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Ashley’s not small, but she’s certainly not close to my size. Still, wine is her business too. She should be used to it.
Privilege.
A word that gnaws at me. I’m very privileged. I don’t deny it. In fact, I’m grateful every day for my good fortune. For the fact that Mom and Dad rescued Donny and me from a system that probably would have handed us over to a state home, and if we were lucky enough to be adopted, we might have been separated. A life without my brother isn’t a life I care to contemplate, even now.
Dad not only rescued us from an orphanage, he rescued us from that horrible compound where we spent two months.
Two months of beatings.
Two months of rapes.
Two months of starvation and emotional abuse.
Two months that scar me to this day.
Damn it.
Those two months of my life that I can’t ever get back are seared into my soul forever. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about that horrid time in my life, how I took as much of it as I could to spare my little brother—Donny, who, at seven, was still a baby in so many ways. He still slept with a teddy bear at home.
And she calls me privileged for suggesting we order another bottle of wine before we’ve finished the first.
So much she assumes. So much she doesn’t know.
I breathe in. Try to calm myself. Breathe out.
No luck.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Her pretty blue eyes widen into circles. “What?”
“I’m no longer hungry.”
“But we—”
With every ounce of willpower in my body, I stop myself from pounding my fist on the table. I mean every ounce. I pull my wallet out of my pocket, count out some money, and throw several hundred-dollar bills on the table. “Stay if you’d like. That should cover whatever you want to order plus a generous tip. I’m out of here.” I rise, shove my wallet back into my pocket, and leave the table.
Follow me. Stay with me. Ask me what’s wrong.
Except please don’t.
Even if she follows me and asks, I won’t tell her.
I’ll never tell anyone. Even during my years of serious therapy, some things I kept to myself. Some things I never revealed, not even to Dad or Aunt Mel.
“How was everything, Mr. Steel?” the host asks as I swiftly walk toward the door.
I don’t reply.
I’m out the door.
Out in the air. The fresh air. Except I’m in the city. I long for my vineyards. The fresh nocturnal air of my own special place.
I grab at my hair. “Fuck!”
“Dale…”
Elation surges through every cell in my body.
She followed me!
What I wanted so badly!
And what I didn’t want just as badly.
Except that’s a lie.
I don’t want to want it. I don’t want to want her.
Ashley. My Ashley.
But not my Ashley.
“Well, hello there!” A male voice.
I turn.
And my heart plummets. It’s the guy from the tasting. Mr. Syrah. He bought four cases of wine. I should say hello. Thank him.
Or pummel him.
For the way he’s looking at my Ashley.
“Levi…hi,” she says.
I simply glare at the two of them from twenty feet away.
“I thought you had plans with Dale,” he says.
“I did. Or…do. He’s right there.” She nods toward me.
“Oh. Hello, Mr. Steel.”
I advance toward Ashley and take her arm more harshly than I mean to. “We’re leaving. Nice to see you again.”
“Of course. You too. But before you go, what did you think of the wine list?”
“It’s adequate.” I turn then toward my car, bringing Ashley with me.
“Are you nuts?” she says. “That guy is interested in buying your wine for his steakhouses.”
“So what? Why should I care about that when I’m privileged enough to leave half a bottle of Cristal at the table?”
She opens her mouth but shuts it just as quickly.
Good.
I don’t want to listen to her voice at the moment—her voice that could melt the polar ice caps.
No. Not tonight. Tonight I want to put her mouth to a different use. I push her against the driver’s side of my car and claim those ruby lips.
She gasps but then parts her lips. I delve in. No gentleness. Not tonight. Tonight I’m angry. Tonight I’m needy. Tonight I’m jealous.
Tonight I’m in a rage.
I kiss her hard, wanting to bruise her lips, mark her as my own.
Claim her and take her violently, because that’s how angry I am.
I’m angry at Idris the sommelier.
I’m angry at Levi Jones.
I’m angry at Ashley.
I’m angry at the world.
I’m angry at my own circumstances.
But most of all, I’m angry with myself.
Angry because I’ve been so stupid as to fall in love with this woman—this woman I have no business wanting or having or loving.
No fucking business at all.
I kiss her harder, harder, harder, pushing my hard cock into her belly until she’s nearly flat against the car.
Stop!
Dale, please!
I expect these words. I expect to be pushed away, yelled at, berated.
