Page 13 of The B!tch is Bad

Chapter 4

Patience

“Man, I haven’t been surfing in two whole weeks.”

A svelte woman leaning into him said, “Sean Wildstar. Where did you get such a cool name?”

He said, “It’s an ancient Sicilian name, from the Mount Etna region where my ancestors drenched their arms in the Nerello Mascalese grapes.” He really rolled those Rs, making the grapes sound like a strip show.

I tried not to giggle as I hid behind my Bordeaux glass. Sean Wildstar was quite the man. Imagine, owning a winery like the Screaming Eagle but going surfing while Hollywood stars picked grapes for you. Even now, as we stood on the multicolored flagstones of the outdoor tasting area, Sean had at least three women gathered around him, admiring his, well, his money. It was a regular knee-slapper.

That was, until I saw what women did to Creed. Tarnation, those chicks hung over him like grapevines.

Well, what did I fucking care. I was just Creed’s personal wine merchant. I looked out over the rolling, brick-colored hills awhile luminaries such as Robert Pattinson, Timothée Chalamet, The Weeknd, and his manager picked fruit in the vineyards, feeling part of the whole cycle of life. They wanted to join with Seeker Valley, and in a way I knew what they felt, too. I wished to make this new place my home. Yet they were rich men who owned ten thousand bottles apiece, more wine than they could imbibe in twenty lifetimes, men driving Teslas. But I had traded in my Tesla for a seven-year-old Prius. No one would notice me in a Prius. Especially with its dings and dents.

I’d hired caterers to serve the seated members enjoying a vertical tasting of our cult wines. The autumn breeze snaked between tables, swirling around the happy folks’ ankles. Everyone is happy when they get away from their daily grind and drink wine! I was in the most joyous industry in the world, yet even with my medication I suffered greatly from doubts and absence of self-esteem.

Creed had insisted on making his own crostini, caponata, and Tuscan truffles—cheese rolled into balls with pine nuts and figs. I tried to duck the waves of roasting pork smoke, holding my glass to my boobs as I navigated to the garden kitchen. This was where Creed held court, acting like he was taping some fucking cooking show, discussing his tomatoes and goat cheese like they were his admired pets.

As I said, about six women clung around the fucking marble counter, pretending to know what a charcuterie was. It was sickening to the extreme. It forced me to examine my own feelings, something I wasn’t accustomed to.

I’d been holding myself back from Creed, afraid of being injured by him. It was a real possibility. The less you care about someone, the less they can batter and cripple you. Scar you for life.

“I like to slice a little of these yellow and black cherry tomatoes,” Creed orated, holding the tiny items up. His beautifully sculpted face displayed a slight sheen of sweat I knew smelled of grass and vines. I was just getting acquainted with the man, but knew all these facts from my dream. And maybe from standing closer to him than ceremony would dictate. “The Brandywine and Black Krim have a mellower, aged taste.”

I opened my mouth to interrupt him, but instead I was interrupted by that ultimate poseur, Oliver Klozov.

“Here’s the report from Wine on Main,” he insisted, shoving a few pages of something at my wine glass.

I recoiled, refusing to take the report. Then I remembered. The head winemaker was attempting to be efficient. I should respond in kind.

“Why, thank you. Did they ever find those cases that Creed was looking for? The twenty-year-old cab?”

“Yes.” Oliver acted like he was on cocaine sometimes, a condition I was only too familiar with from my former career as a model. I never touched the stuff, fearing it would set off my anxiety. But I knew these men, eyes darting back and forth, looking at everything but me. Shuffling the feet. Sometimes he snapped his fingers as though trying to remember the next item on his list. Also, he was a certified Breatharian, one of those douchetards from Sausalito who thought you could exist on air alone. I couldn’t believe it when I first heard. They believed you could live by passively inhaling cosmic micro dust. Yet I’d seen him chowing down on spit-roasted pork. “It’s definitely there. It’s been there the whole time.”

“Oh, so it was just overlooked?”

“Yes, that’s it. Overlooked. Hey, isn’t it about time to officially open this harvest crush? They’re already serving people at the tables. We usually have a few members stomping grapes for the fun of it, over there by the crushing barn.”

“Sure. That’s why I’m trying to grab Creed—”

“My most lovely lady!”

I froze. If I’d had wine in my mouth, I would’ve done a spit take. That voice was so damned familiar. Someone from my past who had caught up with me. My most dreaded nightmare.

Like a robot I turned a few degrees. Relief oozed from my cells when I beheld Santiago Slayer. Teeth as white as ever, wavy hair greying around the temples, he posed with arms spread wide. I grinned too with teeth just as white and put the Wine on Main report face down on Creed’s prep counter.

“Santiago!” I was honored to the core to run into the man who’d helped me with such grace at Smoky Mountain High. “So good to see you again. I thought you went home to Taos.”

Making a silent lip fart, he waved a hand on a limp wrist. “Ah, Taos, Big Sur, Kazakhstan, it is one and the same to me. I travel where my heart pleases.”

Oliver snorted. “And where your clients pay you to go.”

Santiago stood tall, offended. “There is no talk about business at such an event as this!” His face switched to a mask of pleasure as he proffered his elbow for me to take. “I admire your new tattoo. You did not have that ink when I saw you last.”

Santiago had always seemed to know I was on the lam. Oliver blabbed to someone else now, so I was free to say, “Yes. The better to blend in with the crowd, as you know.” I didn’t know his profession, but suspected it was pretty heinous, as even the Bare Bones MC hired him to do work they thought themselves above, or that nauseated them. We headed for the crushing barn, Santiago swiping a glass of wine from a server.

“If you must know, I am very good at blending in with the crowd. Buenas tardes, Slushy!”