Blended (Redemption #1) (7 page)

I’ve been in Chicago for just over a week since Labor Day, and I have yet to get laid. How pathetic am I? It’s an early Sunday night, and I cannot stay in this apartment for one more minute, regardless of how beautiful it is. I need to get out of this building and find myself an easy lay or simply be someone’s easy piece.

I doll myself up after a hot shower, spending more time on my hair and makeup than usual before I walk into the foyer and call out to Lo, who is huddled up on her couch with Owen. “I’m heading out for a few hours. Please don’t wait up if I’m not back. I’ll see you later.”

“Have fun, Hads. Make sure that he wears a condom,” she jokes.

“I’d never go without one. Bye!”

I leave the confines of what quickly seems to be becoming my very own anti-sex prison cell. Hell, even the straight men in prison get more dick than I have this last week—which is none.

I’m antsy as I walk out of her building and hail a cab, telling the driver to take me to Blended, the whiskey library that Owen told me about last week. I’ve been job searching like it’s the one thing I need to breathe and I haven’t taken time out to just explore Chicago’s treasures on my own. The only thing that I’ve left the apartment for is yoga and whiskey. I’ve been to the park a couple of times in the morning—before there are too many people around—to practice yoga in the slightly humid summer air. I’m not yet acclimated to these northern summers. I’m used to the dry heat of the desert, but I’m adapting.

The cabbie pulls up to the address, and I hand him some cash before getting out and walking through the front door. The place has a low buzz of noise; it seems to be more of a place to relax and truly savor the whiskey than a place that hosts wild events and drunken loons. The lights are dimmed, and there’s music playing over the speakers, but it’s not loud enough for me to figure out what song is on. There are large pieces of comfortable furniture—sofas, wingback chairs, coffee tables, and seating nooks—around the open room. Wooden beams soar overhead as they stretch from one side of the room to the other. A massive fireplace sits in the center of the far wall, which is currently surrounded by people drinking; some are even smoking cigars.
How do they not get fined for that shit?

I walk up to the bar and take in the two walls of shelves in front of me that are filled with hundreds of bottles of beautifully aged amber liquid. I glance to my left and see a petite woman sliding a wooden ladder across another set of shelves before climbing up it as if she was going to retrieve a book. Instead, she comes back down with a bottle of whiskey.

The petite bartender . . . uh . . . librarian snaps me from my thoughts before I’ve noticed that I’m next to be served. “Bourbon, rye, Tennessee, Canadian, Scotch, or Irish?” she asks, and I look at her wide-eyed.

“That’s how you greet people here?” I ask, recalling her saying the same thing a little louder when I first walked in.

She cracks a smile, yet I feel as if she’s mocking me. “It sure is. What will it be?”

“Macallan 10-Year. Straight up and neat.”

She raises her brows at me, her smile seeming to be the slightest bit more genuine as she turns away from me. I’m sure she’s used to pricks coming in here acting like they know a thing or two about whiskey. She comes back and places a gorgeous tumbler in front of me. “I’ll hold onto your card,” she says as I pull it out of my purse and hand it to her. “Take a seat wherever you want and you can either come up here to grab a drink or ask one of the librarians to bring you something.”

“Great, thank you.”

“Oh, if you actually like the place and if you’d like to make this a regular spot for yourself then come by and chat with me. We offer a private membership, which requires approval from the owner. It’s like a library card—you get to try out the most expensive bottles a few times a year. We also hold socials for the members, and every once in a while someone gets to add the stamp of the Macallan 64-Year to his or her list. Let me know if you’re interested and I’ll grab you an application.”

“That’s great, thank you,” I say before walking away to find a seat, surprised by the detail involved in this space. I take a seat in front of the all-brick fireplace that is burning real wooden logs instead of the conventional gas alternative, inhibiting the campfire smell that the Scottish single malts provide.

After a few minutes of glancing around the place, I swirl the amber liquor around the glass. I love the vibe that this place gives off. It doesn’t feel ostentatious even though they own the most expensive whiskey in the world beside many others that I have seen gracing their shelves.

I feel welcomed here as if it’s a place that I’ve visited hundreds of times before. I shift in the seat and get a bit more comfortable before pulling out my phone and calling up my Kindle application to read some sappy know-it-all romance novel that has barely been holding my interest. Okay, that’s another lie, but I won’t admit to my fixation of fictional characters to just anyone.

I don’t notice the time passing until my second tumbler is empty and I stand to stretch out my legs, which are stiff after sitting still for so long. I look up and out toward the large windows; the street lights are on outside and it’s now completely dark with very few people walking past. I hadn’t realized that I was so absorbed in this book. So much for finding someone to ride tonight.

“That must be an interesting novel,” a deep, dark voice says as I sit back down to read again, hoping that one of the librarians will come by so I can order another Macallan.

I glance up with a small smile on my face before it falls once I lock eyes with the man sitting diagonally from me.

“Oh.”

“Ah, so she does recognize me.”

It’s the man from Stafford’s. The one who probably still has my thong hostage. I feel an odd vibe shift between us, so much so that I’m a bit uncomfortable with the way he’s looking at me.

“I suppose I do. Did you grace my thong with your come yet?” I enjoy shocking men with my mouth—in more ways than one.

His lips rise up in one corner, “No, I have personal rules when it comes to women. It’s a trophy of a non-sexual encounter that left me lightheaded.”

“That’s an interesting choice of words.”

“Speaking of words,” he says, nodding toward my phone, “what are you reading?”

I glance down at the sex scene unraveling on the page in front of me before locking my phone and setting it on my lap. “Does it matter?”

“Not entirely, but I’ve enjoyed the myriad of emotions crossing your face as you read it.”

He’s been watching me?
I don’t know whether to be creeped out or grateful.

“Is this the part where I call the cops on a stalking, panty-hoarding asshole?”

He chuckles and takes a sip of his whiskey. “No, not one bit.”

We’re interrupted by a librarian, the petite one from earlier, asking if she can get him anything else this evening before she leaves. He shakes his head and thanks her before she walks over to me.

“I’m sorry, but it’s two a.m. and we’re closing. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. If you are still interested in the membership, then I can grab you an application on your way out.”

“Thank you, I think I’d like to take a look at the membership details. An application would be great.”

Two in the morning?
Holy crap.
That means that I’ve been sitting here for more hours than I care to count. I glance around the space, and we’re the only three left.

“Isla,” he says and the petite woman glances over at him.

“Yes?”

“Bring her another and clear her tab. Once you’re done, feel free to leave. I’ll be staying a while longer.”

“Of course, Brass.” I swear that she rolls her eyes before thanking me for coming in and walking back to the bar to fetch me another glass.

“How . . . ?”

He grins knowingly at me. “I own the place. You’re welcome to stay and finish your book. I don’t plan on leaving for a few more hours.”

“Oh. That’s incredibly generous of you, but I’d rather not be in your way.” I go to stand, but he holds up a hand, halting my movements from across the coffee table.

“Stay.”

One word.

One demand.

I relax against the leather again as Isla brings me a new tumbler. “Thank you.”

He nods at her dismissively, and she walks away from us and back to the bar where she grabs her sweater and purse before walking out the front door, locking it behind her.

“You didn’t have to buy my drinks.”

“Call it an even exchange for pink lace.”

“I think this one glass of whiskey is more than twice the price of those panties.”

He shrugs and lifts his right leg, placing his ankle on top of his left knee. “Tell me something about yourself.”

“About myself? Uhm, my name’s Hadley but . . . I’m not one to give out personal details to a stranger.”

“Well, Hadley, it’s a pleasure to finally call you something aside from ‘platinum blonde.’ You’ve had my balls in a knot since the elevator ride, so I wouldn’t exactly call myself a stranger.”

“I’m sure I have.” I’m not subtle when it comes to sex or flirting or hell, telling someone that I want to be ravaged.

“Cocky. I like it. I’m Waylon Brass, but seeing as I’m rather familiar with your most intimate parts—their scent, at least—you can call me Wade.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Wade.”

“As it is you, Hadley. What are you drinking?”

“It’s a Macallan 10-Year.”

“Finish that off and I’ll grab you something with a bit more history behind it,” he says as he gets up and moves around the coffee table to stand in front of me. “Come.”

I stand and place my hand in his offered one before he leads me to the darkened bar area where I watch him pour me a glass of Glenfarclas John Grant 60-Year-Old. His body moves underneath his suit as though every movement is thought out in advance—he’s very sure of himself in a physical way. If he wants to fuck me right here on the bar top, I won’t stop him for a second.

“What are you doing in Chicago? I thought you worked at Stafford’s?”

I take a sip before answering him. “Well, you sort of got me kicked out,” I joke, but his face turns serious.

“I’ll call Lawson and have that changed by tomorrow morning. I won’t be the reason for your dismissal.”

“You know Lawson?”

“I do. He works for me.”

Holy shit.

“You know, I rather like Chicago. I think that I’ll stay for a while.”

“Ah, my library has won you over, hasn’t it? It wouldn’t be the first time.”

If I’m being honest, it’s a huge part of why I want to stay. I’ve never felt more comfortable in any one place before. “I wouldn’t want to stroke your ego.”

“My ego can handle it.”

“Well, if you insist. I think it was the final deciding factor. There’s just something about this place that holds me captive. I can see myself wasting hours in here . . . sort of like today.”

“You should apply to be a member then. I’ll have the fees waived for the application as well as the annual membership.”

“There’s no need for that,” I say as I get up onto one of the barstools and pocket my card that the librarian left on the bar top.

“Maybe not, but I want you to be part of something that I own,” he says as he moves between the chair adjacent to mine and me, and stands there, looking down at me. My blood heats at his proximity.

“What do you want out of it, Mr. Brass?”

“I’d like to take you on a date.”

“A date? You mean that you just want another pair of my panties because you’ve already worn out the first.”

“No,” he says firmly, “I’d like to take you out and possibly enjoy a drink or two in neutral territory.”

I pause and watch him for a while before I give him my answer. This is possibly the worst idea I have ever had, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes me want to oblige. “All right, when and where?”

He pulls out his phone and glances at it for a few seconds before looking up into my eyes. “Tomorrow evening at eight. Leave the where up to me.”

“I think—”

“No, don’t think,” he interrupts. “Give me your number and I’ll text you the details.” He slides his phone into my hand and after a moment of consideration, I give in and dial my number into his phone. I call myself and wait to hear my phone go off before I hang up and save my contact details under Whiskey and Rye instead of my first name.

He takes his phone back and pockets it without looking at the screen. He moves his hand to my knee, and my eyes shift from his face to where his hand is scorching my skin as if a frozen static has stung me. His long fingers trace the seam of my leggings, and I’m entranced with watching his hands move before I’m able to look away.

“Are we going to fuck now?” My voice is too soft and needy; it’s not my own, and I’m sure that he notices because I swear I just felt his entire body stiffen even though he’s inches away from me.

“Not yet. I have rules, remember?”

“Oh? You don’t sleep with someone on the first date?”

“No. I don’t date women in Chicago at all.”

Confusion becomes me, and I raise my brow at him. “Then why are you taking me out?”

“I’m asking myself that exact same thing right now, and if we don’t get out of here, then I’m going to regret taking advantage of you.”

“I like being taken advantage of.”

For some reason, my statement doesn’t seem to surprise him, which in turn shocks me. “I don’t doubt that. Did you drive here this evening?”

“I took a cab,” I say coldly as I take the last swallow from my tumbler. For some reason, I’m pissed the hell off now. I don’t understand why he won’t just fuck me right here when it’s obvious he wants it too. To hell with him and his moral standards. I need to be penetrated and fucked like a goddamn savage.

“I’ll take you home. Grab your things.”

Asshole.
Who does he think he is? He sure as hell isn’t in charge of me—or my actions either. It doesn’t even look as if he’s going to be in charge of my orgasms. What a shame. His rejection swims through my veins like poison, and I cannot figure out what it is about sex with me that doesn’t intrigue him.