Blended (Redemption #1) (6 page)

Oh yes. Fancy-asses.

“We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?”

Owen speaks before Holden has a chance to reply. “Hadley, would you like some wine?”

“Oh, no, I’m all set with whiskey. Thank you, though.”

“Are you an avid whiskey drinker?”

“I am, and I have been for years. It’s something that I’ve gotten to know intimately. I enjoy the taste of warmth, sweet, and smoke—it’s like its own campfire. And I like the smooth burn that it provides. It straddles the line between pleasure and pain.”

“It’s the first time I’ve heard a woman speak so well of the stuff.”

I laugh and take a bite of the filet before speaking again. “There’s a lot to know about it, and it definitely is an acquired taste.”

Owen smiles, and Lo watches us closely as if I’m going to crawl under the table and give him head for conversing with me. Silly girl. I don’t need to have a conversation with someone to sleep with him, but as tempting as it is, I would never hurt her.

“Since you like the stuff so much, has Lo taken you to the whiskey library? It’s on the Magnificent Mile.”

“A whiskey library?” My interest is piqued. I’ve heard of something like it before, but I’ve never been lucky enough to stumble across one.

“Oh yeah, isn’t it rather new? I’ve never been, but I’ve heard great things about it from those who enjoy that foul stuff. No offense, Hads,” Lo says.

“None taken. What’s it called? I’d like to stop by and take a look for myself.”

“If I remember correctly it’s called Blended,” Owen says with a smile as he sets his glass down on the tabletop.

“Huh . . . thank you, Owen.”

“No problem. Let me know if you need any more suggestions of places to go in the city. I’m sure Hold wouldn’t mind showing you around either.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t mind one bit, but I’ll need your number for that,” he says as if his ploy isn’t obvious. Just in case his meaning is not clear, his eyes let me know that it’s more than just a line that he’s throwing out.

“Smooth,” Owen adds to the awkward silence before the four of us laugh at how ridiculous Holden is—sexy as hell, but preposterous nonetheless.

We all settle into a comfortable conversation while the apex of my thighs aches for relief. I’ve been deprived for over twenty-four hours, and my libido won’t allow me to forget it.

I unwind in a dark leather wingback chair in my office as I page through a file involving my latest venture here in Chicago. I’ve been impressed with my staff and its outcome thus far, given that it’s one of the smaller venues that I own at the moment. It seems to be thriving.

I place the folder down on the coffee table in front of me before reaching for my tumbler of 1937 Glenfiddich; the hints of cedar, cinnamon, cloves, and toffee fill my mouth as I take a sip of the rare bottle. A total of sixty-one bottles were made, and I happen to own another four.

I breathe out and find comfort in this particular whiskey. The tradition, feel, and aesthetics in drinking whiskey have been enjoyable to me since I can remember. Each bottle in my collection comes with its own history, sharing its tales by taste and scent rather than words. If a drink could restore memories from the past, then whiskey would be the answer. I roll the tumbler between my fingers as the walnut liquid slides from side to side.

I take another sip as the flavors emerge across my palate, groaning as the warm sensation makes its way down my throat and through my body. Unable to sit for much longer, I get up and walk across the span of my office to the windows, glancing down at the people walking around on the sidewalk below. At this moment, I wonder what it would be like to be one of them—to consider myself
average
.

I’ve managed to keep my life to myself; I wouldn’t call myself an introvert, but I’ve been known to hole up with a bottle of whiskey from time to time. I turn away from the windows and those who occupy the sidewalk space below.

The majority of my time is spent dealing with Brass Global, working out, or drinking Scotch. I’ve limited myself to whom I interact with in Chicago, and I have a set of rules that I abide by to keep sane.

I was born in London, England, and moved to the United States with my mother when I was still an infant after the death of my father. She raised me as a single mother, striving to be the best she could be for me, and it’s because of her that I refuse to lose sight of my goals for something or someone inconsequential.

An abrupt knock on my door interrupts my thoughts as well as the silence in the room. I glance at my watch and frown: it’s eight in the evening. Who the hell would still be here?

“What?” I call out, annoyance laced in my voice.

The oversized solid wood door opens silently and my secretary, Adriana Hugh, walks in, her heels clicking softly against the black marble flooring. She’s been with me since I launched my company, and I could not imagine replacing her. She’s beautiful, but I haven’t shown any interest in this all-American girl. She may be someone I would naturally go after, but my rules forbid me from doing so.

“I apologize for interrupting, Mr. Brass, but I just wanted to ask if you needed anything else before I leave? I’ve arranged the meeting in Australia for three weeks from today, which will give you the time you needed to review and make your final decision on the properties you were interested in acquiring there.”

“Thank you, Adriana. Is there anyone else left on the floor?”

“No, sir. It is just the two of us.”

I nod. “Very well. Have a good evening.”

“You too, sir.” She smiles timidly before placing a few phone messages on my desk and walking out of the room, shutting the door silently behind her.

I place my now-empty tumbler on my desk before picking up the messages she has written down for me. Two are from my mother, another is from a C-level employee, Gage Cooper, and the other is from Lawson Stafford. Adriana holds all of my personal phone calls during the day unless I ask her otherwise. She usually keeps my cell phone on her desk as well. I don’t have time to play tag via text messages when I’m busy with crucial financial decisions involving the multiple companies comprising Brass Global. Of those companies under the BG umbrella, some mean more to me than others do, but those who work underneath me to make my empire thrive will never know the difference. Our subsidiaries are varied with some being in the business sector while others are in the hospitality industry.

Some of my biggest projects, however, revolve around a global charity called Mothers of Brass, an organization that is dear to my heart. Mothers of Brass runs safe houses in which women experiencing domestic violence find their refuge. Many of them suffer from physical as well as mental abuse, and many of them escape their abusive situations with their children in tow. This charity helps to put these women back on their feet in the time they need and require. In addition, it offers counseling and support groups at no charge.

It’s an incredibly personal part of my business, but no one outside of Adriana and Brass Global’s C-level positions are aware of that.

After reading each one of the messages, I decide that tonight is not the night to call them back. None of them will get anything worthwhile from me this evening.

Now that everyone has left the office, I remove my tie, undo the first few buttons on my white shirt, grab my jacket off of the back of my chair, and then leave my office, picking up my phone from Adriana’s desk on my way out. I text Jacobs to inform him that he may take the rest of the evening off after he delivers my personal vehicle to my final destination.

This evening will be one drowned in the light and spicy, yet slightly bitter flavor of a 10-year aged rye whiskey. Once I arrive at my building’s lobby, I walk out after greeting the third-shift security in all-black suits. Instead of taking the car with Jacobs, I walk the two blocks to my most beloved place in Chicago—Blended—where I’m greeted by name upon arrival. I’m shown back to a spot next to the oversized fireplace and ask a librarian for a neat WhistlePig straight rye whiskey. Blended has proven to be my saving grace in the last two months since it opened; it’s provided me with a peace of mind every time I walk through the doors. It’s home.

She’s back a few minutes later with a tumbler designed by Rikke Hagen filled with two fingers of amber. I thank her before breathing in the aged liquor, taking a sip, and sinking a little farther into the seat. It’s a Monday night and Labor Day weekend, so the crowd is light this evening, just how I prefer it.

I choose to stay invisible although everyone knows me, and if they don’t yet then they shortly will because I’ll soon be gracing the cover of one of the most popular magazines in the nation. I may not be looking forward to the undue attention, but I’m pleased with my accomplishments that have ultimately led me to getting the cover. Regardless of the recognition that this may bring, I’d prefer to remain unseen.