As You Crave It
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J. Margot Critch
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CHAPTER ONE
THE MUSIC PUMPED throughout the nightclub, bouncing off the walls and hitting Quin Rexford, as he felt every thump of the bass beat in his chest. He’d been looking forward to the night out with his friends—the opportunity to have some drinks, meet some women, drop some cash in the VIP sections of his favorite clubs. It looked as though his friends were having a great time—chatting up women, downing shots and fist-pumping to house music—but Quin just wasn’t feeling it.
His friend Luis sat down heavily on the VIP couch next to Quin, winded from dancing. Quin had spied him earlier with two women next to the DJ booth. “It’s been way too long since we’ve done this, man,” Luis said, holding out his closed fist.
Quin smiled and bumped his own fist against his friend’s. “Yeah, really,” he replied without much enthusiasm.
Luis recognized something was wrong. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just beat. Work’s been kind of rough lately.”
“You work too hard,” Luis laughed.
Quin laughed, too, but he looked away and rolled his eyes. Luis was his best friend, but the man had come from money. He’d never worked a day in his life and had no idea about the necessity of working hard to stay afloat. Not that he and his siblings, Reid and Gemma, were in any danger of drowning. Together, the three of them ran Rexford Rum Distillery, the business that had been in their family for generations. Through hard work and determination, and a bit of luck, over the past several years, they’d managed to make Rexford Rum one of the most popular rum brands in the country.
But staying on top was another matter altogether. His brother Reid, the eldest sibling, handled the financial end of the business and his younger sister, Gemma, was the master distiller and—despite her age—one of the best in the country. And that left Quin. He was more of the marketing/PR guy. But he knew that Reid considered that to be just a fancy term for the guy who hosted parties at clubs and talked to athletes and celebrities.
“You guys are in the big leagues now,” Luis said. “Hire an assistant to help with the workload.”
“I already have an assistant,” Quin told him. “But all of these extra hours are to fix a major mistake that I made. It’s up to me to straighten it out.”
“Is everything okay?”
“It will be.” Quin knew he wasn’t going to get away without telling his friend the whole shameful story. “A couple of months ago, we had a big deal lined up. It would have been huge, too—international distribution. Everything was on track. But I blew it.”
“What happened?”
He laughed to himself, not because the situation was funny, but because it was so goddamn embarrassed. “I had sex with the CEO’s wife.”
Luis laughed. “What? Why would you do that?”
“She and her husband were in town. I met her at a function. She didn’t tell me she was married. Let alone to our distributor.” Quin had decided to ignore the indent around the bottom of her ring finger on her left hand where a wedding band would have sat. He’d reasoned that maybe she was divorced, but he never asked, and hadn’t been told. He knew it had been shady, but at the time he hadn’t cared.
“Oh, God.”
“Just wait. There’s more.”
“Of course, there’s more.”
“We were caught by her husband coming out of the women’s room at the very function where we were announcing the distribution deal.”
He could tell Luis was stifling his own shocked laugh. “Oh, man. And the deal was off?”
“Was it ever. Luckily, no one else at the party, or any of the press, caught wind of it, and I managed to avoid being punched in the face, but it was bad. I Gemma was pissed, but it was a good week or so before Reid would speak to me.” He would have gladly taken their anger, but it was that he’d disappointed them—that was the real punch to the gut for him. “That’s why I’ve been pulling these crazy hours lately. I’m trying to make it right. I’ve got something else in the works, but it hasn’t been easy.”
“Putting in extra work by going to parties and hanging out with celebrities? I saw your picture in some of those society-who’s-who-in-Miami-type blogs.”
Quin had attended a few parties lately. Trying to win over his potential client had required his attendance at them. “That sounds like something Reid would say. He doesn’t take me seriously,” he revealed.
“Nah,” Luis said. “You work just as hard as the rest of them.”
“‘Going to parties and hanging out with celebrities’?” he asked. “That’s what you just said.” Quin frowned. Up until recently, his job in marketing for Rexford Rum had been one big party—late nights, schmoozing with celebrities, nightclubs, bottle service, models. But lately he was trying something new. Since he’d almost ruined the business, he was striving to atone, and he had another big deal in the works, but he had to work hard for it.
Luis shrugged. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Everyone plays their part. Even I can see that. Sure, you treat your job like a party—everyone wishes they could have as much fun at work as you do. But we haven’t seen you at all lately. I was starting to worry. Tell me, though, what’s keeping you so busy? Can you share who has you out putting in overtime?”
“I’ve been working finalizing a pretty big deal with Seacoast Prestige, and it’s taking many more late nights and long hours than I’d anticipated.”
Even though Rexford Rum had grown significantly in the past few years, the company still rested on the shoulders of the three of them. While it looked like his job was no work and all play, much of his role required him socializing—spending time in clubs, making connections with the Miami elite. It wasn’t just all fun. He had a business to market, to set up for future success. Getting away from the hard-partying playboy image would be a good next step.
“Seacoast Prestige?” Luis repeated. “The company that owns the yachts?”
Quin nodded. “And private jets, limos, Caribbean villas, and they do event planning. If it’s something the rich and powerful want, Seacoast Prestige has it,” Quin elaborated. “I might have fucked up on an international distribution deal, but this would be just as good for us. I’m trying to make Rexford their exclusive rum brand, but the president, Jared Foster, is a real piece of work. He needs a lot of wining and dining. He wants to build a relationship first, and that takes time.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Luis said.
Quin shook his head in disgust when he thought of Jared Foster. “He’s a real asshole. One of those guys who always gets what he wants.” Quin liked the finer things in life now, but he’d been raised in a middle-class home. He wasn’t spoiled and appreciated everything he’d been blessed with in life.
“If you don’t like the guy, why does it have to be your job? Why not share that job with Reid and Gemma?”
There was no way he was going to his siblings to say that working on the Seacoast Prestige job was too much for him. “What am I going to do, send Reid in there?” Quin asked about his older brother, who busied himself with the numbers side of the distillery. “So he can present bar graphs and financials from the past three quarters?”
“You might be right there.”
“And plus, you wouldn’t be on my ass for working too hard if you had any idea what I’ll be doing for the next few days.”
“Yeah, and what’s that?”
“Tomorrow afternoon I’m heading down to St. Martin for three days on Jared Foster’s mega yacht.” It sounded glamourous as hell—a seventy-foot luxury yacht in the azure blue water of the Caribbean. Drinks flowing, gorgeous women... It would normally be right up his alley. But Quin wasn’t exactly looking forward to the trip. Like Rexford Rum, Seacoast Prestige had been built from the ground up, and in their respective families for generations, but when the man who’d created the company stepped down, his oldest son, Jared, took control of the reins.
Seacoast Prestige was quite a successful company, but that had nothing to do with Jared Foster. He had a penchant for using the company assets—yachts, villas, jets—as his own personal toys. The man was spoiled and lazy, and left a trail of failed start-ups and misconduct rumors in his wake. But that didn’t stop Quin from wanting to do business with one of the biggest companies on the east coast.
“You poor guy.” Luis rolled his eyes. “Three days on a yacht in the Caribbean. How will you ever get through it?”
“Alcohol, mostly, I imagine.”
“If you don’t want to go, why are you?”
“Like I said, Reid wouldn’t work. He doesn’t get how these guys operate,” he told him. Either that, or Gemma would have to go. But there was no way he was letting his younger sister within a mile of that sleazebag. “It’ll be over soon, and I’ll get that contract signed, then I can get back to my usual screwing around.”
Quin sighed and drank from his glass, draining it.
Luis poured himself a finger of rum and offered the bottle to Quin, who took it and poured himself another. Just to take the edge off. He sat back on the couch and Luis did the same, taking in their surroundings. The bass of the music still thumped, and he felt his temperature rise as if someone had turned off the air-conditioning. A headache formed at one of his temples, and he felt his skin grow hot and sticky. Quin fanned himself with his shirt, trying to cool down.
They were soon joined by another friend, Tomas, who was holding his phone. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “We’re going to head to Rockwell now—you in?”
“You’re leaving already?” Quin asked.
“Yeah, a couple of women I know are waiting for us.”
Quin narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Weren’t you just dancing with a woman here for about twenty minutes?”
“Yeah, what about it?” Tomas said with a laugh. “Are you coming, or what?”
Quin shook his head. “Nah, I think I’ll pass. I’m just going to head home when I finish my drink.”
“Really? It’s not even three a.m.”
Quin knew he and his friends were creeping up in age when 3:00 a.m. might be considered late, but they weren’t there yet. “Yeah, I’m just not feeling it tonight.”
“Still no women falling for your charms?” Tomas asked.
“Not one,” Quin admitted. But it wasn’t like he’d been trying. “Maybe next time.”
“With the hours you’ve been putting in at work lately, I don’t know when that’ll be.”
“Jesus, not you, too?” Quin asked. “Luis was just busting my balls about work, too.”
Tomas looked down at his phone. “The car’s here,” he announced, and turned back to Quin. “So, you’re really not coming with us?”
He shook his head. “Not tonight. I’m just going to finish my drink and head home. I still have to pack.”
“Speedos, sunscreen and condoms, man. It’s all you’ll need,” Luis told him.
Quin laughed. “Thanks for the tip. I guess I’ll have to pick up my Speedos from the cleaners,” he said as they slapped hands.
“All right. Have a good trip.”
When he was alone, he left the couch where they’d been seated and carried his glass out onto the nearby patio. Thankfully, it was empty, not packed like the rest of the club, and the noise of the music was mostly contained to the inside. It was a typically warm night, but at least there was a cool breeze off the ocean. He took a deep breath, pulling the salty air into his lungs and letting it cool him from the inside. Quin loved Miami. There was no other place he’d rather live. He gazed back into the club, watched people dancing, flirting, pressing their bodies together in movements that might be considered lewd if not for the thin pieces of clothing between them. The club was getting wild, as it normally did the closer the night came to the morning. Normally Quin would be in there with them. But lately, it just didn’t appeal to him. Maybe he was just tired from work. Maybe the thought of being the family screwup, having ruined a big deal for the company, was weighing heavily on him. He’d felt terrible, of course, but it was the way Reid had spoken to him, told him he’d ruined everything they’d worked for. The cold disappointment in Gemma’s eyes.
He put his glass down for a moment, just long enough to pull a cigar from his breast pocket and put it between his lips. Like most clubs, Club Culture was nonsmoking, but alone on the patio, he thought there was nothing wrong with breaking a little rule and taking a quick puff. Lighting up earned him a stern look from the floor manager, who was watching him from inside, but when Quin waved, the man recognized him, then smiled and moved on.
No club manager was going to hassle Quin Rexford in South Beach, not so long as he was supplying them with Rexford Rum, hosting brand-awareness parties and inviting the celebrities and athletes he counted as friends. His business and his connections let him slide with the rules a little. Quin puffed on his cigar.
Quin yawned, taking out his cell phone. Time to call his own car, he supposed. But before he could navigate to the car-service app, something stopped him.
He watched through the open door of the patio as, inside the club, a group of women were being escorted to the VIP table closest to him. While three of the women laughed, the fourth wore a frown on her gorgeous face. She was the one who held his attention, though. The woman mustered a brief smile for the hostess and thanked her for the table before she sat, crossing her long legs. He could tell her friends were trying to engage her, make her happy, and while she appeared gracious, Quin could tell that she—like him—just wasn’t feeling the club tonight. But that wasn’t the only thing they had in common. He looked more closely, narrowing his eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured to himself. He and the woman—they used to have everything in common. Watching her, Quin’s mood quickly turned around. He decided he didn’t want to go home and he waved to one of the cocktail waitresses inside.
“Could you bring a bottle of Rexford Premium to that table over there,” he asked the server when she joined him on the patio. “And don’t tell them where it came from.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Rexford,” she said with a smile before walking away.
Quin watched as the VIP servers brought over the bottle and mixes and all the sparklers and regalia that came with the purchase of a 500-dollar bottle of rum. The girls were all surprised and her friends cheered as the servers poured out the first glasses.
Feeling like a voyeur from his spot alone on the patio, he kept his eyes trained on the woman. Celia Evans—the one he’d let get away. No, wait! She was the one he’d driven away. They’d been best friends all through college. She’d been his sounding board for when he needed advice, she’d helped him pass the first-year computer-science course he’d nearly failed. He’d talked her through breakups and makeups, and been her steady Saturday brunch and matinee date. The good times outnumbered the bad. But that one bad time, he thought, wincing to himself. It had been enough to drive a half-nation-wide wedge between them.
She’d been a blonde back then; she’d changed her hair. Now it was dark brown, long and straight. Her makeup was immaculately done, and her clothing and accessories were styled flawlessly. She may look different now, but he could see through it. He still knew her. One of her friends passed her a glass that was topped with a mix of fruit juices. If he had made the drink for her, he would have chosen a mix of orange and cranberry. The pink-orange color of the drink told him it was exactly that. She sipped, and a small smile formed on those lips, and she closed her eyes. Savoring the flavor. Watching her drink his rum, enjoying it, made him warm. Almost turned him on. He sipped on his drink, which held the same kind of rum that she had been served. The vibration in his chest was no longer the throbbing house music, but he could feel his heart beating as they tasted the rum together. An innocent, but similarly erotic thing. It affected him.
It then occurred to him that instead of talking to her, he’d been watching her like a creep. What was he doing? Might as well get himself a pair of binoculars and a white windowless van. But the more he looked at her, the more he could tell that she was a woman who didn’t want to be bothered. And what would she do if she saw him? Their last meeting, even though it was eight years ago, hadn’t been a pleasant one, and he doubted she would have forgiven him that easily. But if Celia saw him stepping into her line of sight, then she could make the decision of whether she wanted a conversation with him or not, he reasoned.
She picked up the bottle from the ice bucket in the center of the table and inspected the label. He smiled, too, when her lips turned upward, and she looked around the crowded club until her eyes connected with his. Celia smiled at him, shook her head and said something to her friends. Then she stood and pushed down the skirt of her short dress, the length of which did little to cover her impossibly long legs.
She walked toward him. His heart was playing a steady ratta-tat-tat against his rib cage, drowning out the noise of the club. He raised his chin, nodding in recognition, trying to play it cool, and hoped he was successful.
Judging by the smile on her face when she joined him on the patio, she couldn’t have been too upset to see him, but it remained to be seen. “Quin,” she said, putting down her glass on the nearby railing as she stood in front of him. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him in for a hug. His arms were around her waist, and he closed his eyes, burying his face in her hair. She may have changed her shampoo and perfume—replacing the once-fruity fragrances with richer ones—but her scent was still the same. When they parted, she put her hands on his shoulders and held him at arm’s length, looking him up and down.
“You look great.”
“So do you.”
“Thanks for the rum,” she said. “I should have known it was from you.”
He shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She smiled. “I see.” She picked up her glass again and sipped from it. He was close enough to smell the sweet notes of the juice and the spicy rum on her breath.
They both looked over the railing onto the street below them. Even at three in the morning, South Beach was a hive of activity.
“It’s been a while.” It was lame, but it was all he could manage to say. Tension squeezed his throat. Quin hated the stilted, awkward tone of their conversation. A decade ago, they would already be deep in conversation. They’d shared everything. After the pleasantries of their initial meeting had faded, he was left thinking about their bitter parting eight years ago. He could only assume that she was also thinking about it. The reunion was tinged with melancholy, and he wondered if getting her attention had been a mistake. He should have just gone on home and left her alone.
She nodded in response, still staring over the edge. “It’s nice out here.”
“Yeah, it is. It’s a lot quieter than inside. I came out here for a bit of peace.”
Now she looked at him, her eyes narrowed critically. “I never knew you to be a person who craved the quiet.”
He shrugged. “People change, I guess. Especially in eight years.”
She nodded. “Indeed.” Another too-long pause. “It was getting crazy in there,” she said finally. “The noise was starting to give me a headache. I needed to get away for a minute, too.” She took a deep breath and Quin had to force his eyes away from the rise and fall of her chest. “Get some air. At least before the mystery guy who just bought us a bottle sidled over expecting our attention.”
“Why did you think I’d do that?”
“Men don’t anonymously drop that kind of cash without expecting something in return.”
She was describing a well-used move in his arsenal. See a group of beautiful women, send over a bottle and take a seat a few minutes later. It worked every time. “Maybe men are just trying to be nice,” he offered.
She scoffed. “I know men. When it’s after midnight in a nightclub, there are no nice men. There are just ulterior motives. And ninety-eight percent of the time, it’s sex.”
Quin laughed. “Maybe you’re right. But you know me. You know that I’m a nice guy.”
Celia pursed her lips. “You weren’t always,” she told him.
“Ouch,” he said. “That hurt.”
“It’s not true?”
He remembered the last time they’d spoken, and he nodded. “You’ve got me there. Maybe I wasn’t always such a nice guy.”
She looked over her shoulder. “I guess I should get back to my friends,” she said. “Thanks for the rum.” She walked away.
Quin wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her yet. In desperation, he called out to her. “Celia, wait!”
She turned. “Yeah?”
“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink? We can talk.”
“I think you’ve already bought me a couple.” She gestured to the bottle of rum in the center of the VIP table.
He waved it off. “That was just to distract your friends so I could eventually come talk to you—just like you suspected.”
“So I was right—there is no nice without ulterior motives.”
“What can I say?”
“You’re still a smooth one, aren’t you?”
Looking at her, he felt anything but smooth. He felt like a desperate teenager, trying not to make a fool of himself in front of a gorgeous, sophisticated woman. She shook her long, brown hair over her shoulder and crossed her arms. “Fine,” she said, relenting. “One drink.”
Relief washed over Quin. “Great. Another one of those?” he asked, pointing to her near-empty glass, grateful that he would have the chance to talk to Celia again. She nodded.
This was his chance to make it right with her. To apologize for that night. Hopefully it would go better than their last conversation, which still stuck with him eight years later. She’d confessed her love...but he’d rejected her. And not well. He’d turned her down in a way that a typical twenty-two-year-old dumbass would have. He’d hoped she would at least hear the apology he’d practiced every day since then.
