Chapter 2: The Three Horsemen

Taylor

I close my eyes tightly as I withdraw my fingers from my folds. My orgasm will have to wait. Opening my eyes, I grasp the phone from the edge of the tub. I check the caller ID. It's Grace. I rise, grab my robe, and let voicemail take her call.

Toweled off, I tap play and the loudspeaker on my new voicemail.

“Taylor, are you there? Please pick up,” Grace urges then sighs. “I know it is all over now between the two of you, but I want us to get together one last time. I have something for you.”

I press end and delete to block out the whiny pleas of my recently ex-mother-in-law-to-be. KC sounds even better now. I won't have to tell anyone, no one will find me there, and that is what I need right now. I quickly pack a carry-on bag with only my make-up, a change of clothes, pajamas, a bikini, a couple of pairs of Converse shoes, flip-flops, and my vibrators. I create a mental list as I pack. Gas, cash, gum, and download a book or two. I grab my favorite white, scoop neck tee, my favorite pair of jeans, and my gray and black Converse for the flight. Glancing at my iPhone, I realize I need to step on it if I am to check in and clear security for my flight. O’Hare is always busy.

Minutes later, with carry-on in hand, I step through the garage door. I begin to press the wall-mounted garage door opener when I hear my generic ringtone. I decide not to answer; instead, I escape while I can. If it is important, they will leave a voicemail.

A smile slides onto my face as I turn the key and my Mustang roars to life. I roll backward into the driveway. As the garage door closes, I realize I am free. Free to fly away from it all. I so need this trip. I unlock the roof then press the button to lower the top. A convertible ride on the highway is the perfect start to a Fourth of July vacation. I crank the radio. Not in the mood for The Black Crowes, I press two on my presets to find Ellie Goulding. On preset three, I find Bryan Adams; on four, Shaggy; and on five, commercials. Just not hitting the spot. I tap the audio-in button and connect my iPhone. I quickly tap playlists and choose ‘Heavy.’ Five Finger Death Punch. That is more like it. I pull from the driveway, singing along to my favorite bands.

I arrive at the airport just over an hour after Kennedy's invitation phone call. I packed light; that sped up my arrival. I browse the long-term parking, Lot E, for a protective spot for my baby. It is worth a few extra steps to ensure she doesn't get a door ding or a fender scrape.

Perfect! I spot an opening near a light pole. Hurrying with my carry-on, purse, iPhone, and keys in hand, I climb aboard the shuttle.

The airport is busy. I knew it would be. I make my way to the American Airlines counter, finding the line not too long. While I wait, I text Kennedy, letting her know I arrived and will text when I clear security.

“You are booked on flight 1362 at gate 73. Any bags to check?” I shake my head as the robotic counter person continues her memorized talk without using much brain activity. She makes eye contact and smiles her fake smile. “Thank you for flying American.”

I grab my carry-on bag and boarding pass. Sighing, I head toward the security screening area. At my turn, my shoes and belt are off, my loose change and lip gloss are in a tub. After my body is scanned, my shoes are on, I grab my stuff, and the TSA is done. Now through security, the stressful portion of the trip is over.

On my way to the gate, I pop into a newsstand for gum. I debate the purchase of a magazine­ and decide to download a book instead. Glancing at my phone, I have over an hour until boarding. I look left then right. Busy travelers urgently bustle here and there while duty-free shops beckon shoppers.

Ah-ha. I dart into a bar. I spot a high-top by the window in direct view of the television. I scan the area, finding I am the lone customer. With his back to me stocking bottles, the bartender asks what I would like as I attempt to walk by. I pause at the bar opposite his back.

I order, “The Three Wise Men.”

The bartender turns, making eye contact with a sly grin upon his warm, chestnut face. His coffee-brown eyes crinkle at the corners. His jaw is dark with the hint of a day or two without a shave.

I shake away the handsome haze his devilish good looks have trapped me in. “What?” I question.

His smile grows wider, reaching up to his hypnotic eyes.

“Do I have something in my teeth?” I ask.

His brown eyes move from mine to my mouth. I unknowingly lick my parted lips as a warm heat rises in my core.

“You stumped me. That almost never happens.”

“Excuse me?”

Am I in a parallel universe? I think I’m speaking English. He seems to be speaking English. Why doesn’t anything make sense?

“The Three Wise Men?” he questions. “I’ve tended bar for four years, and I’ve never heard of that one.” He washes and dries his hands, then he jots “The Three Wise Men” on a napkin. “What’s in that?” His eyes reach deep inside me, hoping to pull the recipe to my lips.

“Umm...”

Suddenly, I can’t recall his question. His eyes heat my lips; his body heat seems to be radioactive, reaching through the solid bar to me. I slowly tuck a stray lock of hair behind my right ear as I survey his strong shoulders straining the threads of his black tee. I follow his dark right arm with a tribal tattoo and script leading to his wrist. His large fingers point to the napkin.

“Oh. Um, it’s three shots.” I will myself to meet his eyes. “Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, and Johnnie Walker.” A head tilt now accompanies his smirk. “The Four Horsemen adds a shot of Jameson or Jose Cuervo.” I gulp. “Like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” I prattle on.

“You’re an enigma.”

“Excuse me?” The more we talk, the more I need my drink.

“You ordered a drink I’ve never heard of.” He turns briefly, grasps Jim, Jack, and Johnnie, then places them on the bar. He shakes his head, smiling widely, then excuses himself to pull a plaque from the back wall near the register. He rips the paper reading 429 from its clear pocket. On a Post-It note, he writes a large, thick zero then slides it under the plastic. Slowly, he spins the plaque to face me.

I read aloud, “‘Zero days since Jorge has been stumped. Oh!” I gasp.

“Yes,” he smirks. “Four-hundred twenty-nine days of perfect. You walk in and stump me with the name of your drink. Then I assume it’s a frilly drink with more than the usual rum or vodka.” He shrugs. “You stump me again. See, it’s kind of my thing. I’m supposed to know every drink recipe. I have a gift for predicting a customer’s favorite types of alcohol, too. The regulars and staff like to challenge me.” He’s not bragging. He’s embarrassed. “Now, a personal favor. Can I snap a picture of you holding the sign?” He points to the plaque. “They will have a million questions about you and how you stumped me,” he explains.

I nod my permission while taking the sign from him. He snaps two pictures with his cell phone. Still shaking his head, he returns the plaque to its place on the back wall of honor.

When he returns to me, his sexy smirk still in place, he asks, “Can I get your name and phone number?”