Page 1 of Forbidden Fruit

Chapter One

RAYA

I swirled the ice in the shaker with a rhythmic clink, feeling the beat of the music pulse through the soles of my thigh-high black boots. The vibrant chatter of Sweet Cocktails wrapped around me like a warm embrace as I caught the lemon twist mid-air and spiraled it into the waiting glass. "One gin fizz, coming right up," I announced with a wink to the patron at the end of the bar.

"Make that two," called out another voice, eager not to be left out of the artisanal drink parade I orchestrated nightly. My hands moved of their own accord, part muscle memory, part showmanship, as I juggled bottles and garnishes, pouring the perfect measures of spirits and mixers.

"Raya! Your special martini, please?" An eager regular flagged me down from midway down the polished mahogany, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

"Coming up," I replied, my lips curving into a smile. This was my moment—the raspberry martini, my secret recipe that had become something of an urban legend among the locals. I reached for the chilled bottle where the raspberries had been steeping in the vodka, infusing it with its rich, crimson hue.

As I mixed the concoction, the tangy-sweet aroma of raspberries filled the air, and a hush fell over the closest patrons, their attention riveted on the spectacle. I poured the liquid, now a vibrant pink, into the frosted martini glass, finishing it off with a skewer of fresh berries.

"Here you go," I said, sliding the glass across the bar. The woman took a sip, her eyes closing in bliss. "It's incredible, Raya. There's nothing like it anywhere else."

"Thank you," I replied, flushed with pride. It wasn't just the drink they came for; it was the experience, the escape from the mundane.

"Raya!" The bar owner, a middle-aged man with a silver-tipped goatee and sharp blue eyes, clapped his hand on my shoulder. "I've got to hand it to you; that martini of yours is a hit. You've really proven yourself since I took a chance on you."

"Thanks, boss," I said, my cheeks warming under his praise. It felt good to be recognized, to know that my creations brought something unique to the table.

"Keep it up," he encouraged before turning back to oversee the rest of the establishment.

I surveyed my kingdom—the gleaming glasses, the rows of bottles, each one promising a new story or an adventure. And there I was, Raya Kinkaid, the master mixologist, the creator of the secret raspberry martini, standing tall behind the bar of Sweet Cocktails, the hottest bar in Orange County, where every night was an opportunity to dazzle and delight. Not even I could have imagined I’d be standing here now, like I’d finally caught the golden ring of fortune and the future was simply mine for the taking.

As the hum of conversations melded with the clink of ice against glass, I caught Trina's eye from across the room. She was serving a boisterous group at a nearby table, but our gazes connected, sharing a silent conversation. She was both my roommate and best friend, and I knew that her small, knowing smile was a silent cheer for the successes we both harbored beneath the surface of our daily grind.

"Another round, Raya!" The shout snapped me back to the task at hand, and I turned with a flourish, grabbing a bottle of premium vodka and spinning it in my hand. As I poured, my mind wandered for a brief second, carried away by the undercurrent of memories that always seemed to flow just beneath the shiny veneer of the present.

Back in Texas, the dusty little town where I grew up felt worlds away from the glitz and glam of California. My hands, once chapped and stained from the dirt of barren fields, now danced with practiced grace over the sleek bottles and shakers. Those days spent counting pennies for a meal, learning to trust no one, and relying solely on my wits had hardened me in ways these city folks couldn't begin to fathom. There, I had learned to be as sharp as the broken glass littering the parking lots I'd call home some nights, as resilient as the weeds sprouting through cracks in the sun-scorched pavement.

"Raya, you with us?" Trina's voice anchored me back to the present, concern flickering in her clear blue eyes. With a shake of my head, I banished the ghosts of my past and offered her a reassuring wink. I'd come so far from who and what I once was; I wouldn't let those shadows touch me again. Not while I had friends like Trina, not while I had a future that was mine to shape.

The clink of ice against glass punctuated the hum of conversation as I returned to the task at hand. The Friday night crowd at Sweet Cocktails was a blend of regulars and first-timers, all seeking the kind of escape only a well-mixed drink could provide. I spun the bottle in my hands again and poured with flair, letting the remainder of its crystal contents arc high into the air before splashing down into the awaiting glasses.

"Whiskey on the rocks, please," came a voice smooth like polished stone. Glancing up, I met the gaze of a man in a suit so sharp it could slice through the haze of alcohol that filled the room. He stood before me, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt like a challenge.

"Coming right up," I replied, my fingers deftly selecting the bottle. I couldn't help but notice the way his eyes followed my every move, not lingering on the tattoos that snaked up my arms but instead staying focused, probing, as if trying to peel back the layers and uncover the memories I vowed to leave buried back in the Texas desert.

"Nice place you've got here," he remarked casually, as if we were two old friends catching up. "I hear the raspberry martini is quite the hit."

"Thanks," I said, keeping my tone neutral.

"Must have taken a lot of trial and error to perfect it," The man continued, leaning in ever so slightly, his dark eyes narrowing with a hint of something more than idle curiosity.

"Something like that," I managed, my grip on the shaker tightening as I handed him his drink.

He lifted the glass to his lips, keeping his gaze on me steady. “What’s your secret?”

"It wouldn’t be a secret anymore if I told you," I said, plastering a smile on my face. But as he drank, a shiver ran down my spine. The night at Sweet Cocktails suddenly seemed far longer, and the shadows in the corners of the room felt deeper than they had mere moments ago.

"Can't say I've seen you around here before," I said, my voice steady despite the thundering of my heart. "You a local?"

"Passing through," he replied, swirling his drink with a casual flick of his wrist. “Name’s Burt. I've heard this place has the best martinis on the west coast."

"Whoever told you that wasn't lying," I shot back, tucking a stray lock of my long dark hair behind my ear and willing my hands not to tremble.

"Especially if they're made by Raya Kinkaid, from what I gather."

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