Tit for Tat
“Tit for Tat” The cork released with a satisfying pop, and with it, a blood trail along the wine key. Surging nausea shook Justin’s guts at the sight of red rivulets running from her delicate hands, threatening to regurgitate three vodka tonics. “In all my years of uncorking bottles in Marlborough and Mendoza, I’ve never spilled wine, let alone blood,” Riley insisted, examining her wrist’s pulsing gash with detached curiosity. “Do you have paper towels?” she prodded him from frozen stupor. Forcibly swallowing the bile summoned by scarlet speckles on his white marble coffee table, he stammered, “Uh-um, sure,” and retreated to retrieve a roll and steady his stomach in the kitchen. Riley prattled about a similar incident with a sword in a Moroccan...