Beer Goggles Anthology Read online

  Not With You

  By d. Nichole King

  Chapter One

  Quinn

  Hell has redecorated. It now boasts white table linens and bouquets of lavender roses in vases atop mirrors disguised as centerpieces. Ribbons and paper lanterns hang from the ceiling. And this is only the rehearsal dinner.

  Emma is on the other side of the room, laughing with the bridesmaids she actually likes. The ones who aren’t me, her only sister.

  I’m at the table closest to the exit, which gives me the premier spot for people-watching. Dad slides into a chair beside me. “Second glass, huh?”

  I pick up my glass of Pinot Noir and put it back down.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Mom bustles around from table to table, catching up with family members we haven’t seen in ages. She’s probably on her third or fourth, but unlike Dad and me, it’s because she’s happy. A year of planning the biggest social event of her life has left her even more giddy than when Emma announced her engagement.

  I tick my attention back to my sister. Strawberry blonde hair, eyes the same color, a complexion that rivals Maybelline’s newest make up model. She throws her head back in laughter. She and her four best friends clink their glasses together and pose for a selfie, or whatever you call those things with five people in the same picture. Born socialites, Emma and Mom could be twins.

  I take a sip of wine. “I decided on a dissertation topic. The Effects of OspC and Glycolipoprotiens in Human Vaccines Against B. Burgdorferi.”

  “OspC, huh?” Dad nods, impressed.

  “Mutated forms of the protein have been present in several studies using mice. I believe that if we can take that information and combine it with the recent findings in glycolipoprotiens, we could create a formula very similar to the L-13 vaccine used in canines.”

  “You know, Dr. Karen Vichillis in my department recently received a grant to compare types of B. burdorferi found in five global regions. I could connect you if you want.”

  “With Dr. Karen Vichillis?” I don’t disguise the admiration in my voice.

  “The one and only.”

  “She’s the leading molecular biologist in the field.”

  “She is.”

  I clear my throat and go back to being even-keeled. “Yeah, that would be great.”

  “All right. First thing when I get back.”

  My soon-to-be brother-in-law, Travis, slides out a chair at our private table and invites himself to sit down. I can see what my sister sees in him from a physical standpoint. He played college football until an injury his senior year took him out of the game, but he clearly still works out. Caramel-colored skin, green eyes, and brown hair that my sister runs her fingers through whenever they’re together. From an intellectual standpoint, he’s beneath her. Which is saying something.

  “Dr. Lawson. Quinn. Enjoying yourselves?” He smiles, too-white teeth practically glowing.

  “Call me Richard. You’re part of the family now, son.”

  “Richard,” he says before addressing me. “So, how’s school going?”

  What an idiot.

  “Great. I’m starting my dissertation on the effects of OspC and glycolipoprotiens in human Vaccines against B. burgdorferi. It’s going to be a blast.” I smirk.

  His fake smile widens. He bobs his head. “Yeah. Sounds interesting.”

  “Dad’s doing some interesting research too, aren’t you, Dad? How environmental stimuli on neurotransmitter actions associated with P3b to norepinephrine pathways could be related to memory processing. Fascinating work.”

  Travis coughs and empties his beer. “I think I’m ready for another.” He nods to us. “Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  Yep. Off you go.

  After he leaves, Dad lets out a long sigh. “Quinn, you shouldn’t treat him like that.”

  “Like what? He came over here and started the conversation. It’s not my fault he can’t comprehend the abstruseness of our interchange.”

  “You need to find something in common.”

  “I don’t have anything in common with these people. They want to talk about sports and entertainment and more sports. Nothing that really matters. Like Emma and this wedding.”

  “Love doesn’t matter?”

  “Love is an illusion. It’s for the weak who are too scared to be alone. An excuse for people to spend money they don’t have on a person they’ll end up hating in a few years. A distraction from a world that’s falling apart around us.”

  “Sometimes I wonder where we went wrong with you.”

  “Nowhere. You made all your mistakes with Emma.”

  We sink back into silence. Emma is now talking with Great Aunt Beatrice, smiling and nodding like she understands what our dementia-riddled relative is saying. Beatrice caught me earlier and told me she’d seen me on TV the other night. She’s so happy I won the Olympic gold in figure skating, but she thinks yellow isn’t my color. She’s also sorry for my loss, because according to her we’re here because my mother has passed away. She spoke with my mother before she spoke with me. I made sure to set her straight, something Emma won’t do.

  Emma kisses Aunt Bea’s cheek and leads her back to her seat. And that’s exactly what I’m talking about. My sister isn’t stupid. She could have done something great with her life. Breakthroughs in dementia and Alzheimer’s research are slim, Emma knows this. Causes are unknown, medications only treat certain symptoms, and a cure is nonexistent. We’re not even close. Emma could have brought the world closer.

  Instead, she’s a CNA at a nursing home in Newark, changing residents’ pants when they soil themselves. I don’t want to just take care of these people; I want to save them. I don’t understand why Emma doesn’t.

  My sister prances over and flings her arms around my neck. “You’re coming to the villa tonight, right? Cassidy brought her nail stuff from the salon. She even has acrylics, no charge.”

  “Sounds frivolous.”

  “Fun, yeah?”

  “I have some research to do tonight.”

  She sinks into the chair beside me. “It’s my wedding, Quinn! Lighten up a little. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Who says research isn’t enjoyable?”

  “I didn’t say that. I meant that there’s more to life than work.”

  “People’s lives depend on me working, not on whether my nails meet the constructs of social acceptability.”

  She puts her hands together. “I’m only getting married once. Please?”

  “Are you interested in the statistics of that once married dream you’re so fond of?”

  “Case in point: Mom and Dad.”

  “Outlier.”

  “Ugh!” She leans on the table, gaze shooting past me. “Dad, help please?”

  “You’re the maid-of-honor, Quinn. Maybe you should go. Spend the evening with your sister,” he says, eyes serious. My dad has lost his mind.

  I smile. Turn to my sister. “No, thank you. But I appreciate the invitation.”

  She stares at me for a moment, her head shaking in small, subtle movements. Finally, she exhales. “Fine. Be at St. Francis’ by two o’clock tomorrow. I’ll have everything there for you to get ready. Pictures start at three.” She gets up, kisses Dad, and wanders up to the bar.

  Nails. Beauty products. A five-thousand dollar dress she’ll wear once. Sometimes I think one of us was adopted. Just can’t figure out which one.

  “Your mother and I are proud of you, Quinn,” Dad says, pulling my attention away from my sister. “You’ve known what you wanted since you were a kid and you haven’t wavered. You’re ambitious, resourceful, and I have no doubt that you’re going to make great strides in molecular biology.”

  “But…”

  Blue eyes find mine. “Life is more than science. Humans, we’re pack animals. We don’t do well alone.” He pats my arm. “I’d better rescue Darren from your mother before she talks him into a coma.”

  Grayson

  Travis comes
back from his rounds and leans against the bar. “Budweiser,” he orders.

  Travis and I grew up together in Coopertown, just outside of Nashville. Same little league teams, same football coaches, same classes since the first grade. I hated him. Fucking top-shelf douche, he was. Always just a tad bit better than me at everything. Him: hits a homerun. Me: hits a triple. Him: star quarterback. Me: second string quarterback. Good thing we became friends in junior high or we might’ve killed each other in high school.

  I nod toward the table he just came back from. “Who’s the chick?”

  “The redhead? That’s Quinn, Emma’s younger, anti-social sister.” He nods to the bartender, who gives him his beer. “Thanks.”

  “What’s her story?”

  “Stuck up Ph.D. bitch. Thinks she’s better than everyone else.”

  “Isn’t Emma’s dad a doctor of something?”

  “Professor of Biochemistry at MIT.”

  Interesting. Not sure I’ve ever been out with a smart girl. Then again, I’m not usually one for small talk. In fact, there’s very little talk. No talk. Yeah, no talk is better.

  Emma saunters over and slides her arms around Travis’ waist, groaning.

  “Quinn?” he asks.

  “I tried. It’s like she’s allergic to having a good time.”

  Travis kisses her head. “She agreed to be here. Baby steps, hun.”

  “Yeah, I guess. It’s just…One night. I asked for one night for her to be a regular person and do regular-person things.”

  “If she’s not going out with you tonight, what’s she doing?” I ask, butting in, because this girl sounds like my type—hard to get.

  Emma rolls her eyes. “Studying. It’s all she ever does.”

  “What’s she interested in? Any hobbies?”

  “Studying.” She cocks her head, brows lowering. “Wait. Why do you want to know?”

  I shrug. “Redhead. They’re feisty.”

  “That one won’t just burn you. She’ll roll you in gasoline, set you on fire, and dance on your ashes. No, never mind. Dancing is fun. She’ll write her dissertation with your ashes.”

  I glance at her. She’s swirling her wine in the glass, looking bored as hell.

  “Sounds like a challenge.”

  “Grayson, seriously. Stay. Away.”

  “You afraid of me bedding your sister?”

  Emma grunts. “You won’t bed her. She’ll scratch your eyes out before you even make a pass.”

  “So…virgin?” Hot.

  “I have no idea, nor am I interested in knowing.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Funny. No one is good enough for Quinn.”

  Quinn’s shoulders rise and fall. Her tongue pokes out, the tip glossing over the side of her lips. It’s sexy as fuck, and I quickly solidify my plans for the evening.

  “If I can get your sister to have a little fun tonight, then you agree to let Travis out for a Vegas weekend in September. Deal?”

  Her eyes flick to Quinn, then up to Travis. Travis’ smirk indicates he’s game.

  “No hookers, no strippers, no showgirls, no any of that stuff.” She says this to Travis, but it’s a warning for me too.

  “I’m not asking him to break any wedding vows,” I say, drawing her attention to me. “Come on. Little sis needs me.”

  She bites her lip, thinking. “She’s a sucker for good wine, but she can’t hold her liquor.”

  Chapter Two

  Quinn

  Some guy has his gaze pinned on me. Does he think I don’t notice? He leans in toward Travis, says something, and my sister answers. I may not be the poster child for social graces, but can they make it any less obvious who the topic of conversation is?

  The stranger pushes off the bar and starts toward me. Ugh. I drop my attention to my wine, cursing my father for leaving me here alone. Hopefully this guy is smarter than he looks and will quietly walk past.

  “Pinot Noir?” he asks.

  I peek up. He’s standing in my personal space, clearly as moronic as I thought. Great. And here I thought my evening couldn’t get worse.

  “It’s available at the bar.”

  “Good to know. It’s almost empty. Let me buy you another round.”

  “Do I resemble a person who is unable to purchase my own beverages?”

  He points to the bar. Emma and Travis have scattered, probably off scheming. “From over there, you didn’t. But now that I’m up close, gauging your mood and posture, I’d definitely say you need me to buy you a drink. I bet the difference is that the lighting from the bar isn’t as bitchy.”

  “My sister’s words?”

  He slides a chair out and sits. Freaking. A. “Actually, your sister told me to stay clear.” He signals the bartender and points to my glass. “But I thought, ‘Nah. Just an older sister being an older sister. Quinn can’t be that bad.’”

  I nod. “Oh, I understand. Your dick brought you over here.”

  “Never guided me wrong.”

  No joke, the guy grabs himself.

  I lean on the table. Twirl a lock of hair around my finger. “So, like, I’m supposed to get hot flashes now, puff out my lips, and bat my eyes?” I model what I said. “Bite my lip seductively. Let you buy me that drink and follow you to your hotel room where you’ll give me the best I’ve ever had. Am I close?”

  Bat. Bat. Bat.

  The bartender brings the wine, and Blue Eyes slides it toward me. “Since you already have it figured out, we can just skip to the end. Here’s your wine.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Good wine shouldn’t go to waste.”

  “Then you drink it.”

  “I don’t do wine.” He nods at the glass. “Really. No strings attached, I promise.”

  I laugh. “I am not some dimwitted girl you pick up at clubs. ‘No strings attached.’ Great line.”

  He grins, eyes blazing. God, he’s infuriating.

  “You can leave now,” I say and turn in the opposite direction. Dad’s speaking with Aunt Bea now, and—

  “Do you want to get out of here?”

  Give up, dude!

  “Not with you.”

  “Hey, maybe I’ll surprise you. Be that guy you didn’t see coming.”

  I turn back around. Study him as if I’m actually considering his ridiculous proposal. “What’s your name?”

  “Grayson Radcliffe.”

  I bob my head, pausing for effect. “Hmm. Listen, Grayson. You seem like a stellar jackass, one any mindless ninny would be happy to fornicate with, but because I obviously have to spell this out for you…”

  I stand up and dump the wine in his lap.

  “I’m not interested.”

  Grayson

  I’m having the time of my life with this girl. Damn, she’s a pain-in-the-ass, and I’m so turned on the wine soaking into my boxer briefs makes me want her more.

  Emma hands me a stack of napkins. “So much for Vegas.”

  “Struck out, dude.” Travis snickers.

  I throw a glance over my shoulder. She’s already rounding the corner toward the parking lot.

  “Struck out is three strikes, man. That was only one.” I get up. “See you tomorrow.”

  I jog out, following Quinn to her car. Taillights flash a few vehicles a head of her, showing me her car. I cut around the row and meet her as she reaches for her door. I lean up against it, arms crossed.

  “Oh, you’ve got to me kidding me,” she mumbles.

  “The thing is, you drank two glasses of wine fairly quickly. I’m not sure you should be driving.”

  “Move.”

  “Friends don’t let friends.” I hold out my hand.

  “We’re not friends.”

  “Fine. I’m still not letting you drive. Keys.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of driving to my hotel. Get out of my way.”

  I shake my head, making a show of getting comfortable against her door.

  She huffs. “I had two glasses. I’m fin
e.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “Are you always this irritating?”

  “Honey, I’m just looking out for your safety and the safety of others.” I motion to the truck in the next row. “I’d be happy to drive you back to your hotel.”

  Her cheeks are red. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or if she’s that pissed at me. “You’re seriously not going to let me into my car?”

  Palm still up, I wiggle my fingers. “I’m not moving until you give me your keys.”

  “God!” She huffs, slamming the keys into my hand. “Just take me to my hotel, okay?” Lower, she adds, “I’ll call a cab and come back for my car.”

  I lock her doors and jog to catch up with her. I open the door of my truck. “Your chariot.”

  She steps up. “Do you ever clean this thing?”

  “Occasionally.” I do a quick check to make sure there’s no garbage on the floorboard. Nope. We’re good.

  “The Ramada. On first.”

  I close her door and slide in behind the wheel. “Seatbelt.”

  She reaches over her shoulder. “It’s grimy.”

  “It’ll still save your life. Put it on.”

  “What do you do that makes your truck feel like oil and grease?”

  “I’m a mechanic.”

  She grimaces and places her hands in her lap like she’s afraid to touch anything. I’m not offended; I got her in my truck.

  By the disgust on her face, I assume she’s not going to continue the conversation. But I’m not driving in silence.

  “Travis and I graduated from high school together. He went off to college up here, and I went to trade school so I can take over my dad’s business someday.”

  “Congratulations,” she deadpans.

  She’s not getting off that easy. Girls don’t shun me, and I refuse a second strike on my game.

  “So, come on. What do you do for fun?”

  She crosses her arms.

  “Water polo? Fencing? Cock fights?”

  She peers out the window. “Hey, I said First Street.” She swings to me. “That was First Street.”