Mr. Red

by Tessa Layne

  The Uber cab pulls up.

  My heart thunks heavily against my ribs. Her eyes volley back and forth between me and the driver, then bounce to the bartender. The bartender pushes off the doorjamb he’s leaning against and stalks to us. “Miss… are you okay? If he’s bothering you, I can call the cops.”

  His comment must make up her mind, because she curses under her breath and waves him off. “It’s okay. He can take me home. I appreciate your help.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She meets my eyes. “Yes, thank you.”

  A weight lifts off my chest, relief coursing through my veins. “You won’t regret it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I already do,” she says wryly, coming around the bike to accept the helmet I hold out for her.

  Her face wrinkles as she messes with the chin strap and it’s so. Damned. Cute. She climbs on behind me, refusing my hand, and the sense of home, the sense of rightness I feel as she presses against me is overwhelming. The bike rumbles to life beneath us. Nothing, nothing in my life has felt this right before, and I like the feeling of confidence that comes over me, like right now, in this moment, I’m invincible.

  I pull to a stop at the Napa Picnic Basket, a mom and pop deli that tourists love. Even at seven-thirty, it’s fairly crowded with people like me coming in to grab last minute snacks and picnic items before the sun sets. I make my choices- a selection of fruits, nuts, crackers, cheeses and meats I think will complement the wine from the cellar. I also grab a picnic cloth, a couple of acrylic tumblers, and a small knife and cutting board. Alison’s eyes widen when she spies the bag. “Where are you going to put that?”

  I flash her a grin and flick my eyebrows. “Bungee cords.” I pull two out from a small saddle bag, along with a small canvas tarp with grommets punched in around the edges. In seconds, I’ve got our loot strapped down on the back of the seat. “Of course, you’ll have to sit a little closer,” I tease.

  She grunts, but I see the hint of a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. We settle in again, and I fire up the bike. I head north, planning to cut over to the 101 and a beach spot on the coast I like, but then I remember her pink fuck-me booties. Instead, I take the turnoff that takes us up Mt. Veeder, and to the property she’s named Fieldstone Winery. Instead of parking my bike in the yard, I roll it right up to the edge of the vines- where I spotted a couple of large, low benches made from old redwood trees, worn smooth as marble from years of use and weathering. “I thought you were taking me someplace,” she says, confusion in her voice.

  “Change of plans.” I unclip the sack and take it and the wine carrier to the bench. She’s still standing by my bike, a funny expression on her face, when I’ve finished laying out the spread. “Is something the matter?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because, Alison Walker, I want to get to know you.” I can tell from the tilt of her head she doesn’t believe me. “For real.”

  She hesitates, then seems to give herself a shake, and she approaches, picking her way between the rocks and tufts of grass to join me on the bench. “This is… nice,” she says, examining the spread between us.

  “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a little bit of everything.”

  She waves an arm. “Oh I’m not very hungry.”

  “But you haven’t eaten.”

  Her expression is cagey when she speaks again. “There was food for the winemakers in back,” she says, not meeting my eyes.

  She’s lying. I know it. I’ve been around enough starving women to recognize the signs. “Alison,” I say sternly, slicing open a pear, and topping a cracker with it and a slice of bleu cheese. I hold it out to her. “Don’t bullshit me.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alison

  I don’t know what to say. No one’s ever called me out on my eating habits. Certainly, no one’s ever been concerned. I give him a wan smile and take the cracker. A warm buzz of electricity runs up my arm and straight to my nipples when our fingers touch. They’re sensitized from the ride. All of me is. It was all I could do to not grind my pussy into the seat as it vibrated beneath me. I’m achy, and I want to be touched. Strike that, I want to be fucked. Hard. I want to fuck away the shame, the humiliation, the anger at everything that transpired tonight. But I don’t get to, because I made a promise to my sister.

  I settle for food. It’s dangerous for me, to eat my emotions, but at the moment it’s my only option. “Okay, just one bite. But only one.”

  He scoffs and starts making another just like it.

  It’s good, the tang of the bleu cheese against the sweetness of the pear. It’s sensuous, the way it melts in my mouth. Nico pours out the dregs of the white wine and offers me a glass. I take a sip and can’t help but smile at the way the flavor plays with the pear and cheese. “This is so good.” My mind goes to all the food the wine would enhance, pungent cheeses, salty salami, pate. He hands me another and I shamelessly grab it, because my God, I want that flavor again- exploding in my mouth, coating my tongue, setting off endorphins in my head.

  “I love watching you eat,” he says with a soft burr.

  “Said no one ever,” I scoff. There is absolutely nothing lovely about watching a fat girl eat.

  “Alison,” he says sharply. My eyes jerk to his. “Stop it. And for fuck’s sake. Drop the ‘I’m not hungry’ act. You need food like anybody else.”

  Heat erupts in the pit of my belly and rockets through me. My cheeks flame, my chest is on fire, I feel like my head might explode from the shame of it. My issues with food are so fucked-up, and the fact that he’s noticed, makes it ten times worse. Maybe a hundred. My hand shakes as I grab my wineglass and take a slow sip to steady myself. My appetite is gone now.

  “Alison.” This time, he says my name like a caress, and he takes my hand, thumb sliding hypnotically over the back of my hand. “Look at me.”

  I shut my eyes. He’s asking too much, and if he sees the inside of me, if he discovers my secrets that hover so near the surface of my heart, what then? He could ruin me. But he’s having none of my hiding. He tilts my chin up, forcing my gaze to his. His eyes are gentle, filled with concern, when I finally meet them. My heart squeezes painfully.

  “Everyone deserves to enjoy food.” Except me. I’m too cowardly to verbalize that, though. “And wine.”

  “Well, there’s that,” I admit, although I don’t drink very much. Empty calories are dangerous, and I promised myself I’d make healthy choices with my new body.

  His mouth curves into a smile, and as soon as I return it, the energy between us shifts. Butterflies launch in my chest, thousands of them. His look becomes hungry, greedy even, and as he leans in, I know he’s going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. Kimmie’s voice rings in my head, but I shut my eyes to it. His mouth is soft, sweet, even, gently probing. I lean in with a sigh, relishing the current of energy pulsing between us. His tongue teases my lower lip, flicking just inside, then away. Shamelessly, I chase after it, because who needs food when there’s kissing this heavenly?

  I’m flushed all over when we break apart, and a glance at Nico confirms he’s just as aroused. But I can’t help digging at him just a little. “I thought you said no funny business.”

  His eyes light. “Sorry, not sorry. There’s just something about your mouth I can’t resist.”

  “Except when I’m bossy mouth.”

  He chuckles and shakes his head, and when he looks at me again the heat in his eyes melts me, turns me right into a puddle. “That’s when I want to fuck you silly.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh.

  “Alison?”

  My eyes flutter shut, in the hopes he’ll kiss me again. “Mmmhmm.”

  “I really do want to talk.”

  “Talking is overrated,” I mumble. Especially when we could be kissing.

  His low rumble of a laugh pulls my eyes open. “Kissing after eating. And talking,” he adds after I stare at him incredulously.

  “Hmph
,” I grunt, and help myself to a slice of pear. “I’m eating, so you better start talking.”

  “So how did you get into wine?”

  I stop mid-chew. Then gulp. If he asks about my childhood, I swear I’m getting up and leaving. “I majored in microbiology at Cornell. They had an enology program and it seemed fun. So I picked up a second major.”

  His eyebrows rocket up. “You got into wine because it seemed… fun?”

  I lift a shoulder. “Sure, why not? Wine guys are nerdy, and they tend to be a fairly accepting crew.” Except for Tommy.

  “Except for the douchebags you met tonight,” he says with a glower.

  He’s not wrong. “But the younger winemakers are different. More… diverse. Those guys? They’ll be assholes until they die. And it sucks when they’re jerks, but I know that I’m going to put this place on the map- not just because of the wine I know I can make, but because I’m going to do things differently.”

  “Hire an all-female crew,” he fills in.

  “Exactly.” I pop a piece of salami in my mouth, and relish the salty fatty goodness coating my tongue, before taking a sip of the wine. I’m getting excited, I don’t get to talk wine biz with many people, and he’s the first out here, and I really do love this stuff. “Are you aware of the sexual assault rates in vineyards among laborers? And most of the time they go unreported because the women are afraid they’ll lose their job. And to be honest, they work so damned hard, they should be the highest paid people in the vineyard. I’m trusting them with my grapes- my most precious commodity. Why wouldn’t I compensate them handsomely?”

  His brows knit together with a “Huh.”

  “Seriously, you’re supposed to be a CEO and you haven’t thought of this?”

  “But how does it affect the bottom line?”

  I roll my eyes. “There’s more to running a company than the bottom line. Look where that’s landed you all. You’re not making art. And you’re taking too much of a cut.”

  His head snaps back. “What do you mean?”

  I can’t help the snort that barrels out of my mouth. “Are you kidding? What do I mean? You’re taking millions without lifting a finger, and the people who could royally fuck up your grapes, are barely making enough to feed themselves. Half are traveling more than two hours to come pick, because they can’t afford to live here. And have you even noticed that vineyard labor is getting increasingly hard to come by because all your workers from Mexico are either getting harassed, or they can’t obtain visas? How’s that going to affect your bottom line when your grapes rot on the vine because there’s no one to pick them?”

  He repeats the brow knitting and ‘huh’-ing with a shake of his head.

  “You seriously haven’t considered that? Even once?”

  He narrows his eyes. “So how are you going to make a profit?”

  “A collective.”

  “That’s shit,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “That’ll never work in Napa.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Too expensive.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “Collectives only work in developing countries where overhead is lower.”

  “They work because owners are investing in their employees,” I say, voice rising. “What would happen if you paid your laborers a living wage? Better yet, since you have bazillions in profits, why not take a fraction of those profits, and offer to make down payments on homes, or condos, for your employees after a couple years of service? You’d have the best, most loyal vineyard labor in Napa, not to mention a public relations coup.”

  Nico stares at me, then shakes his head. “Sorry, sugar, business doesn’t work that way. We both know that.”

  I don’t want to let it go, and I’m pissed he’s not on my side about this. But what should I have expected from a Case? I stand. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m in charge here, because I plan to do just that. Then we’ll see about business working that way. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some assholes to go crush.” I start to pick my way back to the gravel, going as fast as my legs will carry me without rolling an ankle. Kimmie’s right, leopards don’t change their spots.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nico

  Jeezus, how do things always manage to go south so quickly? Fuck-up, my conscience taunts. Karma’s a bitch. “Wait,” I call after her, rising to chase her down. “Ali, wait. Let’s talk about something else,” she slows, for a second, but then I realize it’s because she wobbled on some loose gravel. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. “I can tell you why I’ve always been an asshole.”

  That stops her in her tracks, but she doesn’t turn around. “Why? So you can give yourself some kind of absolution?” Her voice is as sharp as glass, and she shakes her head. “I’m not interested in being your confessor.” She starts to move away again.

  Something inside me screams at me that I have to convince her to stay, to give me a chance, that if I don’t, I’m missing some kind of huge opportunity I’ll regret for the rest of my life. And that it’s going to take complete and total honesty from me. The realization scares the holy fuck out of me. I am the keeper of nasty dark secrets that should never see the light of day, but bringing them into the light is the only way to gain her trust, and so even though the back of my neck prickles with fear of what she’ll say when she learns the depth of my treachery, I call after her. “No. So you can see the real me. The one that nobody knows.”

  She pauses, and I catch up to her, pausing within arm’s reach. “How do I know you’re not bullshitting me?”

  “You don’t. But the second you think I’m shitting you, you can ask me to leave, and I’ll go.” It’s a risk, but I’m banking on her curiosity. I take another step forward, so close I could drop a kiss on her glossy dark hair. “Please? Come back and sit with me?”

  A shiver races across her shoulders, and she lets out a deep sigh. “One chance, Case. You have one chance. The second I smell shit, you’re out of here.”

  For the second time tonight, relief washes over me, followed by a hit of nauseating fear.

  She spins and marches back to the bench, keeping her eyes focused on the horizon. Her ankles only wobble twice. When she reaches the bench, she uncorks the red wine and pours us full glasses.

  “Didn’t you serve this to them?”

  She slides me a deadly glare. “They weren’t worthy.”

  I toast her when she hands me the glass. “To crushing assholes.”

  She toasts back with a tight smile, and I wonder briefly, if I’ve just signed my own death sentence. There’s no avoiding the truth that I’m an asshole too. But maybe she’ll see it differently after I’ve spilled my guts. I taste the red, which she hasn’t shared with me before. It’s rich, complex, the kind of wine you contemplate. “Holy smokes that’s good.”

  “I thought I’d call it Dark and Twisty.”

  “How about the Broodmeister?”

  Alison’s shoulder’s shake. “That’s a shit name. I’ve also thought about calling it Heathcliff.”

  “Heathcliff.”

  “The asshole from Wuthering Heights.”

  I recognize the title, but can’t remember a damn thing about the book. “I’m pretty sure I skipped class that day.”

  “You skipped all the time,” she says. “Didn’t you?” she adds after a moment.

  “Guilty as charged. Are you going to sit?”

  She drops onto the bench. I’m torn, I want to sit next to her, but the picnic seems like a safe buffer. And I’m famished.

  She slices a few pieces of the aged Reggiano I picked up, and pops a chunk into her mouth. We eat in silence, until she erupts in frustration. “Spill the beans, or I’m outta here. I have work left tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nope. You’re not deflecting. Spill,” she says, crossing her arms and narrowing her gaze. “Unless you were bullshitting me.”

  “No, no,” I respond hastily. I take a deep breath, then rise, unbuckling my jean
s.

  “What the fuck, Nico?” She jumps up, voice rising. “Is this some kind of a sick joke?”

  “Nope,” I stare at her grimly. “This is where the story starts.”

  “With your dick?” she squeaks.

  “With this,” I pull down the elastic of my black boxer briefs to just below my left hipbone. “Did you notice this during last night’s fuckfest?” There’s still enough light remaining I don’t need a flashlight.

  Her eyes drop to the two perfectly circular scars in the crease between my leg and torso. “I thought they were some weird kind of ritual frat boy hazing thing,” she murmurs, reaching out to touch them.

  “Negative.” If only. “Those were a gift from my older brother, Jason. And the twins have matching gifts under their left armpits.” My heart is racing with the memory of that summer afternoon, and I have to fight the wave of nausea that settles in the pit of my stomach.

  Alison’s eyes are enormous, and her mouth forms an Oh. “Your brother did this to you?”

  The horror in her voice drives straight to the darkest part of my soul. “Half-brother,” I correct. “He’s six years older than the three of us.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “The summer we were eleven. There’d been other incidents before, but that summer, everything came to a head.” I can still see my brothers tied up in the middle of the barn, Declan trying valiantly to be bold, Austin sniffling, trying to hold back tears he knew would only make Jason do worse things.

  “What happened?” Her voice is terrible, filled with a kind of rage that I’d only expect from a parent.

  I pull up the waistband and rebuckle my pants, and sit, forcing the vivid memory from my mind. “I won’t go into the gory details-”