Whiskey Trick

  Copyright © 2019 Ryan Ringbloom

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the author, with the exception of short quotes for purposes of review.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, places or actual events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  www.RyanRingbloom.com

  Cover Design by Wicked by Design

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Formatting: Allusion Graphics

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Want More?

  Prologue

  Also Available by Ryan Ringbloom

  About the Author

  To Jeff—

  On our very first actual date

  you handed me a huge bouquet of flowers,

  and I totally think that’s when

  I knew you were the one.

  Love, Rebecca

  aka Ryan Ringbloom

  A Family Trick

  “How do I look?”

  “Like a stalker,” my sister says flatly, eyeing me from the couch. Not the answer I’d hoped for. She frowns, jumps up from the couch, then starts tugging at the top buttons on my shirt. “You need to undo a few of these. It’s like you don’t know how to relax and just be normal.” She sighs and steps back to examine her de-stalker makeover. “Now shake your arms or something. You need to loosen up. And less teeth. Stop overthinking your smile. Seriously, you look like you’re ready to chop someone’s head off.”

  “Perfect. Thanks for the boost in confidence.” I turn my back on Jenn, who, for the record, is not an invited guest. She has showed up once again to my home to eat my food, drink my booze, watch my premium channels, and judge me. If anything, she’s a stalker. I can’t seem to make a move lately without seeing her sprawled across my couch claiming I need her help. Sometimes I believe she’s even more invested in me meeting someone than I am.

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Calling me a stalker is not help,” I say, refastening the three buttons my sister undid. Three buttons. What’s next? I wear a thick gold chain, expose a chest full of hair, and douse myself in a gallon of cologne? Maybe if I had some genuinely useful help, all these first dates I keep going on wouldn’t be failing so miserably.

  “Don’t be so sensitive. All I do is help you. I’m the one who set you up with my friend Remi, remember?” she says distractedly, returning to the couch with her phone in hand. Which is fine with me. I don’t feel like arguing the point that said friend Remi is now dating our brother, Adam. My first date with her hadn’t gone so well, and oddly enough, neither had my brother’s first date with her, but in the end he got the chick, not me. Jenn pops her head up to chime in one last piece of advice. “Just remember no S word tonight, okay?”

  Ah yes, the S word. The reason I’m back to square one in this dating nightmare.

  Sasha.

  The ex. We lived together. I had a ring. And one night, without any warning, she packed her things and left. We were done. I was completely blindsided. We were set to leave for Germany a week later on a very important business trip for my finance firm. I needed her there. She was my other half. Together, we were an unstoppable team. She said I knew why she was leaving. But I honestly didn’t.

  Sasha was a dream. From one small sip she could identify the flavor palate and structure of any wine. She knew how to dress appropriately for all the business soirees I needed her to attend. Her small talk dazzled and charmed everyone from caterer to CEO. She knew how to work a room. And golf. She was an equal competitor who kept me on my toes. Our arrangement had been ideal.

  Admittedly, our split has not been easy for me, and occasionally, she comes up in conversation. But I don’t see any harm in that. She was a big part of my life; talking about her is normal.

  Jenn’s eyes stay glued to her phone, the chirp of some game prattling on. I take advantage and slip my own phone out to glance over the Facebook and Instagram accounts of tonight’s date. She got a blowout today and took a selfie with her sister Julie. I store the information for later so that I can compliment her on it.

  “Goodnight. Wish me luck, and hopefully I won’t see you on my couch when I get home.” I grab my keys off the console.

  “You’re leaving already?” Jenn says to her phone before quickly tossing it aside. “Wait! Don’t!”

  “Don’t what?”

  “You’re going to the florist, aren’t you? Don’t!”

  “It’s a first date; flowers are a nice gesture.”

  “They’re really not,” Jenn protests. “Trust me, if someone I barely knew gave me flowers on a first date, it would be a major turnoff.” I open my mouth to reply, and she stops me. “It has nothing to do with me being gay.”

  I was going to argue the point of romance and chivalry. I find it hard to believe that flowers on a first date would turn someone off.

  “Goodnight,” I say again and this time walk out before she can say anything else. I’ve got a bank account full of my sister’s two cents. I don’t need any more.

  Tonight should go smoothly. This isn’t a setup. We met online. We were matched based on compatibility. We share common interests and hobbies. We’re both professionals. Regardless of what my sister says, I’m not worried. Everything is going to come up roses.

  Just like the six I plan on picking up at the florist.

  A Nasty Trick

  “These are for you, m’lady.” I present my date with the cellophane-wrapped roses with a big pink bow.

  She’s striking. Her pictures did not do her justice. The blown-out hair looks fantastic.

  “Oh.” She pauses. “Roses.” Pause. “Um... thank you,” she says breathlessly. Her nerves are apparent, and I give her some assurance with a big smile and a wink.

  We met in front of the restaurant. Normally I’d offer to pick up my date, but these days women are a little nervous sharing their information online with strangers. That’s understandable. Luckily, after tonight I will no longer be a stranger and can pick her up for our next date. I’m being presumptuous, but there’s a good feeling about tonight firmly nestled in my gut.

  “Shall we go in?” I open the door to the restaurant and sweep my arm for her, bending into a slight bow.

  “Oh wow,” she mutters before walking inside. She said wow. That’s a good sign.

  At the table, my date is quick to place the bouquet down on an empty chair. Of course I insist on helping her out of her coat, and once I do she takes it from me and throws it over the delicate roses, concealing them. Her heavy purse goes on top of her coat, crushing them further. Again, I blame her nerves.

  I’m a lot to take in. Successful, well-off, tall, in great shape, handsome. It’s intimidating, I’m sure. But I’m also a gentleman and quite suave. Reading people and tending to their needs is what I do. In the world of finance, you have to be in tune with your surroundings.

  “Relax.” I reach across the table and grab my timid date’s hand. “How about a drink?”

&nbs
p; “Yes. Please.” She balls her hand and slides it away from me. “You read my mind.”

  See—in tune.

  “Garçon.” I call out for some assistance. The restaurant isn’t French, but the sophisticated word is universal, and the waiter comes right over. “The lady will have a glass of chardonnay and I will have a hot toddy.”

  “Bourbon okay, sir?”

  “Ask Jerome to make it. Tell him it’s for Mr. Barclay. He knows how I like it,” I say, and the waiter nods before taking off. “They know me here.”

  “Why did you order me a chardonnay?” Instead of being impressed like I expect, she looks puzzled.

  “Chardonnay is your favorite wine.”

  “It is. But how do you know that?”

  “Oh.” I grin. “I saw you posted it several times on your different social media accounts.”

  “My accounts? You stalked me?”

  “No, not stalk.” Now I’m the one perplexed. What is up with girls and the overuse of the word stalker? These are public sites. “I researched you. If I’m going to start a relationship with someone, I want to know as much as I can about them.”

  “A relationship? Oh boy. Will you excuse me for a second?” The legs of her chair scrape against the tile floor. “I’ll be right back.” She doesn’t wait for me to answer and scurries off toward the ladies’ room.

  I don’t understand. And I don’t understand why I don’t understand.

  The waiter returns with our drinks, and I take a small sip of warm whiskey to relax me. It does the trick. I close my eyes and breathe in some of the rising steam from my glass.

  You got this. You’re doing everything right. Keep going.

  “I have an emergency.” My date is back and standing in front of her chair. “My sister was in an accident, and she needs me. I have to go to the hospital.”

  “Oh no. Julie? Is she okay?”

  “Oh my God, you know her name,” my date mutters under her breath. “Uh, no, I need to leave right now.”

  “Okay, I can drive you to the hospital.” I stand up to help her.

  “No!” She stretches her arms out, splaying her hands. “You don’t need to drive me. I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s no trouble, and you’re probably shaken. Please allow me to take you. Is she in St. Peter’s or Central State?”

  “Uh… actually…” She searches the room as if looking for her next words to come from one of the nearby tables. “I was wrong. She’s not at the hospital.”

  “She’s not?”

  “Um, no... they took her to... um... my parents’ house. Yeah. My dad’s a doctor... and he has like a whole setup in the basement. So, I’m good, but thank you.” She grabs her purse and coat, taking off before I can even respond to her words.

  Her ridiculous words.

  She’s obviously lying. Why? I need to know why. I can’t keep going on dates and having them end without knowing the reason. I leave my belongings at the table and run after her, catching up to her as she’s reaching her car.

  “Stop. Please. Wait!” I call, and jog the last few steps to where she is struggling to open her car door as fast as possible. “Before you leave, I just... I just need to know. What did I do?”

  “Nothing.” She turns her head slowly and lies through a forced smile.

  “Then why are you leaving? I know there’s no accident.”

  “I.... You.... We don’t.... I’m sorry.” She closes her eyes, unable to look at me directly while she speaks. “It’s not a match.”

  “It’s only been a few minutes. How do you know that we aren’t a match?” I had to have done something. All these bad dates; it has to be me. And in order for me to fix whatever it is that I’m doing, I need to know. “Was it the research thing? I swear, I thought it was just an easy way of getting to know you better.”

  She looks longingly at the empty car in front of her, then back to me. Her brows furrow, and her lips tug into a troubled frown. I brace myself for the harsh truth I’m about to be hit with.

  “It’s not you, it’s me. I’m just not ready to date right now. I’ve got a lot going on. I work a lot of hours. I just got a new dog. It’s bad timing. That’s all.”

  “Oh, okay. I understand,” I say. I don’t understand, not at all. But she lied, so I guess I can too.

  “I’m sorry” are her last words before getting into her car and slamming the door. She gives me a quick wave before pulling out and driving away.

  The date’s over. This is a new record. A new low in an otherwise high life. I only wish I knew why. The real reason why.

  Scratching my head, I return inside the restaurant to the abandoned table. Jerome is there waiting to greet me.

  “Mr. Barclay, how are you tonight?”

  “Fine. Thank you, Jerome.” I take my seat, hoping that this is where the conversation will end.

  “I heard you are here with a lady friend tonight. A client or is it someone special?” His brows waggle on the word special.

  Terrific.

  “Uh, no. Just an acquaintance,” I say and watch as his gaze lands on the crushed bouquet left behind on my date’s chair. A wave of embarrassment flows through me, but I make sure it doesn’t show. “I’ll take the check, please.”

  “This one’s on me tonight,” he says, and I despise the pity backing the sentiment.

  “Thank you.” I force a smile and prepare for a swift exit. I slip back into my coat and grab my phone with a concerned expression, feigning a matter that needs my urgent attention.

  In the privacy of my car I allow my face to fall. My ego is hurt. My pride wounded.

  Loneliness and old habits lead me to the Lopsided Lamp, a quaint place where Sasha and I would often have dinner when things were good, when I was good. Something that seems to have eluded me lately. Maybe it’s eluded me all along. Why did Sasha break up with me? Two years later and I still don’t have an answer.

  Maybe coming here might help me gain some perspective on what changed and what it is I keep doing wrong.

  Because obviously I’m doing something wrong.

  One Crazy-Ass Trick

  The second I shift my car into park across the street from the restaurant, I know it’s a bad idea. Yes, things are not going my way lately in the romance department but visiting an old stomping ground will not resolve the issue. If anything, it just depresses me, reminding me of the great match that once was. Henry and Sasha, the unstoppable duo, killing it in the corporate world, killing it at social events, killing it in the sheets… usually on Thursdays. If the schedules allowed. Killing it missionary style. The only way Sasha cared for. Although she didn’t always “care” to completion. Killing the mood….

  I shake the Sasha memories from my head. They’re doing nothing to help me or my problem. What I need to focus on is resetting and fixing myself so that I am able to move forward and meet someone new. I’ll be thirty-six in a few months. Four more years, and they’ll start referring to me as a confirmed bachelor. The guy who can’t find a woman and settle down. He’s married to his career, they’ll say. And I will be. Only not by choice.

  The idea of growing old alone is hard to swallow. I need help. I need it quick.

  Noise and colorful swirling lights trickle out as a door gets flung open. I forgot that on Saturday nights the bar next door tends to bring in a rowdy crowd. I clamp my hands around the steering wheel and take a deep breath. It’s time to go. But before I shift my car into drive, my phone vibrates, and I glance down at the incoming text keeping me from pulling away.

  Jenn: How’s it going? If by any chance not well, can u grab a bag of Cool Ranch on your way home? You’re out of snacks here.

  My sister’s empty-headed assumption and empty calorie request are my tipping point. My fingers type an angry reply, ready to unleash all my pent-up frustration on her.

  Henry: No, Jennifer. I will NOT buy you any more snacks so that you can wipe your grimy fingers all over my imported

  The door to my car swings open, and
before I even have time to react, two girls slide into my back seat. The passenger door opens, and a third girl plops herself down in the seat next to me. A blonde with shiny red lips and smoky lined eyes meets my stunned stare. My senses are instantly filled with the sweet scent of her perfume mingled with the tangy scent of beer.

  “You have the address?” she says to me, buckling herself in. “Oh, heated seats. Nice. This will def get you a five-star rating.” She presses the button and nestles into the leather about to warm her bum.

  “Wait. Can we change the address?” one of the girls from the back seat sniffles. “I don’t want to go to another bar. Just home.”

  I glance into the rearview mirror at the tear-stained face of a girl with wild dark curls wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  “What’s going on? Who are you?” I ask the trio of strangers possibly carjacking me.

  “Listen…” The blonde in the front looks down at her phone before addressing me. “Orlando M. It’s been a really sucky night for my friend Tina, and she’s had a bit to drink. Would it be possible for you to drive us to 43 Poplar Street instead? I know it’s against protocol but there’s an extra twenty in it for ya.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, waving it in front of me.

  “Do you think I’m an Uber driver?” I ask in disbelief. Me. They think I am an Uber driver? Named Orlando M? In my custom Mercedes CLS that cost over seventy-five thousand dollars?

  No one answers me.

  “Amanda,” the frazzled brunette, Tina, wails from the back seat. “How does he not know what an asshole he is?”

  “Aw, sweetie, I know. But seeing him there with someone else is a good thing. It will help you move on,” Amanda says in a soothing voice. The pretty blonde is kind and understanding to her mess of a friend. An admirable quality. “We’re gonna take you home where you can relax and take a hot shower and put on your pj’s and forget all about seeing Todd tonight. Okay?”