Page 1 of The B!tch is Bad

Chapter One

Creed

“Here it is.”

I was stunned speechless. My business partner, Lytton Driving Hawk, elbowed me. “What do you think?”

I remembered to breathe. Row upon row of blooming fluorescent grapevines stretched a mile, bounded by the amazing array of ruby sandstone spires that ringed Seeker Valley. Stepping closer to the first vine, I reached out but didn’t dare touch the cluster of hard mint green berries cradled in its vibrant leaves. A few had started to darken into their eventual violet shade, the skin a translucent sac over the petit Verdotfruit.

I chanted to myself. My new home. My new home. Pungent soil, sand, and manure smells bloomed in my nostrils, and I was proud my brain could separate the scents. Those faculties would be given a tough trial in the coming months. Seeker Valley was full of old-timey winemakers, and I’d be going up against the best of them. I murmured, “I like to think about the vine’s life, how it’s a changing, growing thing. What happened the year these were planted.”

Lytton shot back, “1947, my friend. These are the original vines Monsieur d’Attire brought over from Bordeaux. They’re tannic and spicy, so the family blends it with Cab grapes to make their award-winning Ballerina Minuscola wine.”

“Yeah, well I’m going to rename it.” I gained confidence and arrogance the longer I felt in command of the fruity rows. “Sensation. How does that sound?”

Dr. Driving Hawk had a PhD in botany. He spent most of his time farming award-winning sativa and indica plants at his Leaves of Grass farm. He shrugged. “It’s your call. I wouldn’t rename it. Wine Spectator labeled the ’07 Tiny Dancer vintage the number two wine in the world. Bob Redford and Shirley MacLaine have bought bottles.”

I chortled. “Bob Redford? Really? You’re on a first name basis?”

He grinned, displaying perfect pearly teeth. Lytton was a handsome motherfucker, a larger than life Veep of The Bare Bones motorcycle club. A rowdy, lawless group with a deep underlying sense of morality and support for the community. I’d met a member of their brother club, the Bent Zealots, on the set of a film I produced. Ormond Tangier had gotten me started on my current wine route by introducing me to his “brother,” Lytton. Lytton wanted to remain a silent partner, as he had more than enough to do with his pot plantation and other cannabusiness in nearby Pure and Easy.

“Me, Bob, the Weeknd, and Ed Sheeran. You’ll see them all wandering around this valley, especially during the October crush.”

“I’m in.” I reached out a hand to shake, although Lytton hadn’t asked me to. I don’t know if it was Bob or The Weeknd that clinched it.

He clasped my hand with the assurance of a profitable deal. “Done. Mister Creedence Trucks, new owner of Pictures of Lily winery.”

Pride and dignity surged through me, bringing me this close to showing emotion. I had to turn back to the waves of grass green vines that flowed to the rust eroded formations, the famous red rocks of Seeker Valley. It sounds corny, but I already felt at one with this soil. Under the d’Attire family, the two-hundred-acre estate had been something like a private country club, and I intended to open the tasting room to the public. I wanted eno-tourists to drench themselves in the experience of the land. The more familiar and accessible the domain felt to the people, the more visceral the earth, grapes, biology, the more they’d identify with it.

An ATV with ginormous tires came from the warehouse direction. Already, in June, it kicked up puffs of smoky sand. We gazed at it blankly, figuring it was a cellar rat or a grape picker, as fourteen workers came with my deal.

Lytton clapped me on the back. “The closing papers are back in P and E with our lawyer to be signed.”

“Lawyer? Not a realtor?”

Lytton explained. “Slushy is a jack of all trades. He does all our paperwork. Here, let me call Sean Wildstar. You should meet your neighbor. He owns the vineyard next to you. Real name Giovanni Selvaggia, but he’s trying to trend.” He turned his back to call Wildstar.

The craziest dude ever braked his three-wheeler to a dramatic, sandy stop in the dirt road.

One eyebrow up and one down, my head winemaker gave off a goofy aura. His mouth bent up at one corner and down the other, as though he couldn’t figure out his mood. He wasn’t too sure where his future lay. He leaped off the machine and nearly scared me with his speedy greeting.

“Creedence Trucks? I’m Oliver Klozov, your new winemaker. Well, old really. I’ve been with the d’Attire family for about three years. Our membership sales are brisk! Let me show you the Pinot grapes, which are very temperamental. We’re about to release the two-year-old bottles and invite you to join in the naming and labeling. Hop up on the tractor.”

I tried to get Lytton’s attention, but he was deep in a jovial discussion with Wildstar, so I took Oliver’s invite and hopped up. We bounced over the dirt road to another section of grapes, a darker sangria shade against their lighter, more electric leaves.

Oliver blabbed the whole time. “Pinot is very sensitive to the elements, and we do get summer rain in these parts. It requires a master hand to tease the finest from these guys. We’re kind of spiritual about wine in this valley. We’ve got grapes growing against each other that make wines that taste utterly opposite. How do we do it? It’s the concept of terroir, soil, territory. The soil and grapes blend to create bliss.”

I didn’t mind if he droned on. I figured I could learn from the experts. A graduate of the Silicon Valley tech boom, I made my fortune in cloud-based analytics. “Have they made Burgundy wine from these?”

Oliver tipped his cap to me. His fashionable five o’clock shadow gave him a sinister look. “You better know it. We’ve set aside some cases of that vintage for our wine library. We give vertical tastings to our members at private dinners, offering samples of every wine since our founding.”

“Where did you work before here?” I should act like a boss, I reckoned.

Oliver looked distantly at the sandstone cliffs. His skin had that sunburned hue of the extremely white guy who worked outdoors. I was lucky to be a hundred percent Italian. That history had led me here. Our true family name was Camion, not Trucks.

“Oh, I’ve got more degrees than a thermometer! A member of the Rotary Club, I work for Parks and Rec, and I’ve roamed with Tuareg nomads. Camels are the nastiest, most temperamental things, worse than grapes! But at least I got a wife out of it.”

“What are your degrees in?”