Pinot Noir and Poison

by Sandra Woffington

  Joy gazed into Steele’s hazel eyes. He was her first dance. It was as if she’d waited for this dance—a dance she never expected—all of her life. She finally understood the appeal of dancing—but not the miles apart kind where the only way to get close was bump and grind, but this rhythm of bodies in harmony. Each rhythmic step and breath, each brush of skin or push or whirl sent shivers up her spine. Her hips began to loosen up, her feet too. She dove into Steele’s hazel eyes and let him lead her and, literally, carry her away to a place she’d never been before.

  After a few more lessons with names that included “inside,” “outside,” “shadow,” or “cuddle,” Joy dipped under Steele’s arm or turned so that his chest pressed against her back as they stepped in unison. She didn’t remember at which point Bonnie and Dirk disappeared, or when Steele led her out to the dance floor under the lights. She didn’t see anyone else, just him, just his hazel eyes or his profile as they moved around the floor to a few songs. Steele adeptly led her past other couples, who, like them, seemed enthralled in the company of their partner and no one else. Be they young or old.

  The music stopped, and so did Steele. “And now that I’ve worked up your appetite, I’m taking you to dinner.”

  “Steele, that was…unexpected.”

  “I know. Fun, right? I never thought in a million years I’d be standing in boots and dancing the two-step to country music. I’d have bet my Jeep on it. You should see Sal and Belle dance—people get off the floor to watch.”

  Joy reached up and pulled Steele’s head down to hers. She kissed him hot and deep. When she let him go, she added, “I’m starving. Where to?”

  “Just down the road.” Steele grabbed her hand. “For the record, it wouldn’t have been a deal-breaker if you hated to dance.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t ask me beforehand. I would have said ‘absolutely not.’”

  “Same exact words I said to Max when he dragged me out with him to take a lesson.”

  “Max dances?”

  “Oh, Max dances. First time I saw him, he almost swept me off my feet, he’s so smooth.”

  “That, I’ve got to see.”

  21

  Steele held Joy’s hand as they exited Sal’s Saloon, and they walked farther north, past busy restaurants, some with bands playing rock or jazz, past a brick-faced theater, past closed stores, almost to the end of Stagecoach Street. They approached a wooden three-story building that could have come out of the Old West with a saloon downstairs and a hotel above it—except that the railings upstairs had tables and chairs. It was a restaurant.

  Joy almost expected a gunfight to break out and a Hollywood stuntman to fall over the railing of the second or third floor balcony and dive into a foam pit.

  Inside Rustler Smiley’s Steakhouse on the third floor, Joy discovered rustic elegance. High-beamed ceilings, red velvet, and old world charm.

  Steele checked in with a chic hostess in a sleek black dress. Behind her was a framed wanted poster of Smiley—the owner—showing a toothy smile. The lounge area with red leather seating sat to the right. On the wall hung a pair of white long-horned cattle skulls.

  The hostess led them to a back corner of the dining room, where they slid into a red-leather high-backed booth. A crowd of people filled the tables in the center of the room. Forks and knives clanked, conversations dipped in highs and lows, and from somewhere, a man played a guitar and sang.

  The waitress, a middle-aged blonde with a bubbly voice, held a pen over her notepad. “I’m Dixie. Can I get you a drink?”

  Steele and Joy both ordered a glass of Pinot Noir, which arrived quickly. “I’ll give you a minute and check back in a bit,” said Dixie.

  “We’re in no hurry,” said Steele.

  Dixie flitted over to another table to take orders.

  Steele held up his glass. “To new beginnings.”

  Joy tapped his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” Joy sipped her wine. “How do you live with the past, Steele? I have such a tough time with it.”

  “Faith and doubt in equal measure.” Steele swigged from his glass. “Faith for the times I hit rock bottom and have nowhere to look but up. Doubt because even when I look up, I don’t know if anyone’s there to pick me up or listen, but I hope so. If I didn’t hope, I’d never get off the floor.”

  “What happened after Dante died?”

  “First, I figured out why Dante never smiled. When Dad died, Dante had to take care of me. When Dante died, I had to care for myself. Mom had stopped dragging us to church, except for occasional Sundays or holidays after dad died, but after Dante died, she dragged me out of bed every Sunday. We kneeled before a statue of Mary. She felt comforted. I wanted to hate Mary, but she and my mom had both lost a son, and that hit me, if you believe all that. I’m just saying it’s how I was raised.”

  Joy sipped her wine. “Sam wasn’t anything, religious-wise, although he claimed a little Buddhism. We had a Buddha statue in our garden, and he practiced meditation and yoga. That seemed to be the extent of it. If there was more to it, he didn’t share.”

  “He had faith. Faith in you.” Steele picked up his glass, tipped it to silently toast Joy, and swigged the rich smooth-bodied liquid.

  “That he did. To faith and doubt.” Joy made the toast. They clinked glasses and drank. “Did you end up alone every day?”

  “Mom didn’t want that, so she put me in an afterschool sports program run by a retired cop, Juan. That helped a lot, because he knew what had happened to Dante, and he knew all about Mixteca 8. One day, he asked me if I saw the shooter’s face, but I said no.”

  “We both know what that means. You’d have to testify.”

  “I would have been dead long before the court case. I couldn’t do that to Mom. As soon as I said ‘no,’ Juan knew I was lying. I couldn’t look him in the eye, but I think he always knew what was on my mind. The anger I felt never went away. Juan saw it. He said, ‘You know, Reed, if you wear a badge, you can carry a gun. You can join the gang unit and help to stop the guys who killed your brother.’”

  “Wow! Did he mean it like I think he meant it?”

  Reed nodded. “I thought so. I found out later that he had gotten involved with a gang as a kid, but he got out, and he joined the police academy. The gang retaliated. They killed his older brother. I’m not sure that answers your question. I don’t think there’s an easy way to live with our pasts. They haunt us. How about you? Deep dark secrets?”

  Joy sank back. “Deep and dark.”

  Dixie swung by. “Have you had time to look?”

  Steele leaned in. “They have amazing beef here, aged to perfection.”

  Joy stammered, “A small filet mignon, then.”

  “Eight ounces or twelve?” asked Dixie.

  “Eight.”

  “Bloody or black?”

  “Dixie, I’ll take it as bloody as your chef will allow.”

  “Side?”

  “Asparagus,” said Joy.

  “You got it. And for you, sir?”

  Steele pushed the menus to the edge of the table. “Same, but add a side of mushrooms and a baked potato, loaded up.”

  Dixie grabbed the menus. “Thank you.”

  “You were about to spill the beans,” reminded Steele as he sipped his wine. “The deep and the dark.”

  Joy drank a large gulp from her glass. “My last year at Yale, I assisted a professor who taught forensic psychology, Dr. Blackmoor. His specialty is serial killers. I think he is one.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. He’s interviewed them, written books about them. He ran an outreach program for troubled youth. I shared his fascination. It drew us together. I guess it’s typical, right? Girl away from home. A fling with the professor.” Joy shifted uncomfortably. “All I can say is that he led me down a dark road. One I willingly walked down, for a while. But then I broke it off and started my FBI training. The distance helped. I saw Blackmoor for who he was, a cold, manipulati
ve monster.”

  “Joy, I told you about my brother dying next to me, but you’re scaring the crap out of me. Did he hurt you?”

  “Remember what you said when I told you that you can’t see my scars?”

  “I do. I said, ‘the ones nobody can see are the ones that bleed us to death.’”

  “I was messed up before I met Blackmoor. I’ve been a mess most of my life. I couldn’t fit in: uber smart, morbid curiosity, adopted kid. But, Steele, like you, I hit bottom and I looked up. Sam was there. He reached out for me. I packed up and headed home.”

  Dixie set their plates before them.

  The smell of the food washed away the distant, harrowing memories.

  “Two more glasses of wine?” asked Dixie.

  “Yes, please,” said Joy.

  Steele held up two fingers to confirm. When Dixie flitted away, Steele held up his glass. “Like I said before, Joy. To new beginnings. Yours and mine. And this time when you look up, besides seeing Sam and, I suspect, Max too, I hope you see my face in the mix, because I’m here for you.”

  Joy picked up her glass. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Sam, about Blackmoor. It was too embarrassing. Too disturbing. “I’m here for you too, Steele.” A part of Joy wanted to call him Reed, but she wasn’t there yet. Her knife slipped through the filet with ease. She stabbed a morsel with her fork, lifted it to her mouth, chewed, and savored the flesh, anointed with the faintest earthy char flavor and raw sweetness.

  Steele parked the Jeep in front of Joy’s house, and they hopped out.

  Joy opened the front door. As she stepped forward, Steele grabbed her hand and gently turned her until she faced him. “Think you can two-step your way to the bedroom?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  He reached his hand under her arm and pressed it against her shoulder blade. “Quick. Quick. Slow. Slow.”

  Through the house, they danced. Steele swept her into the living room and around the kitchen in an agonizing track that led away from the bedroom. Finally he danced them down the hall. “Quick. Quick. Slow. Slow.”

  “Quick. Quick. Slow. Slow…” The final step put them beside the bed. He held the count long enough to torment them both.

  “Oh, the hell with slow,” said Joy, grabbing for his buttons as her lips met his.

  Their hands did a dance of their own, unbuttoning, unzipping, and peeling first the outer layers, which dropped in heaps on the floor, then the under-layers.

  Steele threw back the covers, and they fell onto the black sheets, plunging into the soft mattress. Steele pulled the covers up over them. “Quick. Quick…or Slow. Slow?”

  “Slow. Slow,” Joy heaved, smelling his intoxicating scent.

  She yearned for him.

  He yearned to fill and inflame her.

  Her hands and tongue explored him.

  He matched her eagerness.

  Her fingertips caressed. Slow. Slow.

  He sighed and touched her. Quick. Quick.

  She gasped in painful, desperate need.

  He smothered her body with his.

  She needed him. He needed her.

  They melded.

  Their bodies danced in rhythmic unison.

  Slow. Slow.

  Slow.

  Quick. Quick.

  They grasped, gasped.

  Inhaled deep, quick breaths.

  Exhaled.

  Swirled in the safe sensual sanctuary.

  Where each submitted,

  Relinquished to the other,

  And the more they gave,

  The more they received.

  Until they opened their eyes,

  reached out to take the other,

  and together, flew beyond earthly limitations

  Of mortal flesh,

  Out of this world.

  Out of their pasts.

  And into a starlit universe

  A union of

  Ecstasy

  Ultimate implosion

  That struck every nerve at once

  And fulfilled every need

  In perfect pleasure that

  Crested,

  Paused—

  Held them

  Suspended,

  Until,

  They rushed over the top of the wave

  And slid down the wet curl

  That washed them back to the black cotton shore.

  They held each other as their breathing slowed. Sleep would soon follow. Joy snuggled up against Steele’s side. She reached her arm over his chest and caressed his neck, letting her hand fall upon his shoulder. She’d never felt so safe before.

  Steele had broken through her wall of protection. He’d cracked open the door.

  But could she let him in more? Would he run if he knew the dark side of her? She hadn’t expected to be falling for him. Her intent was to scratch an itch. But he had caressed her heart instead. And she his. He had a foot inside her dark little inner sanctum.

  She hoped, for his sake, he would not live to regret it.

  22

  The next morning, Joy opened the drawer of the distressed white console table at the entryway. She grabbed the manila envelope and headed out the door. Steele had left in the wee hours, kissing her on the forehead as he slipped away.

  Joy stuffed the envelope in the glove compartment and drove to the station. She wasn’t sure when Max wanted to play open-hold-burn, but he sounded anxious yesterday. She wanted to be ready. She didn’t really care one way or the other if she knew the results before the interview. She had the information in her hands. As long as she didn’t write “burn” to match with Max, the envelope would be opened or held indefinitely. They had choices, and that choice gave her peace. Maybe Max was right to burn it.

  Curiosity is a dangerous beast. And the beast lies in wait to devour the weak, who convince themselves it’s better to know, better to deal with the truth. But there are times where the only saving grace is not knowing. Was this that time?

  On the drive to the station, Joy could not get Reed Steele out of her mind. She’d never felt this way about anybody. She’d had a few flings, mostly to distract her from thinking about death or purely to experiment with physicality and sexuality. Each was a mistake. She’d felt nothing.

  And then she fell for Blackmoor, and she believed for the first time that she could love. He had dug into her past and informed her there was no record of her prior to her adoption. No birth record. Nothing. He turned her against Sam. Made her believe he didn’t love her, or he’d have been honest with her. She fell under his spell. His love had almost destroyed the small part of her that wanted to live.

  Already, Steele had done as he promised: he reached out for her and pulled her into the light. She imagined him pulling her through the Gate of the Sun on the Inca Trail. Maybe she had done the same for him. Two people of the night who came together and forged their own sun.

  He’d almost died, so had Max. They fought to live.

  She felt guilty for all of the times she sought death, hoped for it, planned it.

  No matter what, she finally knew what it was like to live—to want to live—despite the ghosts that still lurked. She sighed in deep relief. She was ready to face Belladonna.

  Was she her mother? She didn’t care one way or the other anymore? If Sam Burton was alive, she’d rush home to him, throw her arms around him, and call him “Dad” for the first time. She said it anyway, hoping he could hear her. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Joy bounced into the station. She gave hellos to Sierra, Kevin, and Jim as she squeezed next to them in the coffee room. Each worked like a zombie, stirring his or her beverage of choice to kick-start their day.

  With a cup of black coffee in hand, she strolled into the squad room. It was all Joy could do to nod at Steele and toss him a casual, “Hey, Steele,” before she quickly turned away and sat at her desk opposite Max. She was the one who had set the rules and boundaries for work and play. And it was a good idea. They both had jobs to do, and love didn’t play a role. Lo
ve—the thought of that word terrified her. Baby steps.

  Joy sipped from her police-issue mug. The coffee’s bitterness and heat jolted her into the moment. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

  While Max had clearly showered and shaved and appeared crisp and clean, his face carried a worrisome expression like that of a puppy who had waited by the door, wanting someone to notice him and take him for a walk, but no one ever did.

  “Nope. Tell me about Belladonna?”

  The very mention of the name snapped Joy out of her reverie. She leaned forward and cupped her hands around her mug. Max was preparing for the meeting. She should too. She didn’t need notes. She knew every facet of Belladonna. After her father had died, she found bills to a storage unit in his name. It was set up on autopay from an account Joy didn’t know existed. The small storage unit contained odds and ends plus furniture no longer used. It also contained three file boxes.

  She’d dug into her past after Blackmoor had sparked her curiosity. It was one reason she’d applied to the FBI. To dig. The second was to follow in Sam’s footsteps, and the third, to distance herself from Draven Blackmoor.

  “Let’s go find a quiet place.” Joy grabbed her coffee mug.

  Max led them to an unused observation room.

  Joy leaned against a small desk. “According to Sam, oue mother, marked as ‘unknown’ on our birth certificates, delivered us at home. At Cyrus’s house, Sam found a birthday card stuffed in a drawer that read: Pride and Joy, November 14, Happy Birthday. I asked about Ursula, and he said she is not our mother, but I didn’t believe him. Maybe I wanted to believe I had a mother, even if the woman had tried to kill us. And maybe Sam would lie to protect me—us.”

  “Sam created our docs?”

  Joy sipped her coffee. “Yes, he admitted to having created our existence with the help of his boss at the FBI. Our adoptive fathers are registered on our birth certificates. Sam quit the FBI to raise me at the other end of the country. The rest is a mystery.”