Whiskey Tears, page 10
Following her directions onto Smitty Court, I drive to the end of the mostly unpaved road. She’s correct in her description of a little shack, though “shack” might be too generous. This building is more like a hut—a tiny, freestanding structure made of thick wood panels appearing to have been built decades earlier. If a strong wind came by at the moment, I’m certain it would knock it over. At the very least, one huff from the big bad wolf would definitely blow this house down.
“The best sandwich shop ever?” I wonder incredulously aloud.
“In Rhode Island, hands down. If you ever come to Georgia, I’ll introduce you to the actual best.”
My heart jumps in my chest at the mention of visiting her in Georgia. It won’t ever happen, but a boy can dream. And to make sure she doesn’t realize there’s no chance in hell it will happen, I reply, “I’ll take you up on that offer.”
She beams a little brighter, sitting up a little taller. Which could have nothing to do with my comment and everything to do with the sandwich she plans to eat.
Adley hops out of the car as I shut down the engine. Bouncing from foot to foot, her enthusiasm doesn’t escape me. It almost rivals how excited she was to come to Newport as well as her desire for cannoli.
I don’t waste any time joining her outside the car where she quickly loops our fingers together. Leading me toward the shop, if I were a smaller guy, I’d have to run to keep up with her. Instead of going to the front door, she walks us around back. The whole operation is a little sketchy. Scanning the premises, there are only a few cars in the “lot,” and an abundance of trees surrounds the shack.
“Do you come here often?” I want to ask, but thinking better, I pose a different question, one I need the answer to more than how often she eats here. “How did you find this place?”
Her feet halt their movement about halfway to the back door. Glancing my way, she tilts her head to the side. “I overheard a few of the art majors talking about it while I was studying in the studio one day. The way they described the mouthwatering tastes had me starving, even though I had already eaten dinner. I convinced a friend to take a ride with me.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes closing in something akin to concentration or memory. “Truthfully, this will only be my second time here, but in all fairness, I’ve been salivating since I finished my last sandwich. If I’m off base and you hate it, at least you didn’t pay for it and can grab something else after you drop me off.”
Unsure of why she adds the last part—usually she has way more confidence in her choices—I can only nod, intrigued by everything she’s shared.
“I didn’t peg you as an art major.”
My question has her stumbling over a stick on the ground as she starts for the door again. “I’m not.” She gives no further explanation.
Debating on how far to push her, my decision is made as we step up to a battered door. The top part where a screen should be is wide open, and the bottom part has seen better days.
Adley steps up to what I can only assume is the order “window.”
“Ordering!” she shouts into the openness, further confusing the heck out of me into what exactly is going on here. Noises typical of a kitchen sound in my ears. In a moment, a burly man in an apron appears at the door.
He hands a crinkled paper to Adley. “Be back in five to take your order.” With no additional communication, he ambles away.
Again, I want to ask if she’s completely sure about this place, specifically our safety. Based on first impressions, I can’t believe this place is sanitary or passes any health inspections.
“The look of disdain on your face is unbecoming on you,” Adley divulges unashamedly.
Schooling my features into something a bit more becoming, I reply, “I want to trust your judgment, but right now, my gut disagrees. You don’t get a creepy vibe from any of this?” I wave my hand around to indicate the entire environment. I’m all for hole-in-the-wall places which serve excellent food, but I guess I draw the line at tiny little shacks serving sandwiches out of a rickety back door. And are there any other patrons around? Surely some of the few cars out front are paying customers, right?
Puffing out her chest in an attempt to appear larger than her normal small stature, her hands settle on her hips. A drastic change in her expression occurs—the giddiness from minutes ago exchanged for something more along the lines of indignation.
“That’s real big coming from someone who didn’t even trust me with his first name until he brought me to a hotel for the night,” she fumes, making a valid point. Not to mention, I’ve been dodgy about a lot of subjects, which she continues to overlook.
Blowing out a breath, I give in. If there’s nothing on the menu seemingly appetizing and/or “safe” enough, I’ll skip out on getting anything, but as she’s determined to eat something, I can’t stop her.
I hold out my hand, waiting for her to put the menu in it. I watch as the fight leaves her, the emotions draining out of her, the redness of her cheeks paling to more pink than red.
Her eyes travel down to my outstretched hand and when she peers back up, perplexity etches her features. “Give me the menu. Please,” I tack on, softening not only my voice but my countenance. Almost reluctantly, she places it in my hand.
It takes all my effort not to roll my eyes at the handwritten menu, complete with scratch-outs and sharpied words over the original menu. Under the word “SATURDAY,” there are like six sandwiches listed, but to Adley’s credit, all but one sound extremely appetizing.
My decision solidified, I give it back to her. “The turkey cranberry one. With fries.” Her brows raise in question. “I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong.”
Without a word, she pats my chest. As odd as her action is, it has my heart craving more.
“There are tables on the other side of the building. Grab us one?” Something inside cautions me not to mess around anymore tonight. I start for the outdoor seating but turn around when she calls out, “Ethan, what do you want to drink?”
“A bottle of water.” No matter what else they serve, I’m taking enough chances on the food.
On the side of the building, just as Adley mentioned, there are a few decrepit picnic tables. Seated at three of them are other customers, all smiling and seemingly enjoying the food. More of the weirdness of this encounter fades away, and as I wait for Adley to emerge with our order, my mind wanders to memories of last night.
Adley writhing underneath me in the throes of passion.
Adley coming on my tongue.
Gorgeous any way I remember.
I’m shaken out of my memories when Adley materializes from the back of the building, a tray of food clasped tightly in her hands. She wears a proud smirk on her lips, almost sinister-looking, a cat with a canary in its clutches. More of the weirdness about this adventure subsides as I watch her every stride to our table. I’m too mesmerized to think about offering to help.
Lowering the tray to the table, she takes a seat on the opposite bench.
“I have to say, yours smells delicious. I think it’s the cranberry, which is weird because I don’t usually like cranberries.” She barely pauses in her hurried speech to hand me my sandwich. “Think I could taste a bite?” Tilting her head in wonder, a hopeful look covers her gorgeous features.
A compulsion overcomes me, a need to continue to please her, give her whatever she wants, and I find myself sliding the sandwich over to her without even taking one bite.
She shakes her head, not accepting my offer. “No, you try first. I’m on pins and needles about how you’re going to like it.”
“I feel like you’re putting a lot of pressure on me to like this sandwich, this place. It’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”
She contemplates my suggestion, not speaking right away. “It won’t change my opinion of you. I promise.” She crosses her fingers over her heart to solidify her words.
My mind takes the time to remind me her promise will be broken when she learns my true identity.
In an attempt to ignore my thoughts, pushing them down to the future, I grab the sandwich and take a bite. I don’t even need to swallow to appreciate how it tastes exactly like a Thanksgiving meal. The turkey moist, the cranberries tart, the gravy an added pop of flavor. Swallowing, I immediately take another bite, this one as delectable as the first.
“I don’t even understand how it can taste this good.” The comment falls out of my mouth with no shame, no misgivings about the combination of flavors contained in the sandwich. A glance over to Adley reveals her sitting with her arms crossed, gloating with an “I told you so” smirk. “I’ll never doubt you again,” I admit, chomping down another bite.
She notices how fast I’m demolishing the sandwich, and acting quickly, she takes it from my plate. Her mouth can barely contain the sandwich, but she does her best to take the biggest bite it allows for. As if instinctual, her eyes shut, the flavorful concoction overloading more than just her taste buds. My dick twitches at the sight of it all, wanting to come out and play, offering himself up as sacrifice for her next meal.
“I don’t even mind the cranberries,” she confesses, the food all consumed. “Great choice, by the way. I never would have thought I needed this sandwich in my life.”
“It’s why I’m here. To serve you,” I deadpan.
Although I mean it sarcastically, there’s a part of it my mind acknowledges as the truth. For as long as I can keep my identity a secret, there’s not much I won’t do for this girl.
Talk about having someone wrapped around her finger.
I don’t stand a chance against Adley Gates.
Eleven
Adley
Over the best sandwiches ever—agreed upon by Ethan—we discuss other food favorites: pizza, pastries, breakfast foods, even soups. It’s fun to watch him get all excited and protective over his favorites, especially soup, of all things.
“My mother’s chicken tortilla soup rivals any restaurants. Need me to prove it?” His face paled with his admission, something he didn’t mean to say aloud. I could tell he was going to start freaking out, so I changed the subject. As much as I want to know more about him, all of it if I’m honest, I have to stick to what I said previously—I’m okay with whatever he deems appropriate to share.
After our meal, he drives over to Winters’ Mill Liquor and true to his word, ventures inside the store with my list of liquor. His eyebrow inches up a hair as he scans it over, but he doesn’t question any of it.
He’s in the store about fifteen minutes total, and when he emerges from the doors with the bags, my stomach flips at the sight of him, of his willingness to make my day a little brighter. I could tell the sandwich shop skeeved him out, almost to the point where he didn’t order anything. I didn’t even have to say “I told you so” as he hungrily devoured his sandwich in about two minutes flat.
Back inside the car, he hands me one of the bags, keeping one on his lap. Holding it up, he queries, “Up for an after-dinner drink with me?”
“Like you even need to ask,” I admit easily. Not only does it prolong our time together, but I can drink openly with him, unlike last night.
Our plans established, he reaches behind his seat and lays the bag on the ground. Settling into his seat, he drives us to a deserted lot and parks the car. The lot’s only deserted because the strip mall is closed. If I were a little smarter, I might rethink this whole plan, but my head’s not quite in charge tonight. That would be my heart, the one who considers all plans suggested by the man next to me as good ones. My head rationalizes at least he’s not a complete stranger.
He grabs the bag from behind his seat and climbs out. Fiddling with my door handle to get out of the car quickly, when I finally get out, I notice he’s got the tailgate open. The temperature has steadily decreased as the evening starts to settle in. I’m thankful for Ethan’s new hoodie keeping me warm, and as I stroll to the back of the car, a smile appears on my face, a heady feeling of knowing there’s some truth in his earlier statement about him “serving” me.
“You haven’t even started drinking yet, and you’re already smiling like a loon.”
In response to Ethan’s words, I reply, “I know how to have a good time without the alcohol. Vodka enhances my already good mood.”
“Good to know,” he consents. He pats the space next to him, indicating I should sit. As I climb up, he dumps out the contents of the bag. Several liquor nips fall out, a variety of whiskeys and vodkas. “It’s not classy, but the best I could do without glasses.”
“The only wrong way to drink vodka is not to drink it at all. Classy or unclassy, I drink it right out of the bottle most of the time.” I don’t bother waiting for his permission to open up a bottle and begin chugging it down. I started with the best one, figuring by the time I’m ready for the bad stuff, I’ll be the right amount of drunk not to care about the cheap taste.
Four mini bottles later, I’m feeling more than a buzz. Ethan’s in more control of his wits, pacing himself with his drinks, but his bigger size gives him an edge. He’s folded down the back seats, so we have more room to stretch out. Despite our desolate surroundings and access to a back seat, both of us have been on good behavior. I’ve only thought about jumping his bones like three times, but the more I drink, the more likely the number will increase. We’ve talked a lot, and he’s opened up more about his time at URI but still shying away from personal talk of his childhood, family, and anything else that would give me a glimpse into who he really is. With each sip I take, it gets harder not to ask more personal questions. It’s a good thing there are only two bottles left. That is, if he’ll share one of his whiskey ones with me.
I struggle to get the next bottle open, my fingers not able to grip the top and twist it off.
“Here, let me help you.” Ethan takes it from my hands, easily unscrewing the cap, and hands it back to me.
The buzz from the alcohol combined with the jolt of electricity from his touch have me blurting, “Dance with me.” Ethan’s eyes go wide at my suggestion, his questioning look not deterring me. “Slow dance in a parking lot. It’s kinda a thing.” I strive to make some sort of winky eyes, my attempts failing with the amount of alcohol I’ve imbibed. Instead of resorting to begging, I hop down from the SUV, catching myself on the bumper so I don’t fall on my ass. My movements are inflexible at best and I’m somewhat unsteady on my feet. “Whoa. Haven’t been this drunk in a while,” I muse.
Ethan watches my actions in amazement. While he’s definitely still questioning my motivation, a sly smile plays on his lips.
After three tries, my hands finally land on my hips, standing my ground to get him to dance with me. “Ethan,” I whine, the voice sounding annoying even to my own ears, “please. One dance before you desert me for however long it is until I see you again.”
Did I mention I’m a needy drunk? Maybe not my best move tonight, letting myself get to this place with Ethan, but it’s too late now. Chalk it up to another Adley Gates bad decision.
It takes him what seems forever—in my foggy and boozed-up brain, it seems even longer—but he finally joins me on the pavement.
“I don’t dance,” he whispers shyly, seemingly embarrassed.
“I can lead. Four years of cotillion with Georgia’s cream of the crop teaches you a thing or two.” I don’t hesitate to step closer to him, looping my arms around his neck. “Hold me into you; I’ll do the rest.”
Sloppily, I escort him around the parking lot, my head resting on his chest, his hands on my ass. His heart beats fast, uneasiness evident in the erratic rhythm as well as the way he carries himself so stiffly, his movements rigid. Which doesn’t bother me in the slightest in my inebriated state. I’m a little wobbly, still standing only because my arms are around his neck. It probably doesn’t help for my eyes to be closed.
I don’t know how long we dance for, no music except what plays in my head. I only realize we stop because Ethan removes his hands from my ass.
“It’s getting late. We should probably get you home.”
“I don’t wanna go,” I complain. “Can we spend another night together?”
Opening my eyes, I find Ethan a few feet away from me. I can’t decipher his expression. I can’t tell if he’s going to shoot my idea down or if he’ll give in to me like he’s done so many times already today. However, this last request might be pushing my luck. Logically, I understand, but I don’t want to believe it.
Exhaling deeply, he runs his fingers through his hair. The move is sexy, making me want him even more. “I have an early flight in the morning.”
His words stop my advancement to him. Why is this the first time I’m hearing about it? And why does it bother me so much more than anything else he’s said?
“Where are you going?” The liquor fueling my emotions doesn’t hide my disdain for his comment.
“Business trip to California.”
“My roommate is from California,” I overshare. My statement is of no relation to him, but I swear his body quivers at it. I close and reopen my eyes, thinking it must be the booze affecting my eyesight as well as my emotions.
“That’s….interesting.” Adding nothing more, he turns toward the car, cleaning up all the empty bottles.
When I realize it’s really the end, I grab the last full one. “You gonna drink this one or can I ‘ave it?” I slur.
“Didn’t take you as a whiskey drinker.”
Grappling to open it, I retort, “Oh, I’m not. But right about now it seems like a good idea to drown the rest of my sorrows in a bottle of whiskey. Even if only with a teeny, tiny sip.” The bottle slips from my grasp. Reaching down, I bang my head on the bumper. “Ow, fuck.” I haphazardly rub the place where it hit, doing nothing to alleviate the pain. “Stupid bottle. Stupid work trip. Stupid Adley.”
