know Finn’s lover?” I straightened off the wall and adjusted my dick as I followed him back toward the tasting room.
“We’ll talk later. Go pour some wine. Believe it or not, I think you can handle it. If you get stumped making conversation with non-techie types who don’t know shit about your next big deal, try something simple like, ‘What’s your name?’ or ‘Where are you from?’ It really is that easy.”
“Fine, but I think I’d be more useful picking grapes.” I sighed. “Where will you be?”
“I’m going to check in with Margaret. I’ll be back soon. I’ll introduce you to Ryan and get you started first. Come on.”
We made our way to Ryan who was holding court at the far end of the bar. He was busy talking about texture and ambience to a burly-looking man wearing a Giants baseball cap but the second he was free, Wes introduced us and told him to put me to work. I stared after Wes before turning back to Ryan who gave me a wary once-over.
“We met last weekend, didn’t we?”
“No,” I answered sharply.
“Yes, we did. I remember you. You disappeared with Wes for a while. He told me he was with you when we went to bed that night. Hmm.” He let his words drop like a grenade he wasn’t sure would explode then pointed at the far corner of the bar. “You can take that couple. Start with the Zinfandel and make your way down the list. If they want to start with white, the Grigio goes first. We usually go right to reds because they’re our best sellers and at the end of the day, we’re here to sell. The price list is on the opposite side. I’ll be right here watching you. But I’m sure you’ll be awesome.”
Ryan’s bland intonation made it clear he thought I’d suck, and he couldn’t wait to see what kind of mess I made. I’d prove him wrong and be really fucking awesome, I thought irritably.
* * *
Awesome was definitely not the word most would use to describe the new wine pourer at Conrad Winery. Mediocre, sloppy, careless, and the familiar “awkward” were far more accurate descriptions. I sloshed wine over the edge of countless glasses and was reprimanded by Ryan more than once for my generous serving sizes.
“This isn’t a bar. They aren’t here to get drunk, and we don’t want to put any unsafe drivers on the road,” he scolded.
He turned to greet a large party of older gentlemen who reminded me a lot of my almost father-in-law and his cronies. In other words, they rocked the slick, privileged, wealthy, fresh-from-a-round-of-golf look to perfection. I grimaced before turning to set two fresh glasses on the bar for the next couple. They perused the wine list with an awe that indicated they probably didn’t know much more than me. Perfect.
“Did you want red or white?” I asked.
“Red, please,” the woman replied with a shy smile.
I examined the bottle of Zinfandel to see how much was left and noticed Wes standing behind the bar chatting amicably with Ryan who seemingly hung on his every word. The flash of jealousy was fast and fierce. I furrowed my brow as I poured a generous amount of wine into each glass and pushed them toward the couple.
“Oh, that’s a lot,” the young woman twittered nervously.
“So they say,” I muttered under my breath. “Try it. What do you think?”
The man picked up his glass, swirled the contents of the overburdened glass carefully and then sniffed it before finally taking a drink. Oh brother. He was one of those self-purported wine snobs. I barely kept my eye roll in check.
“It’s good. It has a fruity taste,” he reported with a nod. I guess I’d been wrong. Maybe they did know a thing or two about wine. Then again, throwing out words like “fruity” didn’t make anyone an expert. Did it?
One of the older men dressed in a crisp white polo shirt gave my customer a thumbs-up sign and nodded in agreement. He smacked his hand on the bar decisively with enough force to unsnap the clasp on his Rolex. “Yes. I taste blackberry and a hint of pepper.”
The friendly wine banter in tandem with Ryan flirting with Wes in my peripheral view got under my skin and accentuated my uncertainty. Envy, anxiety, and ineptitude were the kind of negative emotions that brought the worst out in most people. And me especially. I had to pull it together before I said or did something I shouldn’t. No one here knew me; I didn’t have a champion in my corner to deflect any unintentional eruptions. I was alone and rudderless in a gray space where nothing was clear. My defi
nition of hell.
And it only got worse. A tour bus full of wine enthusiasts spilled into the already crowded tasting room. The place was suddenly bumping. A harried-looking Ryan pushed his gaggle of golf buddies on me while he turned his attention to helping Wes with the exuberant, tiara-clad party I assumed was celebrating an impending wedding. I would have preferred to switch places. His group was slightly schnockered, but their cheerful aura was preferable to the snooty one of the true connoisseurs.
But even I could tell this was an easy assignment. No one wanted my two cents or pretend expertise. They only wanted me to pour while they talked amongst themselves about the intensity of the bouquet. For the most part, they were undemanding and friendly. The only bothersome one was the guy who kept banging his Rolex against the bar.
His shrewd gaze quickly judged and labeled me by my borrowed T-shirt and inexpert skills before honing in on the couple next to him. His eyes traveled over the woman’s ample breasts, lingering on her cleavage and the lack of a ring on her finger. He was eyeing a situation, and though he wasn’t likely to make a move on her in front of her boyfriend, he was subtly letting her know he was a better catch in spite of their age difference.
My dad used to pull the same shit. He couldn’t brag about money, but my old man was a good-looking dude. It was his claim to fame. Jim Jorgensen was voted “Most Handsome” in high school, and by God, he lived that glory to its fullest. He used to flirt with the waitresses at the local diner in town and give me a look that said I should pay attention and watch the master at work. His wedding band was long gone by then. Supposedly he’d lost it fishing, but the more likely story was, he’d taken it off in a sleazy motel room while he was screwing the waitress, the hostess, or a girl he’d met at the bar he stopped by every day on his way home from work. My disinterest at “bagging babes,” as he so eloquently put it, baffled him. He didn’t understand how a red-blooded American male could stand being holed up in his room with a computer, alternately typing nonsensical numbers and letters on a keyboard or painstakingly pulling apart the motherboard to examine the insides as if studying a fascinating bug under a microscope. How could that possibly be better than tits and ass?
“People are gonna think you’re queer, boy, and ain’t no kid of mine is gonna be queer,” he said more times than I could count.
I thought I was straight back then, so I hadn’t paid much attention to his constant ridicule and suspect advice. The only thing I knew for sure was, I never wanted to be anything like him.
I did my best to will the melodic conversations and laughter into background static to drown out the ancient soundtrack of my youth, but this was what I meant when I told Wes I was awkward. I wasn’t good at freestyle socializing. I was a mass of wild contradictions I couldn’t begin to explain. I was egotistical at times but loathed pretention. I was confident but given to bouts of uncertainty. My biggest flaw was probably my one-track mindedness. It was what made my escape from my father’s legacy of a nowhere life possible, but unfortunately, it also earned me a reputation for being…difficult.
“Conrad’s Syrah blend is one of the finer ones I’ve had,” the older man proclaimed, ripping me back to the present. “Would you mind pouring me some of that over here too, son?”
I gave him a tight smile and gritted my teeth but gamely poured a thimble-sized sip that would have made Ryan proud. The man knocked it back like a shot of tequila and set the glass down with a thud and a wry grin before pushing it toward me expectantly. I held his stare but didn’t lift the bottle.
“Fill ’er up a bit more, so I can tell what I’m buying before I hand over my credit card,” he said with an amused half laugh.
I poured the same amount and stepped sideways to see what was going on with Wes and Ryan at the other end of the bar. I was quickly losing my sense of purpose and with it my ability to control my impulses.
“Is there a problem, young man?”
I shook my head at the no-longer-affable older gentleman and gave him a tight smile. “Not at all.”
“Then pour the damn wine,” he demanded in a sharp tone that instantly drew the attention of his golf buddies and Ryan.
“Nick, do you need a hand?” Ryan asked, setting a fresh array of wineglasses in front of the large group he was helping.
“Nope. I got this.” I held eye contact with the red-faced aggravated man but didn’t rush to pick up the bottle.
I didn’t know why I provoked him. He wasn’t my father. He wasn’t my almost father-in-law. So, he was lecherous and creepy. No one else was complaining. Now would have been a perfect time to employ one of the breathing techniques I’d learned in therapy, I mused just as Geordie broke into a boisterous rendition of The Sound of Music.
Almost everyone, with the exception of my unhappy looking customer, joined in on the impromptu sing-along. A round of applause and uproarious laughter filled the room as the final verse was sung. The couple giggled, the golf buddies smiled and shared a look but resumed their conversation. But the man with the Rolex snorted unhappily. And then…
“Hmph. Rude assholes and musical-loving faggots. Drive everyone insane so we all crave alcohol. I guess that’s one way to sell wine,” the old man grumbled low so only I could hear then tapped his glass obnoxiously. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”
“Yes sir,” I said calmly, picking up the bottle with a humorless smile.
I poured. And poured. And I didn’t stop.
He grunted his approval when I reached the halfway mark and gave a hum of pleasure when I went a little farther. But when the burgundy liquid threatened the rim of the wineglass before cascading in a steady stream down the sides and onto the bar, he let out a shout of outrage. The immediate collective gasp of horror should have stopped me but it didn’t. I kept pouring until the whole damn bottle was empty and every eye in the room was on us.
The ensuing silence was glorious, like a karmic blessing from above. As with most good things, it didn’t last.
“You goddamned fool! Look what you’ve done!” the man exploded with a roar.
“Dude! What the hell?” Ryan screeched, ripping the bottle from my hand. He pointed earnestly toward the exit before turning his attention to the outraged gentleman and his equally infuriated friends.
I started toward the doorway but when Wes and Geordie descended to see what the commotion was about, I backtracked to the wine-soaked end of the bar and the apoplectic group I’d left behind.
“…and he kept right on pouring. Spilled a hundred-dollar bottle of wine everywhere. Is this the type of employee you hire now? This is abominable. I’ve been coming to this winery for years and I’ve never—”
“I apologize profusely. I’m sending you home with a bottle of your choice of reserve on the house,” Geordie said anxiously.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Nonsense. We insist,” Wes added in a lower tone. He cast a stern look at me and angled his head toward the door meaningfully.
“Well, thank you, but I’d feel better knowing that man wasn’t pulling the same tricks on other innocent customers,” he grumbled.
“Yes, I understand your concern,” Wes said. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Save your breath. I’m outta here,” I snorted in disbelief before turning toward the arched doorway on my own steam.
Chapter 7
Un-freaking-real. I wanted to claim I’d been kicked out of better wineries, but this was a first. So was being chased by a six-foot-four wisp of a man wearing jangling bracelets, black silken flowy pants, and a matching shirt. Geordie followed me outside to the herb garden before rounding on me so fast I thought he was going to punch me.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Joe Thackery is one of our most loyal customers. He’s been coming here for years!” he yelled, throwing his arms in the air.
I shoved my hands into my front pockets and rounded my shoulders uncomfortably. “He called you a faggot.”
Geordie went completely still. I didn�
��t necessarily expect praise, but I certainly didn’t expect the silent stare that clearly questioned my sanity.
“Well, my heavens. That is a new one.”
I frowned at his sarcastic tone, unable to figure him out. Shouldn’t he be pissed? He did look upset, but at me…not the jackass inside. Whatever. I gave up. I flopped unceremoniously onto the wooden bench next to a giant rosemary bush then braced my forearms on my knees before glancing up at Geordie.
“He’s a creep. He was leering at the girl I was helping. And her boyfriend was right there. He was rude and inappropriate and then he said that word. No one should say that word. Ever. Your friend may be a good customer, but he’s not a good person.”
“He’s not my friend, idiot. He’s my customer. This is a business and—”
“So you should refuse to do business with him. You should kick him out.”
“Thanks for the advice, but tell the truth. That act wasn’t for my benefit.” Geordie raised a brow when I narrowed my eyes in confusion. “It was for you. Who did he remind you of? A coach who never played you? A boss you hated? An ex-lover? Your father? Your step-father? Your priest?”
I shook my head angrily and offered a flippant, “I’m sorry. What can I say? I’m an asshole and—”
“Yes, you are,” he agreed quickly then held up his hand before I could retort. “Look, I’m not siding with Joe. I’m telling you that sinking to his level will never solve anything. And if you think I need your skinny white ass to save me from clueless dickwads, you, my friend, are sadly mistaken.”
“I wasn’t saving you.”
“No shit, Sherlock. You were having a tantrum! You pushed him and he pushed back, and why do I get the crazy feeling no one heard him but you?”
“They probably didn’t. He kept his voice down, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t say it.”
“Understood, but it’s your word against his now. If you’d maturely stopped when you heard him say something reprehensible and notified Wes or me, we could have personally made sure he never walked through the doors again. And we’d make sure news spread like wildfire so he’d be banned from some of his other favorite wineries. But that’s not what you did. The second you retaliated like a princess in prom court who didn’t win the tiara, you lost all credibility. No one knows what he said, but they’ll surely remember what you did. Do you see the problem?”