“It’s almost summertime already, Mr. Lane, and whiskey is a winter drink! I am sorry, the ad agency just doesn’t have anything better than this,” Claire Freemont, his former Administrative Assistant and current VP of Marketing at Lane Liquors Corporation, pointed to the white board and clicked a button.
The following unedited campaign clip showed a group of bikini clad women playing volleyball on a beach with some abhorrent dance music in the background and a bottle of his soon-to-be-launched, honey-citrus flavored whiskey, Summer Bite.
The artisan crafted blend featured undertones of fresh oranges and lemons, organically grown from a recently acquired source in Florida, the Thomas Family Farms. He’d made the connection through his Pack.
Thomas Family Farms was owned and operated by a bunch of young Werewolves from the South. They were strictly organic farmers and their produce was top quality. So far, he was thrilled with the product. Summer Bite spent the past four years aging in barrels and was finally ready for sale!
The honey was also organic and locally acquired right there in New Jersey. It gave an appropriate sweetness to the liquor that made the taste buds sing. It reminded Mason of the summertime.
Well, one particular summer, when the taste of honey on his lips had been sweet and full of promise. But it had been taken away from him. Sweetness replaced with a sharp pain in his chest. Hence the name, Summer Bite.
He must be getting sentimental in his old age. Though at thirty-one, he was hardly old. Especially for a Werewolf. The resulting liquor was citrusy and youthful, light and sweet, but with rich undertones that even the staunchest whiskey drinker could appreciate. It was perfect for the season.
“Ms. Freemont, as I’ve told you before, Bite, is a sophisticated liquor. This is artisan crafted whiskey, not a six-pack of strawberry-kiwi wine coolers! I will not have my brand associated with that garbage you just showed me. Tell them to try again or we’ll find another ad agency.”
“I did that already, Mr. Lane. I even asked around for a few rival agencies to come up with some story boards and-”
“And?!”
“And they’re worse.” Ms. Freemont averted her eyes when delivering the news to him. As a Werewolf herself, she knew better than to confront a more dominant Wolf such as Mason.
He admired her candor. She didn’t cower, she told him news he didn’t want to hear and got away with it by simply affording him the respect due his position. She was bright, well educated, and she was doing a great job.
She wasn’t bad on the eyes either, but he had no interest in that direction. He was glad he’d promoted her. He didn’t regret the decision yet, but this ad was subpar, and she knew it.
“I’ll sit down with the director myself tomorrow morning, sir, and see if we can’t do better.”
“Thank you, Ms. Freemont.”
She left his office quietly. Mason lifted the newly bottled and wax sealed Summer Bite in his hand. The logo was the same as the original, Bite. The single word Bite was large and in bold, written in a 17th century font, like handwriting, but the i was designed to look like a large fang.
It was edgy and smart. It catered to the times and if Mason got a kick out of the little double entendre, more the better. The word Summer was much smaller in comparison, but in the same gold font.
The label itself for this bottle was orange-hued, like the sunset. He approved the design wholeheartedly. He was amazed; however, that it was created, as all his labels were, by the same company who now gave him bikini bimbos on a beach for an ad campaign. Was this 1988? What the heck were they thinking? Mason shook his head.
The bottom line was all well and good, but he refused to cheapen the label he’d put his whole heart and soul into. No, he wanted something different. He opened the bottle and poured it into the crystal tumbler that sat on his desk.
He swirled the amber colored liquor around and inhaled the fragrance. Rose water, orange zest, lemon juice, rye, barley, and honey. He’d added the rose water later to balance the flavors. His heightened senses picked up on the fragrance and he frowned with his eyes closed. Abigail.
The dark-haired beauty left ten long years ago, but he still remembered the way she smelled and tasted. How she’d leapt into his arms from her bedroom window and gave him the most precious gift she had in the back seat of his pick-up truck on a rainy summer night.
He ached with the memories of how her cool skin felt against him. He could still hear the sound of her pants and moans in the close quarters with the patter of the rain surrounding them. He’d given her everything he’d had, but it hadn’t been good enough. She’d left him. She didn’t even come back when her father died six months ago.
When he’d bought Hector Vicente’s distillery after the man had a stroke some eight years ago, Mason had little money. With the backing of his Pack’s young Alpha, Rafe Maccon, he was able to stake his claim. The terms were made, and the deal signed.
He owned eighty percent of Vicente Spirits and the distillery outright. The other twenty percent was leased to him by Hector, whom he paid a yearly stipend to. It made it possible for him to live out the remainder of his life in relative comfort.
The man agreed that he would give back that twenty percent in his will after he passed away from the cancer that was slowly killing him. It was a brain tumor that had caused his stroke, and ever since he was diagnosed, he’d lost the will to live.
Mason did what he could to comfort him, but the man had been bitter and angry. He’d often ramble about the family he’d lost and how his wife had tricked him. Like mother, like daughter.
Mason was not a particularly demonstrative person, but he made sure Hector had good care and things around him that gave him the most comfort. That had included a baby picture of Abigail. Even as a child she’d had striking black hair and soft green eyes. She always was a beauty.
“The company will be yours, Mason, but forgive me. Learn from my mistakes,” Hector had whispered to Mason on his death bed.
It had saddened Mason that his last words were about business. As it was, the cancer must’ve addled his mind long before the signs had been visible. Mason never checked the will; he’d had no right or reason too having taken the man at his word.
It was quite the shock when Hector’s lawyer informed him that he was not the benefactor of that last crucial twenty percent of the business. After all that time, Mason had been played by another member of the Vicente family.
After six months in escrow, Mason’s lawyers finally got back to him with an answer. The will would stand up in court. Mason had no chance in hell at fighting it. The only way to get full ownership and control of the company was to find the one person he never wanted to see again and get her to sign it over to him.
He’d cursed Hector and his own rotten luck when he’d discovered this. He couldn’t believe that everything he’d worked for was being threatened by her. He had to find her, he had to convince her to release her claim on Lane Liquors Corporation.
Mason Lane needed Abigail Vicente.