With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 11

  As Grant felt the hot tequila slide into his empty stomach, he realized they had forgotten about dinner in the melee with Roger.

  “How did you like it?” Sophie inquired, studying him intently.

  Feeling the alcohol warm his insides, Grant slowly nodded. “Not bad. I’m still kind of nervous, but if I drink enough of this maybe I won’t even care if I screw up.”

  Sophie was about to reply when Tommy rushed in. “Hey, guys, it’s time to start! Everybody’s on board, and they need their drinks, Sophie.”

  “Okay! Good luck, Captain.” She squeezed Grant’s hand, then rushed down the white steps to the passengers.

  Grant took a deep breath, attempting to quell the butterflies that were now dive-bombing his stomach. Searching for Rog’s headset while Tommy moved to the controls, Grant found himself staring at the tequila bottle. Figuring his anxiety warranted a double dose of tranquilizer, he swiftly poured himself another shot and knocked it back. This time he did allow himself to cough a few times as the fiery liquid scorched his throat. He strapped on the headset and nervously turned on the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentleman, welcome to Eaton Tours. We have a stunning architectural cruise planned for you this evening.” Grant was relieved to find his voice clear and strong, without a hint of trembling.

  Tommy fired up the engines and began backing the ship away from the dock as Grant continued, “Sophie will be serving your drinks tonight. If there’s anything at all you need to make your cruise more enjoyable, please ask Sophie. She will take care of you.” He grinned, pleased with himself for retaliating just a bit. She’d gotten him into this mess, and he’d better not regret it later.

  * * *

  “Here you go,” Sophie smiled, passing two cokes to a father and son sitting aft on the ship.

  The man returned her smile as he passed the beverage to his wide-eyed son before digging into his pants pocket and handing her a ten-dollar bill.

  “I’ll be right back with your change, sir.”

  Appreciatively eyeing her shapely legs, he murmured, “Keep the change.”

  Sophie’s smile widened as she pocketed the money, quickly calculating that he’d tipped her five dollars. At this rate, maybe she wouldn’t need a higher-paying job. “Thank you!” She blushed with pleasure.

  She returned to the bar to mix martinis, listening to Grant describe Chicago’s architectural wonders as they slowly passed above their vantage point on the ship. Not only was he breathtakingly handsome, his magnetic voice was charming her with every word. Deep and throaty, with just a whisper of tremulousness, his voice was warm and silky smooth. It lowered with intensity when something piqued his interest, as if he were sharing a precious secret with the listener.

  “Straight ahead is the Trump International Tower and Hotel,” Grant informed the passengers. “Donald Trump initially planned a one-hundred-fifty story structure, but after the nine-eleven attacks, we all know why he changed his mind and created a wider, stair-step version of the tower. However, not all architects are shying away from super-tall skyscrapers, as we will discover near the end of this cruise when we visit the construction site for the Spire.”

  Sophie began mixing cosmopolitans for a group of women on the third bench, but she listened intently as Grant continued.

  “You may be interested to know that Chicago native Bill Rancic, winner of the first season of the television show The Apprentice, oversaw the construction for Trump Tower. This was his reward for managing to escape hearing the Donald say, ‘You’re fired!’”

  Sophie giggled softly as Grant nailed the Donald Trump impression. To her delight, she noticed some of the passengers chuckling too. Captain Madsen was apparently a hit.

  “To your left is Millennium Park. From the river, you can just make out the pavilion, which stands one-hundred-twenty feet high. The outdoor amphitheater has brushed stainless steel ribbons arching over the stage, with steel pipes extending in a crisscross pattern over the grass.”

  She paused her martini-shaking, fascinated. Where was he getting this stuff? Roger mentioned none of these facts during the first three cruises of the day.

  “Architect Frank Gehry designed the pavilion to draw the crowd into the stage, making them feel part of the experience. I hope you are feeling drawn into this cruise right now. Who here is visiting Chicago for the first time?”

  Multiple hands shot up in the crowd. “Well, I bet this won’t be your last visit,” Grant said. “What a remarkable town, this City of the Big Shoulders,” he said, then continued quoting from Carl Sandburg’s poem, “Chicago”:

  Come and show me another city with lifted head singing

  so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

  He quoted poetry too? Sophie’s jaw dropped. This was quite possibly the perfect man.

  “But my favorite part of Millennium Park has to be Cloud Gate, affectionately known as ‘the Bean’ to Chicago natives,” Grant’s melodious voice asserted. “British artist Arnish Kapoor conceived of this shiny steel structure, which reflects the images of visitors and clouds overhead. Cloud Gate inspires a vision of liquid mercury, like a giant drop of silver wine falling from Zeus’ massive glass in the heavens above. It is truly a work of art.”

  Grant was thoroughly enjoying himself, feeling so high that he never wanted this cruise to end. He was amazed at how natural it felt to spout off tidbits about his favorite Chicago haunts, and he was also thrilled that the facts he had read in Roger’s architecture book came back to him so easily. Guiding the tour was much better than driving the ship.

  Sneaking a glance at Tommy, who had his hand on the wheel, nervously scanning the river for evening traffic, Grant poured himself another couple of shots. If he felt this good after two tequila shots, surely a few more would make him feel even better. The amber liquid did not even burn his throat anymore.

  As they continued the hour-long cruise, Sophie found herself repeatedly lulled into a trance by his honey-smooth voice. Then, realizing she was inattentively staring into space, she would force herself back to the harrowing bustle of bartending for more than one hundred passengers.

  How was it that she’d never heard these fascinating stories about the city before? She supposed her workaholic father had been too busy to teach her about their hometown. She now knew that skyscrapers were first constructed in Chicago following the Great Fire of 1871, and some were designed with an inner and outer core for stabilization in strong winds.

  Sophie was so busy with the drinks that she didn’t notice Grant’s voice begin to change. It had become more warbling and less precise. His words blended into each other as he stretched out particular syllables languidly—turning from honey to molasses. His commentary also became a little goofy.

  “And here is our last architectoooral wonder,” he slurred. “The Chicago Spire.” Grant leaned back on the railing of the bridge, suddenly feeling lightheaded. The swaying of the ship was uncharacteristically unwelcome, and his legs felt tingly and warm. He closed his eyes to try to steady himself and gripped the railing tightly. Only five more minutes.

  Several moments passed, and Sophie wondered what had happened to Grant, but suddenly his voice filled the speakers once again. “Construction on the Spire begannn one year ago, and right now the ssstructure is not yet above-ground, but, dude, I so wish you could see the completed product. It’s gonna be one-hundred-fitty stories highhh—taller than the Ssssears Towerrr—and its design will make it look like a giant drill bit. It’s freakin’ one of the most phallic things you have everrr sssseen. It’s like a huuuuge, throbbing penis piercing the skyyy.”

  Sophie dropped her tray with a deafening clatter.

  Grant chuckled lightly over the speakers, a low sexy rumble that made her knees wobble. “Mmmm, the architect is Sssantiago Calatrava. I wonder how biggg that guy is? He seems kinda obsessed with sssize.”

  Sophie frantically gathered the plastic cups scattered on the deck near the man and his son she’d served ear
lier. She looked up to find the man covering his son’s ears and shooting her an angry glance. She gulped.

  Standing up and walking the tray to the bar, Sophie glanced around at the passengers, expecting a revolt to erupt. But instead she found most wearing bemused expressions, some sporting looks of disbelief, and some chuckling to themselves. The majority seemed to crave more commentary from the crazy man up on the bridge.

  Teetering on the brink of exhaustion after a long first day on the job, worrying about Roger in the hospital, and working alongside the hottest man on earth, who now appeared to be drunk off his ass, Sophie felt a slap-happy giddiness overtake her. She tried desperately not to laugh.

  What the hell was Tommy doing up there? How much had Grant had to drink? Should she go up to the bridge and find out? She still had several drink orders pending. Frozen in a moment of indecision, she looked back and forth between the bridge and the passengers, then heard Grant’s voice once again.

  This time he was singing.

  Hey, now what can happen to me

  In an awesome city like thisss?

  I give a shout-out to Chicago, baby!

  And smooooch you with a big fat kissss …

  Sophie cupped her hand over her mouth. Grant was really losing it now.

  “Join in, everyone!” he encouraged loudly. Considering his creative lyrics, it took the crowd a couple of lines to realize he was singing Sinatra’s “My Kind of Town.” It figured ol’ crystal eyes was singing a tune by Ol’ Blue Eyes. If his speaking voice was sexy, his singing voice was orgasmic—smooth, mellow, and melodic, with perfect pitch. But then his slurred serenade was replaced by static and the sound of harsh, unintelligible words.

  Several of the passengers actually had joined the singing, and a raucous mood flowed throughout the ship as they pulled into the dock. Diners at a nearby restaurant, Dan’s Dock, craned their necks to see what was causing such an uproar.

  Sophie quickly scurried to settle up the last bills, then scampered down to the dock, plastering a fake smile on her lips and nodding pleasantly at the departing passengers. She did not even wait for the last stragglers to leave before she bolted up the steps to the bridge, finding Tommy wrestling the microphone headset from Grant’s grasp.

  “I want to sssing ssssome more!” he pleaded.

  She glanced at the bottle of tequila and her eyes widened at the paltry amount left. That had been a full bottle of Cuervo Gold!

  “Grant!” she shouted. “How many shots of tequila did you have?”

  Startled into lucidity by her sharp tone, he gave her a puzzled, glassy-eyed stare. “Dunno … Maybe five? No, ten?”

  Her jaw dropped. “Tommy! How could you let him drink that much? He’s never had alcohol before!”

  “I didn’t know that!” he hissed back, finally gaining possession of the headset and hiding it behind his back. “I was busy navigating the damn ship, not babysitting Frank Sinatra over here!”

  “I get a big kick from tequila,” Grant began singing, a huge grin on his face as he continued to maul Sinatra songs. “Cuervo Gold, it makes me feel so damn bold …”

  He moved unsteadily toward Sophie, and before she knew it, he had her in his arms, leading her in an impromptu waltz around the bridge. Despite her misgivings, Sophie let herself be drawn into his arms, surrendering to the spontaneous joy of the moment.

  He spun her around, and Sophie squealed as she twirled in the small space. Apparently the motion was a little much for Grant, as he went careening into the controls for the ship, crashing into the panel and sliding to the floor like an accordion.

  Sophie gasped and ran to his side. “Are you all right?”

  Grant nodded with a serene, happy grin, closing his eyes and continuing to hum Frank Sinatra. Tommy rolled his eyes disgustedly.

  “Awesome,” he spat. “The substitute captain is wasted, and the real captain is in the hospital having a heart attack.” He rubbed his temples. “What a day.”

  “What are we going to do?” Sophie asked.

  “We gotta lock up. And one of us should probably go check on Rog.”

  Tommy peered down at Sophie, his sandy-blond buzz cut topping a frowning face. He seemed young, maybe in his early twenties, and Sophie felt guilty that at ages twenty-nine and thirty, respectively, she and Grant were the irresponsible ones.

  “Well, I can try to take Ol’ Blue Eyes home,” she negotiated, “if you can check on Rog?”

  Tommy nodded. “Here, let’s get him in a cab.” He knelt down. “Grant, you need to get up!”

  Grant began laughing softly. “Donnn think ssso.”

  “Shit. Now that he’s on the floor there ain’t no way we’re getting him up on his feet.” Glaring at Sophie, he proclaimed, “This is all your fault, you know! You’re the one who gave him booze.”

  Tommy tapped his foot pensively while Sophie bit her lip, trying to figure out how to help. Then Tommy leaned in near Grant’s ear and barked, “Lieutenant Madsen! On your feet!”

  Miraculously Grant scrambled up and snapped to attention.

  Sophie marveled at this abrupt change. “Lieutenant?”

  “He was in the Navy,” Tommy explained. “So was I, and so was Rog. I figured that would get his attention.”

  “Huh,” Sophie mused, lost in thought. Visions of Grant in a crisp white uniform that hugged his lean body swam in her head. The perfect man just became more perfect. She wondered what else she would learn before the night was over.

  “Let’s go, Lieutenant,” Tommy ordered, firmly grasping Grant’s elbow and leading him toward the stairs.

  “Where we goin’, bossss?” he asked.

  “Boss?” Tommy asked. “Don’t you mean ‘sir,’ you drunkard?”

  A sad frown quietly crept over Sophie’s delicate features. She knew exactly why he was using the word “boss.” It was a term of respect for corrections officers, a word that made her shudder. Apparently Roger had not shared Grant’s prison history with his coworkers.

  They made it to the street in the fading daylight and thankfully didn’t wait long for an available cab. A few minutes more and Grant might start singing again—or possibly start vomiting. He seemed more incoherent with each passing moment.

  As Tommy helped her stuff Grant into the taxi, grunting with exertion, he asked, “So, you’ll be okay, then?”

  “I think so,” she replied nervously, feeling Grant’s warm body close to hers in the backseat. His head lolled against the headrest, and his eyes were closed.

  “I’ll lock up and go see about Rog,” Tommy said. “Catch you tomorrow.”

  When Tommy closed the door, the cabbie looked at Sophie expectantly. She realized she had no idea where they were going. “Grant? What’s your address?”

  He laid there motionless. “Grant!” she repeated, poking his shoulder. “Where do you live?”

  “Studio,” he mumbled. “Eggs and sausage.” She scrunched her forehead. His next utterance was not any more helpful: “Snoring. Really loud ssssnoring.”

  She gave up and told the cabdriver, “It’s 900 North Lake Shore Drive.” She hoped Kirsten wouldn’t be upset about an unannounced houseguest.

  During the ten-minute cab ride, Sophie wondered how she was going to get an unconscious, six-foot-one man up to Kirsten’s apartment. However, about a minute into the drive, Grant came back to life. His long eyelashes fluttered open and he glanced around, his intense blue eyes coming to rest on the strawberry-blonde returning his gaze.

  “Sophie.” He smiled, reaching out to caress her face with his hand. She held her breath. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, stroking her cheek softly. “You’re my angel. My elegant angel.”

  Her face burned with his touch, and the heat only intensified when he leaned in and brushed his lips across her cheek. She closed her eyes and reveled in the sensation of his full, luscious lips planting soft kisses, starting at her temple and then languorously descending to her jaw. She stroked the length of his thigh, urging him onward. His us
ual sandalwood scent had been replaced by the sweet, almost nutty smell of agave emanating from his pores. He was a walking tequila shot. Well, the walking part remained to be seen.

  “We’re at 900 North Lake Shore,” the driver announced after the fastest cab ride ever. Sophie glanced at the meter and grimaced as she withdrew a ten-dollar bill from her pocket. Living in the city could sure cut down on her profits. As she started to hand over the cab fare, Grant, suddenly lucid, reached out and clutched her wrist.

  “No, I got it,” he insisted, energized by kissing her soft skin. He quickly whipped out his own money despite Sophie’s protests. After he paid the driver they both managed to scoot out of the seat and stand at the curb.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  She stared into his tired, half-lidded eyes. Grasping his hand in hers she told him, “We’re home, Grant.” He nodded gratefully. Indeed, when it came to Sophie, he definitely felt he had found his home.

  13. Low Lo

  The cries of seagulls could barely be heard over the pounding surf. A solitary man stood silhouetted against the setting sun’s brilliant orange glow. Frothy ocean waves crashed at the shore and raced toward his cowboy boots before receding once again. Like the repeated screw-ups in his own life, the waves just kept coming.

  He was a strong, strapping man, and he cut an imposing figure if anyone were to study him from the beach. His black leather jacket and worn jeans were out of place in Hilton Head, South Carolina. He faced the mysterious and powerful sea, his chiseled features drawn with lines of worry and regret as his deep-blue eyes stared, mesmerized, at a piece of driftwood bobbing in the ocean.

  Logan Barberi had been hiding out on this island for a little over a year, feeling as adrift and cast aside as the piece of weathered wood now capturing his attention. He had disappeared the moment Sophie called him, her voice shaking with betrayal and disbelief. It had taken only a few heatedly exchanged words for her to arrive at icy resolve. When she’d coldly informed him it was over, he’d realized she was lost to him forever. And that he’d better get the hell out of Chicago if he didn’t want to spend a long time locked away with his father.