Chapter Eleven
Connor
I hold the glass of wine up to the light, studying its color. It's a new wine Henri has been tinkering with for a while now, and now that a run of it is done, he's eager to get my opinion. Unfortunately for him, I can't seem to think about anything but Zoe. What a strange, fucked-up universe we live in for the two of us to meet again like this.
Even worse, I haven't been able to get her out of my head since the night at the hotel. Yeah, typical addict response to something they really like – gotta have more, right? But, there's something different going on this time. I don't know what it is. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it's unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
All that chaos going on in my head has the potential to lead me down dark paths – ones I have no desire to go down again. So, it's necessary for me to step back and put a little routine in my life. It's a trick one of my many therapists taught me. When I feel overwhelmed, I have to step back and give my life order and discipline. It's always worked well for me.
“You alright, boss?”
“Yup,” I say. “Just fine.”
I set the glass back down and look over at Henri, my master vintner. He's a small-statured man of French and Native American descent, who, despite being in his late-forties or early-fifties, has a head of wispy, white hair. He has an incredibly positive outlook on life and has served as my role model in many ways.
Henri is a good man. And when it comes to making wine, he probably forgets more about it every day than I'm ever going to know. When I first got out of rehab and became interested in winemaking, I thought I was doing pretty well. But, when I brought Henri on board, he took Six String to another level – and another beyond that. He's taken Six String to levels I never would have thought possible.
“You seem unusually focused today,” Henri says.
I laugh. “Just one of those days I need to pour my energy into something.”
He nods and gives me a knowing smile. Henri knows all about my struggle with addiction. About my past. We've sat here in the tasting room many a night, putting a couple of bottles back, talking about our lives. I feel completely at ease around him. As much as he's taught me about winemaking – and I hate that I'm going to sound corny as fuck for saying this – he's taught me even more about life.
I don't have many people I feel like I can truly open up to, but Henri is definitely one of them.
“What's got your head all twisted up?” he asks.
I pour him a glass from the bottle I just opened and then set it down. Henri picks up the glass and swirls it around the bowl, scrutinizing every detail. Henri takes great pride in his work and is never fully satisfied with anything. He’s always striving to improve. It's something I have always appreciated and admired about the man.
“I don't know really,” I say. “My head is just – all over the place.”
He nods, that knowing smile on his face again. “What's her name?”
I take a sip of the wine and let it sit in my mouth a moment, absorbing all of its flavors and nuance. I swallow it down and grin.
“I think you've outdone yourself here, mate,” I say. “That is amazing. This here is going to win you some awards. We're going to submit it everywhere.”
“I thought it turned out pretty well,” he says. “I was pleasantly surprised.”
“I'm not,” I reply. “You're a damn genius, Henri.”
“Well, I don't know about that, but thank you,” he replies. “Now, who's the girl?”
“What makes you think there is one?”
“Age and experience, son,” he says. “I'd know that look on your face anywhere.”
“Oh?” I ask, a wry chuckle passing my lips. “And what look is that?”
“The look of infatuation,” he replies. “You look like someone with a raging case of puppy love.”
I laugh and shake my head, taking another sip of his new wine, more than impressed with it.
“I don't know if I'd call it that,” I reply. “Maybe, morbid fascination.”
“Sounds like there's a story there.”
I nod and drain the last of the glass, then pour myself a second. I tell Henri everything – including how I met Zoe. He listens to my story, and laughs heartily when I’m finished, shaking his head. He takes a sip of wine and sets the glass down before looking over at me.
“The universe, or higher power, or whatever it is, certainly has a way of kicking a man in the balls, doesn't it?” he asks.
“Tell me about it,” I say. “I feel like the butt of some goddamn cosmic joke.”
“Maybe you are,” he says.
“That makes me feel better, thanks, mate,” I say and chuckle.
“Or maybe, this is the universe's way of nudging you toward something good. Something better than what you've had.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” I say. “You're not going to get all mystical and New Age, touchy-feely on me now, are you?”
“New Age isn't really my style. I still prefer the ways of my ancestors,” he says and laughs. “I do, however, believe that things happen for a reason. The circumstances around you meeting this woman are – strange.”
“To say the least,” I reply dryly.
“And yet, despite that strange, coincidental meeting, she's now back in your orbit,” he says. “I don't think that's without meaning.”
“And what might that be?”
He shrugs. “That's for you to figure out.”
“Maybe it's something simple, like the fact that she’s a gorgeous woman who's amazing in bed,” I say. “And I really want to keep screwing her.”
He shrugs again. “It could be that,” he says. “It would fit your usual MO with women.”
I cock my head and look at him. There's something in his voice I can't quite place. He looks at me with a playful twinkle in his eye and a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“But you don't believe that,” I say. “That I just want her for sex.”
He shakes his head and takes a sip of his wine. “Not in the least, actually.”
“Enlighten me then,” I say.
“I was up in your studio yesterday,” he says. “I came to the house looking for you, but saw that you had guests, so I slipped out quietly.”
“Yeah, that would have been Zoe and her father,” I say. “And some other idiot lawyer.”
He nods. “Anyway, I saw the new painting you have in there. The one of the dark-haired woman,” he says. “It's a stunningly beautiful painting, Connor.”
“Thank you?” I say, not in the least bit sure where he's going with this.
“Anyway,” he says, “It occurred to me that you don’t paint a woman like that without some real feeling. Real emotion. There is a lot of love in that painting. In every brush stroke. You can see it, Connor. You can feel it.”
“Yeah, I've known her for like five minutes,” I say. “At this point, I’m pretty sure it’s not love.”
Henri gives me an even look, holding my eyes with his. “No need to play coy,” he says. “I was not speaking literally, and I think you know that.”
A rueful grin crosses my lips. “Yeah, probably.”
“Just by that painting, I can see you have feelings for this woman. To create something so beautiful, it takes genuine care and emotion,” he says. “Seeing your face light up when you speak about her only confirms it.”
“I think that is just because I've got some gas, mate,” I say.
He laughs. “You want to know what else is telling me otherwise?”
“I'm on the edge of my seat.”
“The fact that you haven't brought up needing to get laid today,” he says. “Not even once. Every single day, you talk about needing to get your fix. Have sex.”
“Well, to be fair, I usually do need to.”
“But, not today,” he says. “Today, you're all business. Not even one single word about sex. It's interesting, isn't it?”
“Fascinating,” I say, my voice dry.
I lean back on my seat and let out a long breath. Feelings. For Zoe. It seems preposterous to think that after spending so little time together, I could actually have feelings for her. But, I also can't deny that when I'm in her presence, I feel a natural chemistry between us. A connection.
To me, it's strong and it's palpable – and entirely foreign. If I'm honest, it’s kind of unsettling. Since I gave up drugs, women have been my outlet. My fix that satisfies those oh-so-familiar cravings and urges that still well up within me. Part of me fears that if I don't have women, I'll slip back into old habits. Destructive habits.
There’s no use denying that there is something about this woman I find compelling. Alluring, even. Zoe is entirely intoxicating – which is why I'm so completely unsettled by it. I'm not, as they say, great boyfriend material. And I'm sure as fuck not husband material.
I'm selfish, egotistical and I like to fuck women. I’ve never seen myself as the type to settle down and be content with fucking one woman the rest of my life. I'm pretty goddamn sure that's not in my DNA.
“You know me, Henri,” I say. “Do I look like the white picket fence, two-point-five children, happily ever after kinda guy to you?”
He gives me a crooked little smile. “Ten years ago, did you have any idea you’d become the clean, relatively sober, successful winery owner, artist, folk music singing, beautiful suburban home in a picturesque valley, kinda guy?”
I can't help but laugh. No, ten years ago, I could never have imagined the man I’d become. Back then, my motto was to live for the moment and suck every possible ounce of pleasure out of life. The music couldn't be loud enough, I was never high enough, and I never had too many groupies in my dressing room.
Back then, I was all about the life of excess. Of a rock star. Or, you know, the exact opposite of the life I'm living now.
But still, that doesn't mean that I'm going to become suddenly wrapped up in Zoe. It could be that she's just a hot piece of ass that I want another bite of. It’s probably something as simple and basic as that, meaning that I'm overthinking petty, meaningless shit.
“People change, Connor,” he says. “You're living proof of that. And as we get older, our needs and priorities sometimes change too. Maybe, just maybe, this woman will help you enter the next phase of your life.”
When I turn my eyes to Henri, I see him smiling and know that he can read my thoughts. Hear the internal debate in my head.
“And you got all of that,” I say. “From one bloody painting?”
“Don't take my word for it,” he says. “Test yourself. Go find another woman – see about getting your fix – and see what happens. Maybe I'm wrong.”
“You're definitely wrong,” I say. “Definitely.”
“Only one way to find out.”
~ooo000ooo~
I walk into the Azure Room, one of the local lounges I sometimes play. It's not as large or nice as the Orchid, but it's still a pretty decent place. It's furnished in dark woods and rich, deep greens. Soft jazz music is playing and the bartenders all wear button-down shirts and vests. The place is classy and tasteful without being ostentatious.
It's a popular local watering hole for professionals and soccer moms alike. I can usually cast a line out into the waters of this little fishing hole and reel one in without too much trouble. I can't say the Azure Room hasn't been good to me in that regard.
I stroll over to the bar and drop down onto one of the stools. May, one of the regular bartenders, gives me a nod and a smile. She’s a five-foot-two Japanese-American woman with dark eyes and even darker hair. Her black hair, swept up in a topknot, accentuates her slender neck and body.
She's a student up at Sonoma State, and a cute, easygoing girl, but not one you’d ever want to piss off. Given that she's a black belt in judo, it's best to stay on her good side. I once saw her utterly humiliate a guy that was at least twice her size. She put a beatdown on him in mere seconds.
“What's up, Connor?” she asks. “Are you playing tonight?”
I shake my head. “Nah, not tonight, love,” I say. “I’m just in for a drink.”
A smirk tugs at one corner of her mouth. “A drink?” she asks. “Or a playmate?”
She slides a beer down in front of me, unable to keep from smiling at me. May sure is a sharp one. I always thought I was discreet about the ladies I've taken home from here – after all, some of them are soccer moms who have husbands in the area. I'm nothing if not considerate. I guess May sees all.
I shrug and take a pull from my bottle. “Can't it be both?” I ask. “After all, we can live on beer alone. Don't think I didn't see you sneaking out of here with that little brunette the other night. Where'd you grab her, the local PTA meeting?”
She laughs. May is not the only one who sees all.
“Bored housewife,” she says. “She wanted to try something different. Who am I to judge?”
“Or deny her the experience.”
She taps an empty glass she's holding against my bottle. “Damn right.”
An older man at the other end of the bar signals for her, so May gives me a smile and a wink before turning and heading over. I turn around on the stool and lean back against the bar, looking around and getting a lay of the land.
Lots of couples in here tonight. But, there are plenty of women on their own as well, sitting in clusters, whispering back and forth to one another. I catch the eye of a blonde sitting a table with a couple of friends. She has a soft, round face, smooth skin, and hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She's dressed a little conservatively – pink sweater over a white maxi dress, and very sensible shoes. She’s a cute little thing. A soccer mom if I’ve ever seen one. If I had to guess, I'd say she's got a mini-van or SUV out in the parking lot.
The woman gives me a shy smile before turning her attention back to her friends. Give or take a couple of years, I figure I’ve probably got about a decade on her. They're leaning over the table, doing their very best to avoid looking over here while talking to each other in hushed, excited whisper like schoolgirls. The petite blonde can't quite help herself and continues to cut timid glances in my direction.
After ten minutes, I set my empty bottle down on the bar and May quickly brings me a replacement. I turn to her and she's smiling wickedly.
“Target acquired?” she asks.
“I'd say so.”
“I've been trying to flirt with her for a couple of weeks now,” she says. “She just needs a little more time.”
“Well, I'll make sure to put in a good word with her later,” I say and laugh.
“Appreciate that, Connor.”
“I'll make sure to give her your number.”
May smiles at me. “Let her know that I'd definitely show her a good time.”
“I have no doubt, love.”
I laugh and stand up. That's another thing I love about May – we have similar taste in women. I carry my beer over to the table and when the blonde sits upright, a familiar flush creeping into her cheeks. I set my bottle down on the table, sitting down in an empty seat.
“Evenin' ladies,” I say, thickening my Irish brogue for their benefit.
The two other women give me a meek hello, but the blonde remains completely frozen, her eyes wide, her cheeks scarlet.
“I'm Connor –”
“Grigson.”
The blonde finally seems to snap out of her stupor and turn to me. I see uncertainty in her eyes along with a healthy dose of desire. The other two women quickly stand up and excuse themselves, hurrying toward the bathroom, leaving me alone with their friend.
“I always come and see you when you perform here. I was such a big fan of FUBAR when I was younger,” she says before quickly adding, “not that I'm saying you're old or anything. I didn't mean to –”
I laugh and reach out, putting my hand on top of hers. I didn't think it possible, but her body stiffened up even more. I was half-afraid that if she wound herself up any tighter, she might shatter into a thousand pieces.
“I've been called worse things than old,” I say. “Don't stress about it, love.”
“Well, you're not old,” she says. “Not at all.”
“What's your name?” I ask, just to change the subject.
“Maggie,” she says.
“Nice to meet you, Maggie.”
“Nice to meet you too,” she says, stifling a squeal. “I can't believe I'm sitting here with the Connor Grigson.”
“Oh, lovely of you to say, but I'm not 'the' anything anymore,” I say, doing my best to sound humble. “I'm just Connor these days.”
I take a swig of my beer, my eyes never leaving hers. She falls silent and starts fidgeting with her glass. Then the napkin on the table. How cute. She’s nervous.
“Married?” I finally ask.
She starts to roll her eyes before catching herself. “Separated,” she says and looks away again. “I have a son, as well.”
“Oh, good for you,” I say, hoping that some small talk will relax her nerves.
Her friends didn’t come back. After coming out of the bathroom, they chose to sit at a nearby table, casting envious glances in our direction every so often. We talk for a good half hour, and by the end of it, I'm bored as hell. There's only so much I care to hear about her mundane suburban life.
“Listen,” I say. “Do you want to get out of here for a little while? Go somewhere a little more, private?”
She swallows hard and clears her throat. I can see her trying to convince herself to succumb to her passion and lust. Do what she wants for a change. My guess is that her husband is the lights-out, missionary only kind of guy. He probably gives her a couple hard pumps, cums, rolls over and goes to sleep, leaving her unsatisfied and having to get herself off.
Which is such a shame, really. Good thing she met me.
Her hands are trembling as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Maggie gives me a shy, but flirty smile, and bites her bottom lip, her big, blue eyes fastened to mine.
“My – uhh – my car is parked outside,” she says.
A car isn't the most desirable place to have sex, but hey, I'm not going to be too picky. It's a policy of mine to never bring them to my place, for obvious reasons. I usually either get a room somewhere or go to them. But, I've certainly gotten it on in far worse and more uncomfortable places than a car.
“Well, let's go then, love,” I say.
We get to our feet and she looks around, her eyes wide with uncertainty. Her friends – when they think I'm not looking, of course – both flash her a thumbs-up sign and giggle to each other. Maggie looks around, like she's afraid she's going to be spotted by somebody she knows. I understand the need for discretion, so I lean forward and whisper in her ear.
“Why don't you go ahead?” I say. “You go out first and then I'll follow you out. Just flash your lights at me so I know where you are. Okay?”
She gives me a weak smile and nods. She's scared. This is probably the first time she's had sex since separating from her husband. I watch her as she walks away, a smile on my face as I drain the last of my beer. I wait a few minutes and then follow her out.
On my way to the door, I catch sight of May, who gives me a big smile – and the finger. Clearly, she's upset that I'm getting a chance with Maggie before she does. I blow her a kiss and step out into the cool evening air, entirely ready to prove Henri wrong.
Once outside, the flashing headlights of a mini-van – of course – draw my attention. It’s parked near the edge of the lot, well away from the lights. I hustle over to the vehicle, the automatic side door already sliding open as I approach. I get in and she pushes a button, closing the door again behind me. Thankfully, the windows in the back are tinted, which – combined with the darkness outside – should give us a bit of privacy.
I throw a couple of kid's toys over my shoulder and drop down into the middle row seat, joining Maggie on the bench. Her eyes are wide, and her body is trembling with nerves, or anticipation. Or both.
“I – I've never done something like this before,” she says softly.
I take her hand and kiss the back of her knuckles, then give her a smile. “Don't worry, I haven't either, love.”
She laughs and playfully slaps me on the shoulder. “I somehow doubt that.”
I lean forward and press my lips to hers. Weird. I feel nothing.
As I look at her – as I touch her – my cock doesn’t stir. By now, I should be hard and ready to fuck. The craving is there, burning a hole in the back of my mind, but as I look at Maggie, I don't feel it.
I close my eyes, desperately trying to work up the mojo needed to get my cock hard. I'm immediately confronted by images of Zoe. I see her smile, hear her voice – hell, I can even taste her on my lips.
As images of Zoe float through my mind, I feel my cock grow rigid in my pants. That's more like it. But, when I open my eyes to see Maggie sitting on the seat next to me, it deflates again.
This can't be happening. Not to me. This cannot be fucking happening.
“I – uhh – I actually need to go,” I say.
She tilts her head and looks at me, a confused expression on her face. But then I see a light in her eyes, and she looks she’s figured something out– something, I apparently haven’t.
“Are you having a little bit of – trouble?” she asks.
There it is. There's my out. That'll do – though, I hate the idea of it getting around that I can't get it up.
“Yeah,” I say. “Embarrassing as it is. But, when you get to be a certain age –”
“Don't worry, baby,” she says, reaching for my belt again. “I'll get you hard in no time flat.”
I scoot back on the seat and take her hands in mine – keeping them well away from my belt.
“Actually,” I say. “I'm a little bit too embarrassed to go on. I'm mortified, really. I should probably just go. Maybe I need to see a doctor and get that little blue pill.”
Her smile falters.
“Oh. Well – okay,” she says, her voice filled with uncertainty. “If you’re sure.”
“Absolutely,” I say.
“Well, let me give you my number in case you change your mind,” she says.
I hand her my phone and she programs her number into it, then hands it back to me. I slip it back into my pocket.
“Call me,” she says.
“Count on it,” I say, knowing full well I have no intention of calling her.
I open the side door and jump back out into the parking lot. Maggie is looking at me with a longing that borders on desperation. I don't know if it's because she wanted to fuck a former star, or simply someone other than her husband. Either way, I can't help her out.
“Have a good night, love,” I say.
“Don't forget to call me.”
I give her a smile and a wave before I turn and walk toward my car, my mind spinning at a hundred miles an hour. I've never had anything even close to that happen before. I've never been unable to seal the deal with a woman. When there's a willing pussy in front of me, I fuck it. That's just what I do.
Until now.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter to myself.
Maybe I am getting old. Or, perhaps even more troubling, Henri was right.
~ooo000ooo~
By the time I get home, I'm still frustrated and filled with an almost manic energy. I know I'm not going to be able to sleep, so I grab a beer from the kitchen and walk into my studio. I flip on the lights, illuminating the painting of Zoe up on the easel.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
My eyes take in the soft lines of the painting – and my memory fills in the blanks. My senses are suddenly inundated with memories of the night we spent together – the smell of her hair, the feel of her soft skin beneath my fingers, the warmth and wetness between her thighs. A soft moan escapes me as I recall how it felt to be deep inside of her, to feel her arms and legs wrapped around me as I drove my cock into her again and again.
I take a long pull from my beer and feel my cock stirring. I look down at my crotch and frown.
“Oh, now you wake up?” I say. “A fat lot of help you were tonight.”
I let out a frustrated breath and walk from the studio to my bedroom, setting the bottle down on my dresser. I strip out of my clothes and toss them in the hamper. Turning on the light, I step into the bathroom and start the shower. It's a large shower – one I'd worked with a private contractor to build – that can fit four people comfortably. There is a bench on either wall, multiple waterfall showerheads that let the water cascade down.
I step inside and let the hot water pour down over me, willing for it to wash away all my frustrations. As I do though, memories of Zoe flood into my mind once more. I recall the way I'd held her against the headboard, fucking her like she deserved. Her voice. The things she said. The way it felt to be inside of her.
And suddenly, I feel my cock getting stiff again.
“Give me a damn break,” I growl.
It's not long before I'm completely hard, my cock begging for a release. With a sigh, I close my eyes and let the memories of taking Zoe’s virginity flood my mind. I grab hold of my cock and start to pump it nice and hard. As I hear Zoe's voice in my head, begging me to fuck her, I tighten my grip, working my hand up and down the shaft.
What happened that night is so vivid in my mind that I can almost hear Zoe's voice echoing around the shower and feel her body pressed hard to mine. An animalistic growl escapes me as the memories of Zoe fuel my current fantasy.
I picture myself standing before her. She's on her knees, sucking my cock, those big, wide obsidian eyes of hers locked on mine. She's wearing nothing but thigh-highs and heels again, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. I reach down, cupping her full, round breast as she sucks me off, her hot little mouth furiously working my cock.
“Fucking hell,” I say and lean my forehead against the shower wall as I keep stroking my cock.
I picture having her bent over a desk, the soft flesh of that perfectly shaped ass just asking for me to fuck it. I grip it, squeeze it, and spank it nice and hard as I drive my cock into her. I hear her gasp and call out my name.
The pressure is building up low within me as I pump my cock harder and faster. I feel Zoe pushing herself back against me, grinding that sweet little ass against me, taking as much of my cock as possible. I throw my head back and cry out as I picture Zoe looking back over her shoulder at me, licking her lips seductively as I fuck her.
“Fuck me, Connor,” her imaginary voice taunts me. “Fuck me, baby. Give me your cock.”
“Fuck, Zoe,” I gasp.
I squeeze my eyes tight and clench my jaw, feeling my body begin to tighten. I throw my head back and call out her name as my cock pulses in my hand. In my mind's eyes, I see myself pulling out of her dripping wet pussy, my cock shooting streams of hot cum all over her beautiful belly and breasts.
My breathing is ragged as my cock deflates, and the water washes my cum down the drain. Obviously, my problem isn’t so much biological or performance-related, but about doing it with the right person. And clearly, my cock thinks that person is Zoe.
“Fuck me sideways,” I mutter.
I have no idea why she’s inspired this reaction in me, or what I’m going to do about it. The only thing I know for certain is that I need to see her.
Only by talking to her will I get the answers I want. The answers I need.