The Winemaker's Dinner: Dessert (The Winemaker's Feast) (3 page)

Exhausted, Ivan exhaled, ready to forfeit any hopes of a full night’s sleep. He blinked his eyes open, and even though he knew it was some ungodly hour, he snuck a look at the clock on his phone. “Two thirty? Damn it.” He pulled back the comforter and sat up, letting his legs dangle over the side of the bed. “What now?”

He weighed his options. Wine was the first thing that came to mind. Without another thought, he sprang from the bed, phone in hand, and headed to the kitchen. He pressed the button at the bottom of the screen and used its light to navigate his way through the darkened and still not entirely familiar apartment.

Focused on the refrigerator, he rounded the corner and locked his eyes on it, bathed in the warm glow of an overhead spotlight. It held the only known prescription for his newest post-breakup stress disorder: insomnia. Goose bumps rose on his forearms, reminding him that the AC was cranked up full blast, and he was standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing nothing more than a pair of white Calvin Klein’s. He swung the fridge door open and a wave of even cooler air washed over him as he squinted against the bright interior lights and cursed again.

Ivan tucked his phone into the waistband of his boxer briefs and reached for a bottle of his good old standby, Ms. Molly, then shut the door against the arctic chill prickling his skin. As his eyes once again adjusted to the darkness, he reached for a wineglass on the nearby rack and made a beeline to the balcony. As he crossed the room to the patio’s sliding glass doors, the size of the apartment made him feel even more alone. Many of his friends would’ve given anything to have this much square footage, but there was nothing familiar or comforting about his new apartment. Everything was new and pristine—even the bed he’d once shared with her was gone. The interior designer had assured him that everything was chic and top of the line, but it didn’t feel like home. Nowhere had felt like home since he’d left her sitting in the parking lot of The Bath Club six months ago.

As the patio door slid open, he welcomed the warm air that washed over his body. He stumbled to the oversized chair in the corner of the patio, fumbling with the cork. He tossed aside the twisted wire, took aim, and popped the cork into the blackness of the night from twenty stories up. The unmistakable sound it created resonated for what sounded like miles, traveling down to the marina and off toward the city. He listened intently as he tipped the bottle to the glass and carbonation escaped the ruby red elixir—a wonderful red shiraz. Its fizzing was the only thing that seemed familiar and at all comforting this night.

Ivan lounged back in the chair and crossed his right leg over his left, alone with himself, his thoughts, and a full glass of Ms. Molly. In time, one glass turned into two, and his thoughts shifted from “Where am I going?” to “What have I become?” He looked over his shoulder and back through the glass sliding doors at his surroundings: the fine art that hung from the walls, the framed achievements that had taken him years to acquire, and the family photos that reminded him he was not truly alone. He congratulated himself for making it, for becoming a successful business man. The business he’d worked so hard to build, with nearly singular focus, was thriving. He should be enjoying the spoils of his effort now, he reminded himself again, but every day he struggled with the worry that nothing lasts forever. Even when everything seems fantastic…sometimes it’s not. He fought to convince himself that not everything was disposable. He was in charge of his career, even if his personal life was in ruins.

But the upgraded ocean view and doubled square footage he now basked in was nothing more than a cover up for his failed love life. Ivan had been so hell-bent on making drastic changes since
that night
that he’d even traded his old girl, Betty, for a sleek new lady, Candy. Sure, she drove like a dream, and the new car symbolized his success, but the Mercedes SLS just didn’t fill him with the same joy Betty had. Nothing in his life seemed the same anymore, and a big part of him wondered if it ever would. Without Jaden, all the success and achievements he’d worked so hard to be able to enjoy had created nothing more than a really beautiful, but really lonely, tomb.

The next glass of wine went down smoothly, but it also conjured remembrances of what was, what could have been, and what should have been. Right now, she would’ve been neck deep in planning their future and their happily ever after. They would’ve talked of buying a house, having kids, and imagined their life together. It seemed Ms. Molly had released the floodgates on all the memories that plagued him—even if they were memories of things that never were.

A part of him still felt a little unsettled by the fact that he hadn’t seen or spoken to her since the night his life fell apart. Not a day went by that she didn’t email, text, or phone him, but all her messages remained unopened, unread, and unanswered. Ivan knew deep down that he couldn’t stomach any excuse she’d try to give—not then and not now.
Fuck that
, he thought and poured another glass of red.
She still works with the fucker!

On the rare occasion that he watched TV, he skipped the station that hosted
One Hot Kitchen
, but once or twice when channel surfing, he’d caught a flash of her and that dickhead Damian playing it up for the camera. What could she possibly say that would erase or absolve the whole I-slept-with-another-man-while-I-swore-my-love-and-devotion-to-you bullshit? Thoughts of the two of them naked, their limbs entwined, was too much to bear, so Ivan took a larger than normal gulp of the bubbling wine, hoping it would erase the mental image his last thought had created.

With perfect timing, Ivan’s phone buzzed against his hip indicating a late night text, something he’d become all too accustomed to. He grabbed the phone from his waistband and chuckled at the irony as he read the message:

Fontainebleau room 1020 if you’re up for it.

Ivan didn’t want what was being offered. He wanted what didn’t exist anymore.
Go!
his mind screamed at him. A heavy sigh escaped his mouth, and his head dropped back against the chair. He didn’t want to go to the Fontainebleau, nor did he want to be alone. But the pull of a physical connection and the moment’s peace it offered was too good to refuse. Ivan could hear his inner freak’s laughter and feel his anticipation building as his fingers flew across the phone:

I’ll be there in 30.

As he hit send, an overwhelming sense of disgust leached through his body. This was not him. This wasn’t what he wanted, or who he wanted to be, but it was what he needed. The feel and touch of a woman was the only thing that could bring him close to what he’d once had with her—the nirvana he craved to experience again, if just for an hour. Sex was the drug for the heartache that plagued him. It let him feel like he wasn’t fucking them, he was fucking her, and it was a sweet escape until it was over and he was once again consumed by the guilt and shame of his desperation. The rougher the sex, the more intense and real the mirage of her.

Ivan hated his addiction. He hated that he was strung out on it all the time. But at least he was doing
something
. This was a step farther down the road, which was progress. And life was about progress, right? Nearly paralyzed by guilt, his body tried to stand and ready itself for a night of carnal lust, but his heart pleaded with him not to. Love had kicked the shit out of him…twice. But as far as he was concerned, this overwhelming feeling of loss and foreboding was something he’d have to fuck his way through until the pain eased.
Go ahead and fuck her,
the freak encouraged. Ivan silently conceded, and the freaky little bastard exulted, suddenly free to get his next fix from one of the many nameless, meaningless sexual drug dealers that prowled Miami Beach.

Ivan tossed back the last of his wine and hurried to get dressed before he changed his mind. It enraged the freak when his conscience interceded, and in return the cruel monster would make him suffer. Rifling through his closet, he grabbed a pair of dark jeans and a black T-shirt he’d gotten from his sister one Christmas.
Trust me. I’m a doctor
, it read. The irony of the message wasn’t lost on him. It took less than a minute to brush his teeth, pull his hair into a loose ponytail and daub his neck, chest, and crotch with cologne.

Still battling with the freak, but knowing he was fighting a losing battle—these days the freak
always
won—Ivan grabbed a wad of twenties from the nightstand drawer and gave himself the onceover in the full-length mirror. He snatched his aviators from the hall table and hung them from the neck of his T-shirt. It was the same routine over and over again. He knew the freak wouldn’t be sated again until the light of day. He started down the hall to the elevator, but something nagged at him.

“Condoms! Shit.” He hung his head and scolded himself as he darted back to his apartment. The weight of the tiny box felt like a hundred pounds in the palm of his hand, but it was a hundred pounds he had to bear. He needed his fix, and he hated himself for it.

Chapter 4

“Down With the Sickness”

“F
UCK
M
E
L
IKE
Y
OU
M
EAN
I
T
!” the woman screamed as she lay on her back with her knees pinned to the bed on either side of her head. Ivan was more than happy to oblige.

The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh confirmed that he was fucking her just as she’d asked. Hard thrusts took him deeper and deeper into her, numbing his mind and satisfying his body. His triceps ached from supporting his weight as he thrust in and out of her, and his calves began to scream for mercy as they flexed harder and harder to keep pace.

“Do you like it when I fuck you hard?” he yelled back, not caring what answer she’d give. He didn’t need to hear it because it was written on her face. This girl was no different from any of the others he’d bedded. They all liked it hard, fast, and dirty.

“Tell me what you want,” she moaned, looking up at him from between her parted legs, her eyes begging him to give her more.

Her words were the same he’d heard dozens of times, and like all those other times, he did as he was told. Pulling out of her, Ivan sat back on his heels. “Turn around and get on your knees,” he demanded.

Without hesitation, she flipped over and got on all fours, presenting herself to him in the dim morning light. There was no heartfelt plea from within his soul asking him to stop now, only a deep-seated carnal lust. His fingers dug into her hips as he pulled her to the corner of the bed and stood behind her. A primal hunger took control of his body, possessing him fully. With punishing force, he pushed himself into her from behind and unleashed a flurry of intense strokes, each one driving her wilder than the last. Faster and harder Ivan pummeled into her, inching himself toward that piece of heaven that justified his actions. Euphoria swept through his limbs and a sense of self-worth crept back into his life with every inward stroke. As the feeling took effect like a drug, Ivan’s body began to quiver with anticipation.

In one fluid, automatic motion, he reached for the strands of bleached blond hair that taunted him as they danced back and forth across her naked back. He fisted her hair in his hand and wrenched her neck to the side, taking solace in the throaty moans and gasps of pleasure that escaped her cherry red lips. Their bodies trembled as they neared the ecstasy they craved: the ten seconds of complete and utter inner peace that only an orgasm could provide.

“Where do you want it?”

“On my face. Oh, God…” She groaned and looked over her shoulder at him as she licked her lips.

Dirty. I like it.
Before she could finish whatever thought had entered her filthy little mind, Ivan tugged her hair and brought her to her feet in front of him only to force her to her knees a second later. Reacting to his unspoken demand, she tore off the condom and began to stroke him hard and fast. Her mouth formed an O as she readied herself to catch her prize.

Looking down at her and seeing the sultry glint in her eye was enough to push him to the edge. He coiled with approaching sexual delight, and his body prepared to reward him the only way it could. Taking control, Ivan reached down and pushed her away, stroking himself furiously as current after current shot through his body. He gripped his cock tighter and with one final stroke he exploded, covering her body and face with the rewards of his release. Still on her knees in front of him, she took him back into her mouth and began to milk him dry, but the sexual morphine had already started to wear off. With his eyes squeezed shut, Ivan tried to savor the feeling for as long as possible, but it soon faded, along with the vibrant colors and euphoric sensations that had come with it.

“I should put you on speed dial,” she said as she ran her fingers around her mouth. It seemed less an attempt to clean up and more an attempt to savor.

But her voice sounded like nails being drawn across a chalkboard, and it was the final nail in his coffin. As the last remnants of his fix vanished, Ivan snapped back into his dull tragedy of a life, one painted in muted colors and flooded with dark feelings.