Reviving Haven (2 page)

I stand there, looking at Weezie’s face intensely. I know her all too well. She has what I call
guilty look
syndrome. She won’t look me straight in the eye and she’s biting her
lips
.

“Weeze?” I prod, moving right in front of her and pulling a chair close to her bed. I sit down and adopt my interrogation pose.

“What?” Weezie replies, slightly agitated and a little red faced.

“Oh. My. God. Did you sleep with Thomas?” I can hardly get the question out with a straight face because I know what an absolute jerk the guy is. Weezie frowns, then her lips curve into a slightly devious smile.

“Just once, I swear. I hardly remember anything. Okay, I do remember he has the teeniest, tiniest wiener ever,” she reveals, chuckling. I start snorting, and then Weezie bursts out laughing. We both collapse into hysterics and laugh so hard that we end up in tears. I have to press my legs together because I almost wet my pants from all the laughter.

“I will never be able to grocery shop down the aisle with vienna sausages again. You have ruined me,” I say jokingly as I press my hand to my heart.

“You don’t eat meat anyway,” Weezie replies as she gets up off the bed. She heads towards her closet.

“Did he at least kiss well?” I yell as I run to my bathroom to pee. Weezie follows, standing outside the door and leaning in.

“Well, yeah, that wasn’t so bad. But explain to me how a guy who looks like that is hung like a newborn.” I just shake my head, pulling up my pants, flushing the toilet and moving to my sink to wash my hands quickly.

“That’s the issue. All these erotic book boyfriends are all gorgeous and well hung. It’s what women want, what they expect. They think it’s all real. Then they get a “Thomas” and they are disappointed?” I shrug and look at Weezie.

“I beg your pardon, but I have had many hot, smoldering men with extremely large appendages.” Weezie holds her hands out, trying to show me what twelve inches looks like. The girl can always make me laugh.

“Whatever, slut.” I wink at Weezie and walk past her, kicking off my shoes and plopping on my bed.

“Anyway, huge party tonight and you’re coming,” Weezie announces as she makes her pouty face. This is yet another attempt to drag me to some kind of gathering to meet people and be social.

“NO, NO, NO! For God’s sake, I just want to stay home tonight, take a bath, read a book, and
maybe go on Twitter. Besides, I know you too well. ‘People’ my ass . . . you mean men,” I accuse, jumping off the bed and trying to close my bedroom door. Weezie jams her foot in the doorway, which shows me that, unfortunately, she’s not going to take
no
for an answer.

“Come on. This is a . . . a . . . book event,” she says slowly and eyes me carefully.

“BULL,” I yell, arching my left eyebrow, doing my best Mr. Spock imitation.

“Calm the brow down. Okay, so maybe it’s not an actual book event per se, but there will be book people there for sure, fabulous movie stars, rockers, and elite rich men. I’m sure you can find someone to talk to about books. There will be food and drinks too. It’ll be fun. We need fun. Did I mention the food?” Weezie stands there, arms crossed in determination.

“And let us not forget all the plastic piranhas, snobs and really fake people. Oh yes, that will be loads of fun. What a great morale booster,” I say as I lie back on the bed, grabbing my pillow and pretending to smother myself.

“Come on, you never do anything with me anymore. Christ, it’s been almost seven years, just let the asshole go—I’m positive he’s moved on,” Weezie grumbles as she rolls her eyes.

“It’s not that. I just don’t feel very social. It’s been too long. I’m not sure how to act or know what to say,” I explain, twisting my pillowcase in frustration. Just the thought of meeting men makes my heart race.

“You used to be VERY social and quite fun.” Weezie sticks out her bottom lip to exaggerate her pout.

“Not really, not even in college. I was not the big time partier—not like you,” I reply as Weezie pushes her lip out further.

“Really, you’re gonna trip on that lip, sista,” I say, shaking my head in reluctance.

“Please, just go this one time. It’ll be fun, I promise. Who knows, you might meet Mr. Right.”

“With my luck, it will just be more like Mr. Right Now, or maybe I’ll get lucky like you and meet a man hung like a hamster.” I throw my pillow at her and frown.

“Well, what would be wrong with getting a little something-something? Maybe you could forgo Earl for tonight. Wouldn’t the real thing be marvelous?” Weezie suggests, grinning wickedly.

“Since when have I ever had a one-night stand?” I snicker when I think about it, because I’ve never had a one-night stand, and at age thirty-seven, I’m just a little past the one-night stand prime.

“What? It could happen. You were with that guy in college that one night. I remember it clearly. Plus, you’re very pretty, you have killer legs, and if you’d pull the stick out of your ass, maybe you wouldn’t be so uptight,” Weezie replies, smirking in my face.

At this point, she’s not inspiring me to want to attend this party with her.

“First of all, that ONE-night stand, nothing happened. He was gay, Weezie—not bi-curious, but
completely
gay. Second, I’m not like you, and I wish I could be. Hell, I wish I could live by your rules, and just so we are clear, if you think I’m going to be your wingman tonight, you’re going to be sadly disappointed. I’m sorry . . . I wish I was a better friend.” I regret admitting what a shitty excuse I am for a best friend. The truth is Weezie has been badgering me to go with her every weekend for years. I always say no. Maybe it’s time for me to reach outside of my comfort zone, not only for her but also for me as well.

Weezie grabs both my hands and smiles. “You’re a great BFF, sweetie, and you know I love you. I want you to go just to hang out and do something different. I promise—no wingman action tonight. I’ll behave, I swear,” Weezie’s face pleads her sincerity.

“Well, get the hell out of here, then. I need to get ready, pull the stick out of my ass, jump in the shower and go through all that girl crap,” I tell her, pretending to sound pissed.

“Yeah, well, do me a favor and try to dress like you’re from this century, not like a fucking librarian trapped in the rare books collection. And for the love of God, please do
not
wear those fucking glasses. Contacts please, just for tonight,” Weezie demands as she shuts the door.

“I didn’t realize you had turned into the fricking fashion police. By the way, so you know, those contacts burn my eyes, and I don’t think I have any stripper clothes in my wardrobe—maybe I could borrow some from you? Oh, and don’t forget to make sure your earrings and shoes match or there will be consequences, missy!” I yell defiantly through the door.

Weezie has to have every article of clothing, shoes, purse, and even her jewelry match. She’s been like that for years. It’s hilarious.

I take a deep breath, shake my head, and wonder why I even agreed to go with her. This kind of outing is not my thing, but Weezie adores parties and events. Maybe I could hand out business cards for my bookstore. If I can view tonight as networking, it might be less intimidating for me. I’m not sure how to handle a large crowd of people, especially celebrities.

I grab my bottle of anti-anxiety medication and take a couple. My heart’s racing and I’m really nervous. I know Weezie has good intentions, so I hope I can cope with tonight and not end up embarrassing her.

I begin to undress and get ready to take a shower. Once I’m naked, I study myself in the full-length mirror. I suppose, for thirty-seven, I don’t look
that bad
. My hips are slightly fuller than I would like them to be. There’s softness in my middle that once held rock hard abs. At least I have nice breasts and, according to Weezie, killer legs.

When I was with Jared, I had to be fit. Once, I had a runner’s body—long, toned and sleek. Jared made sure I stayed within his certain guidelines to maintain my size two. Now I’m heading towards a size ten, and that’s on a good day. I loathe gravity.

I suppose I will have to shave my legs. UGH! How I dread this chore. Since I haven’t had a real man in my life for years, I only shave about once a month. My leg hair is extremely light and not very prevalent. I guess shaving is necessary if I want to go without hose tonight. It’s warm out and I’m thinking skirt or dress, so shave I must. I snicker as I turn on the shower. Maybe I should trim the bush. I break into a hearty laugh because frankly, after seven years, it’s a bush out of control . . . the garden-variety type for sure. A weed whacker would be better suited for this grooming task.

I start going through the medicine chest. Then I tear through all the drawers, finally finding a pack of shaving blades and some very ancient shaving cream. Maybe I should just wait and get it all waxed off tomorrow; it’s not as if anyone is going to see it tonight. Oh God no, what am I thinking
? That hurts like hell. I never liked being bare down there. Hell, I don’t even like bald men. I just need to trim it down, and that will make me feel better.
Yeah, right!
This is going to be some landscape job. I smile, thinking that hiring a gardener would have been better. Gardeners use weed whackers.

Once I finish showering, I apply minimal make-up. I despise heavy face painting. All that eye make-up, foundation, rouged cheeks and globs of lip-gloss . . . it just isn’t me. Weezie spends hours piling on the stuff, but I prefer a more natural look.
And basically, who am I trying to impress?

I pick a nice, jade green pencil skirt that lands an inch above the knee. Then I pair it with a blouse of various different splashes of green to complement the skirt and the color of my eyes. I choose a pair of Dolce and Gabbana strappy, black platform sandals to add a few inches of height.
To help me look thinner.

I twist my hair up into a messy bun, leaving a few straggling strands. Good—more relaxed and carefree, less uptight and conservative, thus removing said stick from ass. I chuckle at my assessment and then throw on some small earrings and a watch. I rub some lotion on my legs and spray a few squirts of perfume. Done. I’m ready as I’ll ever be.

I meet Weezie in the living room. Holy crap! She’s dressed to slay and seduce. She’s poured herself into a long, bright purple dress with a plunging neckline. There’s no way she’s wearing underwear because the material molds to her like a second skin. She completed her ensemble with purple Grecian style platforms and matching purple earrings. Her nails and lips are also painted bright purple. If she strikes out at the party, she could at least audition for a grape juice commercial.

“Jesus, Haven, couldn’t find a skirt a little shorter? You do kinda look like a librarian. Hmm . . . maybe unbutton a few buttons, and then you can be a
naughty
librarian,” Weezie says as she tries to unbutton my blouse. I slap her hands away.

“Hey, just be glad I’m going. I told you I really would rather stay in, but you basically forced my hand, so take me as I am,” I reply, frowning at her criticism.

Weezie smiles and squirts a ton of perfume on herself from the travel-size bottle she always keeps in her purse, and then she puts her arm through mine. “Tonight is going to be so much fun—you’ll see,” she says gleefully.

“Can’t wait,” I manage to respond without much distain.

As we close the front door, a cab pulls up.

“We’re not taking one of our cars?” I question Weezie.

“No, I thought a cab was a better idea. One, it means we can drink the night away. And two, you can’t just up and bail,” she points out, grinning.

“Oh great, you plan to get annihilated tonight? Wonderful . . . that means
you will hold me hostage. You do realize I am proficient at calling my own cab?” I glare at her as I get into the backseat of the cab.

“Sure, but really, you don’t even know where we’re going, or the address. So, sweetie, you’re stuck with me all night long,” she announces proudly.

“Oh, great joy,” I mumble. I have a sinking feeling that tonight’s outing is a bad idea.

We arrive at our destination thirty minutes later. The home is located in the hills of Los Angeles, and it’s phenomenal. I can hear loud music and there’s the scent of cigars, perfume and food throughout the air. It’s a beautiful spring night. My meds have kicked in and I feel relaxed. Maybe this party won’t be so bad. At least Weezie looks excited.

“Come on, let’s go in, get some drinks and mingle,” she says, putting her arm through mine as we walk through the doors.

This house is truly enormous, more so than I had original thought at first glance. The main room appears to be overflowing with people—at least a couple hundred people in there alone. I can’t actually see the band, but I can hear them. I also recognize some of the guests because they are celebrities.

Weezie drags me through the large swarm of people while looking for the bar. Once we find it, I lean back agains
t it and take in the room. It is just as I predicted—wall-to-wall beautiful, young women with enormous breasts, pouty lips and very platinum blond hair. Most of them have amazing bodies and are scantily clad to show them off. I run my hands along my skirt, and then touch my hair, making sure my bun is tight.

“And what can I get for you lovely ladies?”
asks a very attractive, young man as he leans across the bar.

“I’ll have a Cosmo,” Weezie replies, with a healthy dash of flirt on the side. I roll my eyes. Honestly, the bartender doesn’t even look old enough to drink.

They both look at me questionably. I don’t really drink much at all, and it’s been a while since alcohol has passed my lips. And considering the medication I took less than two hours ago, I’m not even sure if drinking is a good idea. I hate hangovers. In college, even if I only drank a little, I always felt like crap the next day. I have spent too many years watching Weezie party. And now, I’m too old to handle that type of lifestyle now.

“I guess I’ll have a white wine spritzer,” I say hesitantly.

“Really, Haven, not even a
real
drink?” Weezie looks flabbergasted.

“It
is
a
real
drink—it’s called wine,” I reply smugly.

“Yeah, wine mixed with soda, so it’s very watered down.” Weezie rolls her eyes.

“Believe it or not, I have no intention of getting hammered and making a complete ass of myself. I’ll leave that to you,” I snap back.

The bartender hands us our drinks. Weezie lo
oks at me and clinks her glass with mine.

“Here’s to an eventful evening,” Weezie says, smiling as she eyes the room.

I take my glass of wine and look around the room nervously. I really don’t like large gatherings. I do recognize a few book buyers as well as publishers mixed in with the crowd. I could go talk to them, but in this setting, I’m not comfortable enough to approach them. I want to maintain my professional relationship with them. My eyes fall on Weezie, who hasn’t strayed very far. She’s having an in-depth conversation with a few of her real estate clients I have seen at her office. I sip my wine and glance at the art hanging along the walls, anything to keep my mind occupied. Among the many masterpieces on the walls, I also notice many professional looking outdoor photos as well as celebrity portraits. The owner of the house must be a photographer, and a very good one, judging from his or her work.

As my eyes continue to scour the room, I see
her
. The minute our eyes meet, I feel that sick, nauseous pang deep in my gut. She’s one of the women Jared slept with. Well, she’s a woman now. Even after all this time, I still recognize her. Seven years ago, she was barely eighteen. Now she’s tall, thin, with fake boobs and very little clothing, and she is still stunning. All the pain pours back into my bones, into the very marrow. I feel ill. I know she’s recognized me. I can feel her twisted smile as she glares at me. Oh, how I want to stomp over there and slap that grin right off her face, but that’s not me. I’m not the type of person who gets into physical fights. I’m the one who runs from them, the one who never “rocks the boat.” I’m the punching bag. God, I hate the way I am, especially right now. So weak. So broken.

I will my feet to move and head back to the bar.
The cute—and much-too-young—bartender flashes me a flirty smile.

“Can I get you something else?”
he asks.

I stand there, contemplating. He asked me a question. Why is it so difficult to answer him? I just want to forget about seeing her. I want to forget about the betrayal and pain. How can I still ache after seven years? This sucks.

“Yes, I’ll take a shot of tequila,” I blurt out.

The bartender appears slightly surprised at my drink choice.

“Tequila?” he questions. It appears he thinks I made a mistake.

“Yes, tequila, and make it a double,” I
confirm, eyeing him carefully.

His eyebrows shoot up and he looks slightly concerned. He stares at me, trying to assess whether or not I can handle a double shot of tequila. He slowly pours the double shot, and then
cautiously hands it to me. I nod to him in salute. I drink that double down in three . . . two . . . one second flat. The bartender looks at me in awe.

WOW! I’d forgotten just how bad
ly that stuff burns on the way down. They can brag all they want about the smoothness, but it feels like it’s burning a hole straight through my esophagus, leading to a nice slow burn in my belly.

Now that’s a perfect name for this drink—“Burn.”
My face feels warm and rosy as calm rushes over me.

“I’ll take another—double,” I say confidently, leaning up against the bar, almost touching the bartender’s nose to mine. I’m beginning to feel a lot less reserved. The poor bartender looks a little scared, like giving me another double might endanger his life.

“Trust me . . . I’m way old enough to drink. I was probably drinking that stuff when you were in grammar school. Because, honey, I’m fricking . . . old.” I slam my empty shot glass down on the bar, motioning with my eyes for him to refill it.

“Well, you look pretty good for being
old
,” he replies, trying to lighten my mood.

“Are you flirting with me?” I ask.

The bartender’s cheeks blush. He appears flustered.

“You’re too young for me, stud,” I warn him playfully.
Stud? Where the hell did that come from? Damn tequila.

He finally pours me another double tequila, then grabs his towel and begins wiping down the bar. He keeps his eyes lowered, inspecting every swipe of the towel. I think I’ve embarrassed him, and for that, I feel somewhat embarrassed myself. I take my drink and slowly walk away.

I carefully sip my shot as I pretend renewed interest in the wall art. I’m not going to care about that blond, big breasted, child-sized bimbo that stole Jared from me. I’m not going to let it affect me again. The alcohol is making me think too much. It’s supposed to make me forget, not recall every single detail of my pathetic life and—
oh yes, lest I forget
—make me feel horribly sorry for myself.

Out of a sea of designer suits, men with slicked back hair and opulence, I see him. He’s leaning casually against the wall by the fireplace
, having a conversation with three men. He’s stunning, almost painfully pretty. Okay, normally I don’t call men “pretty,” but he is, and his effect on me is instantaneous. I’ve never reacted to a man in this way—I feel breathless, and then a shudder ripples through my body. From where I’m standing, he appears to be quite tall, well-muscled, and very commanding. He looks familiar to me, though. He’s stunning enough to be an actor, maybe a model. Even though he’s dressed in plain dark jeans and a gray shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, he looks stylishly elegant. On top of all these attributes, his demeanor also speaks of wealth.

He has beautifully shaped lips and a distinctive jaw line that’s sporting a heavy five o’clock shadow. His hair is a messy cap of dark brown waves that fall slightly past his shoulder. It looks somewhat unruly, as if he just rolled out of bed. The way he carries himself, it’s clear he’s self-assured, exotic and masculine—in other words, he’s perfect. One curl has fallen across his forehead, partly covering his eyes—eyes that I really want to see but can’t because of the distance between us. That wayward lock seems to beg me to push it aside.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I acting this way?

C
rap, one word—tequila.

I’m staring . . . and now I’m caught. His eyes look up into mine from across the room. An amused smile grazes his lips. I feel my cheeks
heat up with a nice toasty blush when I think about that delicious-looking mouth. I feel hot, and I mean
really
hot. I’m combusting on the spot. Sweat begins to trickle in between my breasts, and my panties suddenly feel damp.
Why am I acting like this?
My head is swimming, and my legs feel like rubber.

Damn tequila.

I need air, wonderful fresh air. I need to go outside—now. I drag my gaze away from the pretty man and make my way through the crowd until I find a sliding glass door. I open it and am immediately doused with a cooling blast of night air. It feels so good. I stroll outside, but I have to walk very carefully down a flight of steps, using the light from my cell phone to guide me. I find an enormous swimming pool swallowed up in the inky darkness. I guess the owners don’t want the party coming down here so they turned off the lights.

Since I’m buzzed, I look around for something on which to lie down. Using my cell phone light again, I see a dozen lounge chairs surrounding the pool area. This will be a nice quiet place to relax and cool down.
After I get my bearings, I’ll find Weezie. I sit down on one of the loungers and make myself comfortable.

After a few minutes, I decide to kick off my shoes and stretch out. After four shots of tequila and a glass of wine, I’m not feeling any pain.

Well, at least not tonight—tomorrow will be another story.

As I reflect on the events of the evening, the tequila finally releases every pent up emotion I’m feeling. Tears burn my eyes and drift down my cheeks. The last hours of remembering all the bitter pain with Jared and how messed up I am because of it comes to the surface . . . AGAIN! Seven years later and Jared still has a hold over my life. He mentally chokes me at every turn. Sometimes I
feel as if all of my emotions, except pain and self-loathing, have been vacuumed out of my soul. I feel empty and hollow.

As I lay back, I start to feel slightly disoriented. This is why I detest drinking. I don’t make a good drunk. I squirm as I try to find a more comfortable position on this damn chair. I briefly close my eyes, and it feels like only moments later when I sense a touch on my leg, something warm, caressing. It startles me and I sit up too fast, causing the dizziness to become worse. I gasp when I see the outline of a figure, but it’s too dark to discern. My vision is impaired from the alcohol, the tears and my damn contacts. I sniff, trying to regain my balance while struggling to sit up.

“Should I kill the man who made you cry?” The voice is deep and has a slight accent. I’m not sure how to reply. I’m nervous, not being able to see to whom the voice belongs.

I feel prickling on the back of my neck as the weight of his body settles on the lounge chair. He takes my right foot in his hand and massages it. I pull my foot back and out of his grasp, tucking my legs up close to my body, almost in a protective measure. What the hell?

Who is this man? Should I be worried? Between the total darkness and the fact that we are alone, away from the house, I should be afraid, but for some reason, I’m not. Maybe it’s my meds. Maybe it’s the tequila. It’s probably both.

“I think killing him would be very drastic, warranted as it may be,” I whisper.

I’m not sure if I’m that drunk anymore, just anxious and dizzy. The tone of this man’s voice is like a blanket, comforting and soothing.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks.

“I think you’re already sitting. Maybe you’d like a chair of your own?” I reply curtly.

He doesn’t move. He just continues to sit at the edge of the lounge
r, somehow reclaiming my foot with his hands. Okay, so now it’s getting a little strange. Who is this guy? Who just invites himself to my private pity party?

One who obviously has a foot fetish.

“You know, I’d rather be alone.” I try to pull my foot back towards me. As I tug it out of his grasp, I get a hint of his cologne. Oh my . . . this man smells good. I mean really good, like ocean air and orange blossoms. Now I know I’m drunk and most likely out of my mind. It’s probably because I mixed my anti-anxiety drugs with alcohol. Clearly, we are close to orange groves, and the sea air is blowing in. That’s what I smell, not this man.

“I know who you are, you know,” he claims boldly.

“Who am I?” I reply hesitantly. My voice quivers because a sudden realization hits me in a blinding moment of lucidity.

This is the pretty man at whom I’d been staring so intensely before my poolside escape.

“You were the sexiest woman in that room and you didn’t even know it. I kind of like the whole look—naughty librarian . . . very nice. I noticed you watching me from across the room. You appeared somewhat captivated, so I was hoping we could get acquainted and maybe take this party elsewhere.” His reply is deliberately a statement rather than a question. With his looks and the way he speaks, there is no doubt he’s very arrogant; I am willing to bet that no woman has ever said “no” to him.