Page 14 of The B!tch is Bad

I was familiar with the motorcycle club’s lawyer. He was a slick and sleazy operator—in other words, an ideal fit for the bikers. He seemed to get the job done, whatever the job was. I never asked. Today he was just beaming with goodwill, brandishing an enormous pair of kitchen scissors.

“Slayer, my man!” he cried. “Where’s the ribbon?”

“Ah!” said Santiago, nodding with knowledge. “At this opening, we do not have a ribbon. We have a bottle.”

Slushy knit his brow. Even at a casual event such as this, he wore a lime green polyester suit. He did not know how to blend in. “I’m supposed to cut a bottle with my scissors?”

Santiago again said, “Ah!” With a sound of disgust he waved the lawyer away. “You will see. Come to the crushing barn.”

Slushy fell into step with us, ambling along as we sipped our wine. “I’ve seen a crush before, but never Robert Redford with purple bare feet.”

“Now that is a sight I cannot wait for!” declared Santiago. He then lowered his head to speak to me in a confidential voice. “You must tell me why you decided not to hide in Costa Rica? You are only a couple of states away from your place of origin. Would you not feel safer, say, in Mexico?”

I had to trust this man. I had to trust someone, and it sure as hell couldn’t be Creed Trucks, the man of my dreams. “You’re right. I thought about that. But the company I was looking into? That helps you do that? They wanted ten grand up front, which is understandable. But then they insisted I take this specific plane to La Paz in Bolivia and go to this specific address. Seemed a bit too specific to me.”

“Indeed! They will ensure you disappear, all right! Vanish into a hole dug in the barrio! No, you made the right choice. However.” And here we stopped walking over the flagstones while Slushy hoisted his scissors over people’s heads, over tables with white cloths displaying glittering wine bottles. “I did see you at Smoky Mountain scratching at the load of paper money in your panties. You really need an elaborate offshore back door to wire yourself money instead of carrying cash.”

My mouth went slack as I stared into Santiago’s icy blue eyes. He was right. The paper money did itch, and I couldn’t wear skin-tight clothing if I’d wanted to. What in the name of high school football?

I was almost relieved to feel a warm snout at the backs of my knees. The silken fur announced Monstro’s arrival, and I cried out as I kneeled down to accept her slobber.

“Hi, Patience,” said Pippa. My old boss.

“Monstro!” I bawled, smushing my face back and forth against her sunny, fluffy forehead. “I missed you so much!”

Pippa kneeled down too, putting a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry Patience. I’m sorry I couldn’t give up Monstro for you. But I have a feeling you won’t be lonely for long.”

What did that mean? Of course I’d begged her to let me take Monstro with me when I quit Smoky Mountain. And of course Pippa had said no fucking way in hell. I hadn’t really expected it. Pictures of Lily was a great, vibrant environment for a dog. We also had an olive grove and cultivated apples and pears for dogs to catch and eat. Nearby, Sean Wildstar ran a small cattle ranch and acreage for Appaloosa horses. I was glad we didn’t have those large animals. I was a city girl born and bred, and would never think of riding a horse. Unless Creed asked me to.

Monstro was raised in a family environment, with hundreds of people to romp with and say hello to every day. Creed and I only had guests during events like this, or weekend tastings. You couldn’t beat Smoky Mountain for some things. It was Monstro’s home.

So I asked, “Why won’t I be lonely for—”

“My dear!” cried Santiago, reaching a hand down to bring me to a stand. “You will miss the ceremony! See, your Creed is taking control.” Santiago stuck out his lower lip, apparently admiring the control “my” Creed was about to display.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Pippa. “I love this part.”

Creed stood just under the roof of the crushing barn, looking dapper in his button-down shirt that revealed the right amount of silken chest hair. Man, did he have an ass. Juicy, begging to be squeezed, and since when had I been thinking like this? There had been only one modeling client I was interested in in the slightest, and the moment my mother sniffed that one out, I was doomed. Apparently Ivan Vasiliev didn’t possess enough cold hard cash for her liking.

I recalled admiring Ivan’s ass too.

Creed spoke into a tiny mike attached to his shirtfront. For some bizarre reason, he wielded a bottle of bubbly rosé and a … scimitar?

Slushy asked, “Is that the bottle I can cut?”

“Shush.” Santiago said.

Creed said, “I welcome you all to my first harvest crush. We picked the sparkling grape varietals first, then the white grapes, and now we’re crushing the reds. Today we’re stomping and crushing.” He paused to chuckle at the group of purple-footed people waiting impatiently for him to shut up so they could keep on trampling the fruit. “And turning the grapes to juice. Then it’s onto these barrels and tanks to let the beautiful, historical aging process begin!”

Two hundred people applauded, a cheerful sound that rolled downhill over the clusters of purple grapes peeking from under electric green leaves. “Go, Creed!” shouted some of the women who’d been draped all over him. Was he glancing at one of them, bestowing her with his seductive smile? I took a mental snapshot of her—blonde like I’d been naturally, hair blown straight, clinging dress meant to display silicon sagging boobs, unencumbered by a bra. Slut.

And then he did the most amazing thing.

Propping the heel of the rosé bottle on his thigh, Creed made a few experimental swipes up the neck with his blade. I looked at Santiago for a clue to this strange ritual, but he was grinning so widely it seemed his face would split in two. People, and not just the women hangers-on, were encouraging him with catcalls through tented hands.

“Go, Creed! Go!”

“Whip it off!”