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Chapter 1: Ben
There's a rumble outside and I look over my steaming cup of coffee to peer out the kitchen window. I watch as a short, curvy woman wearing big sunglasses and two big dudes climb out of a rented moving truck. Looks like the new neighbor is finally moving in. The house was only on the market for a few days before someone snapped it up. Gossip around the neighborhood is that a single woman bought it, no kids.
Despite the size differences between the moving trio, I'm sure those guys are Short Stack's brothers. They've all got the same inky hair and tan skin. Plus, it looks like one of them is giving her a hard time and she just shoved him in the chest with all her might. He didn't move an inch, just looked at her like she was a tiny, exasperating puppy. The sight makes me laugh and I accidentally snort my scorching hot coffee, scalding my sinuses.
An alert pings on my watch. As entertaining as snooping on the new neighbor is, it's time to get to work. I plop down in my desk chair and crack my knuckles as my computer wakes up. I double check my security feeds and my yard sensors. They've never been set off by anything more threatening than a family of raccoons and that asshole, Mr. Miller, who likes to let his dog poop in my yard. Still, better safe than sorry.
I lose myself in work for a couple hours and I'm just making sure I didn't leave any digital breadcrumbs when my phone buzzes on my desk. My best friend's name shows on the screen. I hate talking on the phone, so I ignore him, but Jack's never been good at taking a hint and the phone buzzes again. Muttering to myself, I answer it. Only because I know he won't stop until I do. My best, and only, friend is stubborn as a motherfucker.
"Why can't you text like a normal person?" I ask.
I can hear the wind rushing by in the background and I'd bet money he's driving his beloved convertible with the top down. "We're going out tonight. No excuses." At least he cuts straight to the chase.
"Hard no. I'd rather stay home and have a beer."
"You need to get out of that house. I swear, you've become a hermit. What's the point of living in Sonoma if you never go out? I'm half afraid I'll find you holed up with bottles of piss everywhere. You need a night out before you do a full Howard Hughes."
"A, that's disgusting, and I would never. B, you'd never get in my house if I didn't want you to."
"Ben, you aren't helping your case with that shit. Dude, I don't use this word often, but please. I've got a couple investors visiting from New York and they want to go to Blue Ruin for cocktails. I can't take a night out with these guys without moral support. They always want to go to someone else's bar when they're in town. I mean, what's the fucking point of owning a winery if I have to pay someone else to pour my drink? Whatever. Just come with us. Drinks and food are on me."
I laugh at that. "Like I need you to be my sugar daddy."
"Come on, man. I promise it won't be that bad. I'll owe you one."
Sighing inwardly, I already know I'm going to regret this. "Fuck. Fine. Fine, I'll come. But I'm getting a Lyft, I'm not bar hopping with those douchebags, and I'm not drinking anything with garnishes."
"Deal. Only the best whiskey for you, ya grumpy bastard. I promise to keep you in the lifestyle to which you've become accustomed," Jack says before hanging up on me.
***
Blue Ruin is, well, strange. We live in Sonoma, California. It's wine country at its best. Comfortable, casual, quietly sophisticated, and homey. Blue Ruin is a speakeasy-style bar that looks like somebody copied and pasted it from Brooklyn. It's packed with the Bro-iest of Bros and tourists with more money than taste, all pounding back $14 cocktails with ridiculous specialty ice cubes.
The club is dark with oversized leather booths, velvet armchairs and quirky light fixtures fitted with Edison bulbs. I can't decide if the decor would be better suited for a steampunk clubhouse or a BDSM club (if you swap out the velvet for more leather, because I can only imagine how hard it would be to get cum out of velvet.) This is decidedly not my kind of place. I'm a computer nerd from Texas. I'd be a lot more comfortable somewhere with less... this. But I can make do as long as I can get a whiskey without egg white foam on top.
I find Jack and three of his visiting investors at a booth in the back. A server with a bow tie and a curled-up mustache is dropping off some overly complicated cocktails and, according to his spiel, the "locally sourced pickle tray." It's hard not to roll your eyes at locally sourced pickles, but I manage.
Jack and his investors talk wine for a bit. They're all laughing and having a good time. Cabernet is having a great year, I guess. Jack has been working non-stop since his father passed away a couple months ago, trying to turn his family winery around. It looks like things are finally starting to fall into place for him.
I zone out, swirling my second whisky around in its glass, lost in thought until a flash of red catches my eye.
A womanly hip bumps the kitchen door open and heads toward the bar, looking like something out of a dirty dream. She's juggling three big jars of those damn pickles, her body swaying with every step, causing her short, black skirt to ride up her tan thighs. She's wearing a sleeveless cherry red silk blouse that shows off her neck, long, slim and delicate. Her silky dark ponytail swings over her shoulder, just begging to be pulled.
Maybe she can feel me staring because she looks up and meets my eyes. My heart stutters and my breath catches in my chest. Her eyes are a startling bottle green and fuck me running if she isn't the prettiest woman I've ever seen. With her high cheekbones and cupid's bow mouth, there's something vaguely familiar about her, but I can't quite place it.
Her eyes dart away, but I didn't miss the way she looked me up and down, an edge of appreciation in her arched eyebrow. A split second later she trips on a floor mat, stumbling and dropping all three jars of pickles. Glass skitters everywhere as they smash on the tiled floor and a tiny tsunami of pickle juice floods her shoes.
I'm on my feet to help her before my brain catches up with my body. Her face is beet red as she squats down, carefully, in her short skirt and cleans up the glass. She waves me off as I approach, avoiding all eye contact. I stoop down to help scoop up the pickles anyway, making sure I angle my body so no one can see up her skirt. Her eyes skate over mine for just a split second, flashing with embarrassment. "You don't need to do that. I can clean this up."
"I know," I tell her with a grin. "But I'm happy to help." She meets my eyes again and gives me a brief smile. I swear to god, it's like someone flipped a switch and sucked all the air out of the room. I can barely breathe when she looks at me.
"Thank y- ouch!" A piece of glass falls from her hand. Her finger looks fine for a second, but then a bright red streak of blood spreads across the tip. Taking her elbow, I help her stand before snagging a bar napkin and wrapping it around her finger. I'm a terrible person, because she needs a proper bandage, but I don't want to let her go. I apply pressure, loving the way her little hand feels in mine. I open my mouth. Whether I want to ask her where the first aid kit is or if I can take her out to dinner, I'm not entirely sure.
"You okay, Lilah?"
She cocks her head to the side, like a curious puppy. Fuck, she’s cute. "How’d you-"
I tap my chest and grin at her. "Name tag. I’m Ben," I tell her. She looks down at her chest, and laughs. Her hand feels so soft and warm in mine. I have to remind myself that I’m trying to stop the flow of blood.
