Vodka Warrior
Table of Contents
Vodka Warrior
Copyright
Trademarks Acknowledgement
Dedication
PRAISE FOR AUTHOR
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Epilogue
About the Author
Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press, Inc. publication.
Vodka Warrior
by
Mickey J. Corrigan
The Hard Stuff, Book Two
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Vodka Warrior
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Mickey J. Corrigan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Edition, 2014
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-380-3
Published in the United States of America
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author of this work of fiction
acknowledges the following trademarks:
Audi A5: Audi AG Corporation
BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke AG
Barbie: Mattel, Inc.
Botox: Allergan, Inc.
Bud Light: Anheuser-Busch LLC
Dolce & Gabbana: Dolce & Gabbana LLC
Dunkin’ Donuts: DD IP Holder LLC
Hugo Boss: Hugo Boss
Jell-O: Kraft Foods Group Global Brands LLC
Porsche: Porsche AG
Ray-Ban: Luxottica Group Corporation
Trader Joe’s: Trader Joe’s Company
Walmart: Wal-Mart Stores, Inc.
Dedication
To my editor Diana Carlile:
Thanks for coaching this series into shape.
PRAISE FOR AUTHOR
Mickey J. Corrigan
AND HER BOOKS
“I certainly hope this author continues to do books…which inspire me to find my hubby for some special one on one time—if you know what I mean! *fans self*”
~Read Our Lips Blog
“At this point, I’ll read anything by Ms. Corrigan. All her short pieces I have read were vastly different, but no less entertaining.”
~Hearts on Fire Reviews
“So far I’ve only read three of her books and she is HILARIOUS!! I know I will be highly entertained by her shenanigans. I’m not usually one to read stand alone novellas, but if Mickey J. Corrigan writes it, I’m going to read it!!”
~Smardy Pants Book Blog
“Mickey J. Corrigan has a rich and unique voice that is comical and heartwarming all at once. I for one will be eagerly anticipating her next story!”
~Romance Junkies
Chapter One
The Body God
As soon as he moved in next door, I started drinking more. Things went from lousy to terrible, then they got worse.
He first showed up on a steamy Friday afternoon while I was weeding the piddling rock garden I had going out front. My face was streaked with dirt, and I could smell last night’s brewskies seeping from my pores. I liked working in the yard the day after I overindulged. It was like a detoxification rite. Here in South Florida, I could detox daily. We don’t get much cold weather in the deep pocket of the Sunshine State, so almost every day was another opportunity to let my poor old body sauna out the booze toxins.
The car door squeaked when he opened it. I gawked at both him and his sleek little sports car, parked in the driveway next door. Both the man and his BMW convertible were look-at-me types, so I did. I looked. I don’t think he noticed me, though, because I was squatting low behind the sea grape trees that formed a kind of hedge between the two houses. He was talking on the phone, one of those fancy-ass hands-free cells. I could hear everything he was saying, and I will admit, I listened in.
“Tonight’s good,” he said in this sexy growl. “I’m heading for the hot tub soon’s I unload my car. Come by in a coupla hours. Bring candy and taffy.”
I tallied him up and down from my squat behind the trees. He sure didn’t look like the kind who went for sugar rushes. I would’ve bet a six-pack of Bud Lights the man was one of those purist vegetarians, just by the way he carried himself. Like his body was a holy site. Or a gem on a mound of velvet.
First impressions are not always bull’s-eyes, least not mine, but this time I was jack-on-it. The man was a walking temple of self-adoration. I kind of forgot about my weeding project while I watched him unload a bunch of cardboard boxes and lug them into the house next to mine. His biceps and triceps and everything else bulged in anatomical purity under a tight black tee. His chest heaved and he was sweating, but in the coy way that makes a girl want to snuffle up, not run for a gas mask. Guy was total alpha male.
My addiction counselor told me I was neurotic and a blamer. Yeah, yeah, yeah, and he was a smug cocksucker, like a lot of middle-aged men in positions of minimal power. Truth was, I did slide down the slippery slope from being an I’ve-got-a-problem drinker to falling-down drunk. You could’ve seen the bruises on my backside that proved it.
Hey, I was the first to admit what dirt was going on with me. But the thing was, the boost in alcohol volume happened right after Vario Fumesti eased his red, convertible, fuck-me car into the torn up driveway next door. Call me what you will, but the way I saw things was this—my new neighbor was like a bomb blast. And he was to blame for everything that happened to me once he torpedoed into my life.
Until the day Mr. Body God arrived on the scene, I’d paid little attention to the ranch house to the south of mine. A down at the heels rental property, the place could’ve used a hefty dose of TLC. One of those handyman’s specials, with peeling gray paint striping the cement block and ratty tufts of fakahatchee grass instead of a lawn. The driveway asphalt had stripped off, revealing a sad gray underlining. And the roof sagged in the front like a cocked hat.
My house wasn’t winning any beautification awards either, though, so it didn’t bother me none that my neighbors weren’t taking care. Golden Date Palms wasn’t a chichi development. Most of us lived in bland one-story jobbies on dinky plots. Some folks here got anal and polished, trimmed and fluffed. Others went natural. Nobody seemed to give much of a shit. I certainly didn’t. I never poked in on my neighbor’s business. I just wasn’t that type.
The rent house next door was occupied by an eighty-year-old man and a couple of mangy cats. His name was Oscar, and the cats went by Dolores and Ruff. Once in a while, Oscar would invite me over for a beer, and we’d grinch about the state of the world. I liked the guy. He’d had a lot of experiences and wasn’t shy about sharing his opinions. Old Oscar treated me like a lady, like his daughter or granddaughter. His own relatives seemed to steer clear, for whatever stupid reasons family always come up with. I knew how that felt—like a kick in the hind quarters—because my only daughter stayed away for four and a half years. She said she hated me when I was like that. Like what? Like myself, only more so, I guess.
I watched Oscar’s new roommate heft the final box onto one of his wrestler’s bridges, those lumps of
muscle on only the most obsessed weightlifter’s shoulders. The man was sizzling hot; I had to give him that. He was in awesome shape for his age, though he looked to be a good ten years younger than me. I thought maybe he was in his early thirties, and I just looked a lot older because I was not a body warrior. Not my thing, exercise and eating healthy. No thanks. I was more of a lounge and liquor gal.
He sauntered up the walkway, his gait a strut, self-assured, cocky. His long dark hair smoothed on back from one of those iron man faces with white picket fence teeth. Nice and tall, yea-wide shoulders, no flab, just one hundred percent beef. Obviously, a body snob. He had to be working out that GQ bod of his overtime.
After he swaggered into the house, I sighed a little. Maybe I sorta liked him for a minute or two. I can’t really judge that now. But I do recall he did fascinate me at first.
Guess that’s why I scurried into the house and cooked up a roll package of welcome-to-the-neighborhood chocolate chip cookies. Then I took a cool shower and jumped into my shortest shorts and a clingy top. I was past the age of when you’d haul off and call me cute, but I could still look like I was ready for action. I knew this about myself, no brag.
As I tarted up, I figured I’d have a few minutes to make my new neighbor’s acquaintance before his friend arrived with the junk food. Maybe I was cutting in on the action, being the first one to show up with the sugar he seemed to crave. Just me being me, but I can see now how it might’ve seemed like a hustler’s move.
Oscar answered the door in his red plaid bathrobe and scuffy leather slippers. His white hair stuck up in a sleepy bed-do. “What’s all this now, Theresa Tierney?” he asked with a yellowed smile. “Already the chickens are lining up, and he ain’t been here but a minute or two.”
“Who?” I asked, but I didn’t hand over the plate of cookies. When he snorted, I said, “I’m just being neighborly.”
Oscar scoffed, but he was good-natured about it. After Dolores scooted through his skinny legs and zipped past me to explore the patchy yard, he said, “You come on in now and meet my new roomie, Vario. He’s in the kitchen makin’ stir-fry.”
Vario. Vario? I should’ve run off with Dolores right then, saved myself from stepping in an ugly heap of trouble, but I didn’t. Instead, I followed Oscar down the dusty hall. A Frank Sinatra song was playing on Oscar’s stereo, and the aroma of sautéed garlic sweetened the humid air. Oscar stopped short in the kitchen doorway and whispered, “How come you don’t wear them short shorts when you come by to visit the old man, eh?”
I shook my head and gave him the hush eye, but Oscar just snickered and stepped back, indicating with one gnarled finger that I should lead him into the kitchen. So I did, holding the blue plastic plate in front of me like a sweet hand of friendship.
Vario had his shirt off. He was brown as the freckles dotting my lily-white ass. His trapezius and lats and delts, all that—they rippled and smoothed over as broad a back as I’d ever seen on a half-naked man. His waist tucked itself into his gym shorts without a centimeter of extra bulge anywhere. Adonis, anyone?
My two ex-husbands were contractors, and both of them looked damn good half-dressed in worn jeans and shitkickers. But even though my boys worked their bodies every day out on the job site, they never had the science down. Not like this perfect specimen of toned muscle and body sculpting.
The room was filled with the heady aroma of garlic and testosterone. It was like being in a Mafia hideout. I had to take a good hard gulp of air and steady my knees as Oscar introduced us.
“Nice to meet ya,” I said. “Welcome to the neighborhood. It’s not so bad, once you get used to all the snooty assholes and their senseless suburban rules of engagement.”
His pecs were like hard pancakes, and he had an eight-pack gut. My eyes might have popped out a little, but Vario only said, “Last place I lived, the old lady next door was a real nosy bitch. Hadda move cuzza her.”
The thick Bronx accent only enhanced his manly brawn. I smiled weakly and waggled the plate, a flinchy lion-tamer with a thick raw steak. His eyes lit on me, clouded over, danced away. He returned his focus to the sputtering fry pan on the greasy stovetop.
“I don’t eat shit like that.” His voice was low but mean, like a fog horn in the dark. “And Oscar, you shouldn’t eat that shit either. Bad for the blood. You want your pecker to keep working, you’ll stay away from white sugar.”
I wish I had a video of my face after he said that. My temperature plummeted, then rose quickly to a roiling boil. I felt the energy drain before a hot blush seeped up my neck, inflaming my cheeks. I wanted to sink to the floor and melt in a puddle of embarrassment. So much for my Desperate Housewives act.
Oscar’s chuckles didn’t help my deflating mood, but then he said, “Hey, I’m too old to worry about that no more. Give them cookies to me, Theresa. I’ll be glad not to have to share ’em.”
I set the plate down on his kitchen table, next to a pile of wrinkled up bills. Oscar was being kind. He lived on cold cereal and hot pockets, with gallons of coffee and beer to wash it down. I felt protective of my homemade cookies. They’d be unappreciated, ignored, or gulped in ignorance, here in this seedy house with two dubious bachelors and their mannish eating habits.
“Where you from?” my new neighbor asked.
I hated when people asked me that. Usually, it was because they thought my accent was weird. Hicky. Redneck.
“She’s native Floridian,” Oscar offered. “Not many of us ’round these parts no more.” He winked at me, sank onto one of the plastic chairs at the cluttered table, and reached for a cookie. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, taking a wolfish bite. “Still warm.”
Vario dumped a mountain of broccoli florets into the fry pan and stirred them around with a wooden spoon. “You’ll be sorry later, Oscar, when my guests arrive and your peter’s soft as a dinner roll.”
Oscar giggled. I’d never seen him so chipper before. But when he explained about the “guests,” well, then I knew why his usual black mood had spiffed up to whitey-white all of a sudden. “Taffy’s a stripper down to Sunrise, at the Dream Land. Candy works there, too. She’s a bartender. Blaise’s the night manager. All these girls is friends of Vario’s, and they’re comin’ over for dinner.”
Candy and Taffy. That explained a few mysteries. If I could’ve disappeared in a wisp of blue smoke, I would’ve done so in that instant. I had nothing against working girls, but I sure didn’t want to be there when the crew of Pole Dancer Barbie dolls arrived. I mean, I wasn’t too bad for my age and all, but when there was plastic-enhanced competition, I scooted.
“You wanna join us?” Vario asked without looking at me. He stirred in red bell pepper slices, generous chunks of summer squash, fat green beans. The vegetables popped and spit in the hot olive oil. “Tell me now, and I’ll chop some more shit up.”
I made an excuse, said I had to be somewhere, had to go home and get dressed. Friday night, hot date, lie dee lie lie lie.
Vario lifted his narrow black gaze from his stir-fry long enough to dust my legs, then brush over my breasts with a blatant stare. My skin crawled, then felt cool. Like I’d been in a dry ice storm.
He reached for the pepper shaker. “Too bad. Hot tub has room enough for six, you change your mind.”
Our eyes met and I saw something there, a kind of animal fury. Had I pissed him off? How? Was it my cookies or my refusal to join the party? I smiled and he smiled in return, but his lips formed the kind of thin line your mouth makes before you tell someone to go fuck themselves.
The guy hated me.
Oscar walked me to the front door and said in a low voice, “I ain’t goin’ in no hot tub with no dirty girls. Not me. But he’s an okay guy, Vario. And I can’t swing the rent by myself no more. Not with the cost of everything goin’ up and my pension not goin’ in the same direction.”
I patted him on his narrow, hard-boned shoulder and said I understood. But really, I kind of didn’t. Why not get a nice quiet roommat
e, instead of a sourpuss playboy with a stripper fixation?
“When’s the last time you cleaned out the hot tub, Oscar?” I said on my way out the door. “In fact, I never seen you clean that thing, not in all the time we been neighbors.”
He laughed. “Boy’s got work to do. He don’t know it yet, though. He hasn’t taken the cover offen that tub yet.”
The sun was setting, casting a pinkish glow over all the little ticky-tack houses in Golden Date Palms. The coconut palms were swishing their fronds in a soft ocean breeze. Another lovely night in paradise. All I wanted to do was sit out on my patio and relax, knock back a few, but now I couldn’t. If Vario went in his back yard, he could see into mine. The sea grapes separated the two lots out front, but in the back, we shared our space.
Over on my side, I had a huge red-bloomed poinciana tree that offered great shade, plus a handful of scheffleras and some straggly foxtail palms. I’d planted a few native bushes, too, yellow and red striped crotons and peach hibiscus, like that. Looked pretty nice.
The rent house next door had only a saggy wooden deck supporting the oversized hot tub. No trees, no bushes, no nothing to provide privacy. If we were all out back, they’d see me well enough. And I’d be able to see them perfectly. Which was the last thing I was in the mood to do.
I had to get in my car and make a show of going out. Otherwise, Vario would know I’d lied. Usually, I didn’t give half a fuck what other people thought, but this guy had rubbed me wrong. I wasn’t going to chance another invitation to join him and his skanky pals for the evening. So I changed into a pair of skinny jeans, grabbed my purse, and locked up the house. Then I drove to the megaplex and bought a ticket for the movie with the longest running time.
Chapter Two
Up a Tree
Turns out, four hours was not nearly long enough. I should’ve called a friend and stayed at her house for the night. That’s what I would’ve done, if I’d any idea what I was coming home to. That’s surely what I would’ve done if I’d had a friend to take me in. But I didn’t, and I didn’t.