The Cocktail Club (17 page)

“Miss Peta!” She all but jumped into my arms. “You didn't have to come out here all by yourself! I woulda been fine. Between you and me, I just didn't want that dingbat back.” She winked.

Once Farah parked, I walked around and opened the door to get into the RV. This truck was done in rich gold and a bold turquoise. There were two plush love seats with large comfy pillows and several vanity chairs that swirled. We had installed a row of floor-to-knee mirrors between the two sofas so that our customers could see their shoe selections, whether they sat or stood.

“It smells really nice in here,” I said.

“Well, I try,” Farah responded. I watched as she moved around and prepared the RV for the business rush. “In about thirty minutes, this place will be packed,” she warned.

She pulled out the pitcher and began to mix the champagne and orange juice.

Fifteen minutes later, the mimosas were ready, and I waited comfortably for the
so-called
assistant to show up.

The doorbell rang and our first customers of the morning poured in.

“Oh, I love it in here,” a slender blonde told the two women she had in tow.

It didn't take long for them to start sipping and selecting various items.

“I'm baaaaaack, and I brought kolaches.” Pamela Evans grinned as she opened the door and walked in.

At the sight of me, she froze. Her smile turned into a scowl, the color drained from her cheeks, and she dropped the bag she held.

DARBY

I
sat, mouth agape, and hang-jawed to be exact. I barely blinked as my eyes focused on the text message. I had dreamed of that very moment for a long time.

“Let's hook up,” I muttered as I read it aloud. My hand trembled a bit as I held the phone.

My emotions were all over the place. Alarm settled in. The possibilities also made my stomach dance in quick and tiny flutters. I pulled in a deep breath. I needed to do the right thing, but over time we had become close. What was wrong with a face-to-face meeting between friends?

Should I reply?

My mother's accusations barked in my mind. There was no way I could deny the fact that I still communicated with Chandler Buckingham. I enjoyed the secret friendship that had resulted from my plan to make him pay. He was my dirty, little secret. He had intrigued me from the day we first saw him. Memories of that day flooded back like eager water up against a tight dam.

“Is this him?” I'd asked Roger.

We were huddled in a corner and studied the small, black and white photo Roger had cut out of the newspaper. We weren't supposed to be there. If he had been anyone else, his name and picture would've been plastered all over the TV and newspapers, but money
made the difference in this case.

“Yeah, that's him. He's been arrested like five or six times,” Roger said.

“For drunk driving?”

“I dunno,” Roger said as I stared at the picture.

Chandler was the poster boy for gorgeousness. His olive-colored skin looked as if it had been kissed by the right amount of sunshine. His hair was a light-brown mixture of curls and waves. His hazel eyes had a golden hue that made them pop against his face, and if he didn't have a movie star smile, I had never seen one before.

“What? You think you know him or something?” Roger asked.

I shook my head and refocused. Chandler's recklessness had killed my sister. His near-perfect face hid horror, and held my pain. There was nothing rough about his appearance. He was a complete metro-sexual male, and he couldn't deny it if he tried.

“Jesus! Here he comes.” Roger nudged me.

We stood in the hall where we hoped we'd catch a glimpse of him as he left the district attorney's office. The head of the mayor's victim's advocate office had given us the heads-up that Chandler's attorney had worked out a quiet deal that would allow him to avoid jail altogether.

My family was devastated by the news. We wanted our day in court. We wanted to see him go to jail, but instead, he was sentenced to several programs, and told something about restricted supervision. I couldn't repeat what happened in court because everything happened so fast. He had a fast-talking, slick, and polished attorney who looked very expensive.

We weren't even given the chance to make a victim's impact statement or anything. Before the hearing ended, I had rushed out of the courtroom. I couldn't take it anymore. The entire scene gave me a
clear picture of how different the rules and laws were for the wealthy.

What I didn't expect was to nearly bump right into Chandler as I walked out of the ladies' room a short time later.

“Oh, ma'am. I'm sorry. Are you okay? I wasn't paying attention,” he said.

He sounded good.

For the first time, I thought about the fact that the pictures my brother had did him absolutely no justice.

“Uh, I'm good. I'm fine,” I managed.

His beauty made me feel intoxicated. When our eyes connected, I had to remember to blink and struggled to avoid an awe-filled stare. He smelled good, but he looked even better. From his designer suit to his manicured fingernails, Chandler did not fit the stereotype of a habitual, reckless drunk driver.

That day remained tattooed on my brain. I guess that was the moment my obsession began. Months after that first encounter, I found him and his family's business. I made trips to the area a part of my regular routine. That was how it all started. At first, I told myself the plan was brilliant. I would get close to him, and take out my very own revenge since the justice system had let us down.

But years later, I had forgotten all about my initial goal. When the phone vibrated again, it brought me back to my dilemma.

Yeah. Let's.

I typed the message; then I erased it. I put the phone down and glanced at the clock. When was happy hour? I grabbed a wineglass and poured myself a drink. After several large gulps of chardonnay, I picked up the phone and retyped the message.

Cool. I'll let U know where and when.

I downed the rest of the wine and refilled my glass. I collapsed onto the chaise, and crooked my elbow over my eyes as if to block
out the images that danced through my head. What would an actual face-to-face be like with him? This wouldn't be a chance encounter in the hallway or even stares from a distance across the bar.

The decision had been made. I'd celebrate at happy hour and get ready for the meeting that would change my life. Whether that change would be good or bad was yet to be seen.

IVEE

M
y legs felt a bit shaky as I strolled over to the valet's podium in the parking lot, but I ignored it. I was more concerned about what, if anything, someone might've seen if they watched as I walked.

I turned the ticket over to the attendant, and waited for my car. The warm, fresh air felt and smelled good. I sucked in as much as my lungs could hold, then exhaled. When I felt my lids get heavy, I shook that off quickly. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a group of people headed my way.

“Looks like I got here right on time,” I muttered.

My eyes searched the darkened parking lot, and I wondered what was taking the guy so long. My head felt like it was swimming a little, but it was nothing a drive home with the windows down and music blaring wouldn't cure.

“Oooh, excuse me.” I pulled my hand up to my lips and hid a frown.

Was that a hiccup? I glanced around discretely to see if anyone had heard me. If they had, they never acted like it. So I kept my vigil on the headlights, and hoped the next car would be mine. My eyes did a strange squint, opened, and then squinted again. I wanted to die where I stood. I couldn't be sleepy.

“What the hell is taking so long? Did someone take my ride for
a spin or what?”

I wanted to move away from the podium and look around the corner, but my unsteady legs wouldn't permit it. Right when I decided it was time to look for a supervisor, my caramel-colored Cayenne eased forward, and I was relieved.

The valet driver held the door open for me. I slid a twenty into his hand and eased into my soft, leather bucket seat. I pressed a button and music flooded the space in my SUV. The minute I pulled out of the parking lot, I pressed another button and lowered all of the windows.

The thick, salty, warm air felt good against my skin. I sang along to one of my favorite songs and pressed the pedal as I raced on to the Southwest Freeway going south. I thought about my girls and back to our evening.

When the hook from my song came in for the second time, a flash in my rearview mirror caused my heart to drop to the bottom of my belly. The words caught in my throat as my eyes widened in horror. At first, the flashing, blue lights seemed to be in the distance, but the way they raced behind me made me nervous.

“Shit, I'm being pulled over? What the hell for?”

As I steered my car over to the side of the road, it hit me like a massive bulldozer. I'd had quite a few glasses of vodka. My mind quickly raced to add it all up.
One while we waited, another when everyone got there, then someone bought another round with the crab
cakes, and then, ummm, did those guys buy a few rounds too? How many
?
Had I lost count?
Those thoughts ran through my mind as I brought the car to a complete stop.

I swallowed dry and hard. My gut tightened into a knot, and I drew a complete blank. What should I do? Should I try to explain or be quiet? This could not be happening to me. I glanced up to
my rearview mirror and regretted it instantly.

Suddenly, a bright, blinding, white light drowned the inside of my vehicle with warmth as I reached down to the glove compartment for my proof of insurance and registration. Instantly, I felt irritated and then scared. Out of nowhere, perspiration blanketed my forehead.
Did I put the new insurance card in there? Ugh!

Shit! What if I'm asked to get out of my car? Oh, God! If I have to blow
into one of those breathalyzers, I'll die. Wait. I know my rights, don't I?

What was taking him so damn long? I had given up on finding the proper paperwork, convinced myself I could call my lawyer from my cell and rethought it all as I waited on the officer. My stomach felt like it had been twisted in a vise.

What in the hell?

Finally, the officer walked up to my driver's side and looked down at me. To my stunned surprise, he greeted me with a bright and wide smile. He seemed friendly, and I relaxed instantly.

“Good evening,” he said.

I released a huge sigh of relief. Thank God he wasn't one of those stuck-up assholes. I felt my body instantly calm down, and my heart returned to its regular pace. The way he grinned with that gum-bearing smile down at me, I felt confident that all I had to do was be straight with him, and I could probably get by with a warning. Of course, I told myself I needed to be humble and remorseful. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and prepared myself for the performance of my life.

I tried to ignore that fact that I was probably a spectacle as drivers zoomed by.

“Errr…good evening?” It jumbled out as a question before I could stop myself.

Two hours later, I sat in a jail cell and wondered how the hell had I read the officer so wrong.
How could I have misinterpreted his smile?

The glare of the overhead fluorescent light seared down on my brain, and I realized the nightmare of the arrest had finally come true. But this time, it was me. It wasn't some faceless guy on the news. It was me!

What the hell? Will my job find out? Is there a morality clause in my contract? I cannot lose my job! Should I call my lawyer? Is he even a criminal attorney? What in the hell? How did this happen to me?

I closed my eyes. It was cold, and goose bumps rose on my skin. The steel bench I sat on was hard and most uncomfortable, but I was lucky to have a seat. Some of the other women were cowered down in a corner on the floor. A few others stood and kept watch down the hall.