Martini With a Twist

Martini with a Twist A novel by D.B. Maine Copyright ©2016 by D.B. Maine Sentia Publishing Company has the exclusive rights to reproduce this work, to prepare derivative works from this work, to publicly distribute this work, to publicly perform this work, and to publicly display this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. Printed in the United States of America. ISBN 978-0-9978930-2-1 For you and me and F and G Prologue I locked eyes with the other driver. There wasn’t enough time to react. It happened so fast. The impact was so hard, that I thought I was going to break into pieces. There was the ear piercing sound of the ripping metal, screeching tires, shattering glass and a scream. Her bloodcurdling scream. I felt my body slam forward against the seatbelt and my head hit the steering wheel. Once the movement stopped I open my eyes. I feel disoriented. I look to my right and see her slumped over the dashboard, her head plunged right through the windshield, shattered glass in pieces around her. She’s not wearing a seatbelt. Everything seemed to happen so quickly after this, there is so much noise and people all around. “Can you hear me miss?” Someone is yelling at me. I think I manage to nod my head. “Can you tell us your name?” I try, but the words get trapped in my throat and all I care about is her. Is she okay? Please let her be okay. “I only had two drinks Officer, I swear!” I hear someone yell frantically just within earshot. “I looked away for just a second, I didn’t see her car! Oh my God, what have I done? What have I done?” The voice is panicked, as I am being wheeled on a gurney and placed in an ambulance. “Oh my God! Oh my God! I killed her didn’t I? She’s dead, isn’t she?” She’s…dead? No, that can’t be. No, please, no! We were just talking a few seconds ago. Everything suddenly turns black. When I finally come to, I am lying in a hospital bed. My head aches and I notice that I have bandages on both of my arms, the crimson blood slowly swallowing up the white gauze. What happened? Is she okay? Where is everyone? Where are my parents? As I start to open my eyes wider and focus in on my environment, I suddenly see her, standing at the edge of my bed. She is beautiful as always. She doesn’t look at all injured. Her hair cascades in soft waves around her face as she moves closer and closer to me. “What happened? Are you okay? I was so worried.” I can feel the tears streaming down my face. When she finally gets beside me, she wipes the tears from my cheeks and smiles softly. As she tucks my hair behind my ear she leans down toward me and I can see that her expression has changed. She seems panicked, almost fearful. “Addison,” she says sternly, “I need you to remember what I am telling you, okay?” I nod my head in response. “Do not trust her. Promise me, Addison. Bad things will happen.” Suddenly I am at full attention. “What do you mean? Who are you talking about?” I am practically yelling at her but get no reaction. “What do you mean? Don’t trust who? Tell me!” I squeeze my eyes shut in anguish for just a second. When I open them, I am alone in my hospital room. Chapter One “Is she a martini with a twist?” “Who?” “The hot blonde over there at the bar, directly across from us.” “You mean, Addison Keller?” “You know her?” “Uh yeah, the entire world knows her, Morgan. She won three gold and two silver medals for the U.S. in London this past summer! Swimming. She was the one who missed out on the gold back in ’08 by a tenth of a second for the 100-meter butterfly. Remember? It was a huge story. She left Beijing with just that one silver medal after being the U.S. hopeful. She came back for a second appearance this summer and not only won two silvers for other races but she took the gold for the 100-meter butterfly while setting the world record for it. And snagged two more golds for the 100 and 200-meter freestyle. She’s America’s sweetheart swimmer.” Morgan recoils and gives her friend Shannon a bemused smile. “Seriously Erin, you work too much and you need to start reading more.” Shannon turns to face her friend. “And to answer your question, no, she is not into women! That guy she is with, Declan Brand is her on-and-off again boyfriend of I think a year and a half now.” “Wow, okay. I think you know a bit too much about her life,” Morgan says laughing out loud. “And you know I hate when you use my first name like that.” Shannon gives Morgan a dismissive wave, her fire truck red nail polish catching the light. “I read People Magazine and watch the news. Some of us know how to work and live!” Shannon teases. “Her name is familiar.” Morgan brushes her index finger across her lips. “I think she’s the swimmer my niece is always gushing about. So, she is a martini straight up, huh? Well, maybe she would like a twist in her life,” Morgan remarks playfully while sipping her cocktail. “Ha! Good luck with that, Morgan.” Shannon furrows her brow and shakes her head. “That girl is way out of your league, even for you. Not to mention the whole boyfriend thing!” “We’ll see.” Morgan sets down her glass and gazes across the bar at the blonde stranger. * * * “Oh! I forgot to tell you, Dan texted me and asked if we wanted to go to the Bear’s game next Sunday, he has two extra tickets. You wanna go?” Declan waits patiently for my answer knowing full well I am distracted by something going on in the bar. “Addison!” He nudges my arm. “What!” I yell. “The Bears on Sunday? You wanna go?” “I’m sorry, but those two women across the bar keep staring at me. You know how uncomfortable that makes me.” “Addison, come on, when are you gonna get used to this? You are an Olympic gold medalist, of course people are going to stare.” “It’s not like that Decks. These women aren’t giving me the usual, ‘oh there’s that swimmer’ look, they are kind of intense.” I shake my head. “Okay, you wanna leave? I feel like Mexican food anyway. We can just walk to Cantina Laredo from here. It’s a block away on State Street.” “Okay, yeah that sounds good. Lets just go. I’m starving now anyway and I don’t like eating at the bar here, too crowded.” I fib in order to escape the gaze of these women. I am still not used to this attention. As we walk through RPM Italian Restaurant, I can’t help but glance over at the two women who were staring at me. The one looks like she could be an athlete herself, with long dark hair, stunning blue eyes, and an olive complexion. I would guess 28, 29 years old. Very attractive. Striking, actually. What am I doing? Why do I even care how she looks? As I start to turn my head towards the front door, she looks my way again, and for a moment, our eyes meet. They are so inviting, filled with warmth and kindness. I don’t want to look away for some reason. And then, after a slow and subtle smile, she winks! What! I am so caught off guard I bump into Declan in front of me. He turns around quickly. “Are you okay?” He touches my arm. “Yeah I’m fine, this place is just so busy, trying to maneuver through the crowd.” I swing my head back to look at her one more time, but she is engaged in conversation with her friend who is sitting beside her at the bar. She is a slender and attractive woman, with short dark hair, dark eyes, and looks to be about the same age as the woman who winked at me. This wink haunts me all through my chips and salsa and chicken fajita dinner. I even indulge in a margarita and still, I can’t stop thinking about this wink and this woman. It really caught me off guard. Why would she wink at me? Does she know who I am? Did she want an autograph? A picture? Was she trying to get my attention? And why do I care so much? Poor Declan, my attention has been elsewhere all night and I know he has noticed. I am sure he did not see the wink. He just thinks I am distracted as usual. I agree to the Bears game during dinner, which makes him happy. Declan pays the server and after she brings him the change we head towards the door. While we stand outside on this beautiful October night in Chicago’s River North Neighborhood and wait for a cab, I look around the intersection, secretly hoping to see this woman, which is not likely in a city of 3 million people. Why do I want to see her again? I just want to know what that wink was about. Declan hails a cab and allows me to climb in first. He slides in next to me and grabs my hand for the ride. He gives the cab driver his address and looks at me for approval. I nod my head and then move closer to him placing my head on his shoulder, my face cools against his leather jacket. We arrive in the Roscoe Village neighborhood at Declan’s apartment. He pays the driver and we clamber out of the cab, a little unbalanced from our very strong margaritas. I stand next to this tall, svelte, very handsome, dark haired, dark eyed man of mine and wished I knew if this was love. Hoping that it is and it’s the kind of love everyone gushes about on TV and in the movies. The kind of love my parents have. He opens the front door, and we ascend up one flight of stairs to his second floor apartment. I walk into his familiar apartment, feeling at home. I scan the living room and kitchen combo. It’s a small bachelor pad with a mismatched couch and lazy boy, one coffee table and a large flat screen TV that once turned on is almost always on ESPN. He is a huge college football fan. The kitchen is clean, for a guy. Declan doesn’t like dishes in the sink or a dirty counter top. This is a plus I guess, we could share the cleaning responsibilities if we ever lived together. We have talked about moving in together but I am just not quite ready to give up my personal space. Declan works from home as a graphic designer and I don’t know how it would be to have him around all the time. He is just starting out as a free lancer, which I suppose explains the minimalist look to his apartment. I take off my jacket and lay it down on the couch in front of the TV. Declan opens the refrigerator and grabs a bottle of water. He gestures to me. “No thanks, I’ll just have a sip of yours,” I say. “Okay, are you tired? Ready for bed?” I know this is his way of asking me for s*x. I feel really bad about neglecting him tonight and although I am not really in the mood, I feel like I should oblige and give him some much needed attention. I nod and sheepishly follow him down the hallway and into the only bedroom in the apartment. The hardwood floor of this vintage building moans beneath me with every step. His bedroom is also a little sparse. Furnished entirely by IKEA, he has a queen bed with grey sheets, and a grey and black comforter. His cheap, wooden dresser is neatly organized with his a bottle of CK One cologne (that he has probably been wearing since high school) and his one framed picture of us. On his nightstand there is an alarm clock and a remote control for the TV that hangs above the dresser, which is also a flat screen, and also always tuned in to ESPN. Very romantic. I have always hated the idea of a TV in the bedroom. Declan unbuttons his dark blue long sleeved shirt and pulls it off one arm at a time. He is left with a white t-shirt underneath. He picks up his iPhone and selects a playlist. “Morning After” by Howie Day begins to float through the speakers. Wow, a soundtrack? He must really want me tonight. I excuse myself to use his bathroom, directly adjacent to his room. I close the door and lock it, why though? I haven’t locked the door behind me since the first night I slept