Highball Rush: Bootleg Springs Book 6

by Kingsley, Claire

  I had an inexplicable urge to find her. But my guitar strap suddenly felt like a spiderweb, sticking to every bit of skin it touched. I tore myself free, set my guitar down, and pushed my way into the crowd.

  I didn’t see her in the throng of people. Not near the bar, or between me and the restrooms. Could she have made it to the ladies’ room that fast? I didn’t think so. Another glance told me she probably hadn’t. There was a line, and she wasn’t in it.

  Someone bumped into me, but I ignored them. What the hell was I doing? This was ridiculous. And stupid. Why was I following some girl? I didn’t chase women—literally or figuratively. But it was like I couldn’t help myself.

  She must have gone outside. With my heart pumping strangely fast, my veins filling with adrenaline, I pushed open the door and went out into the warm night.

  The light next to the door cast a dingy glow over the quiet parking lot. The bar was right off the highway, but the road was empty this time of night. Nothing out here but the sound of frogs and crickets.

  I spotted her off to the side, walking toward a car. I knew this was crazy—I knew I had to be wrong—but before I could stop myself, I said it out loud.

  “Callie?”

  5

  MAYA

  My breath hitched and I stopped in my tracks, my car keys dangling from my hand. Tension rippled down my back. I glanced over my shoulder, keeping my voice smooth and even. “Sorry, my name’s Maya Davis.”

  “Maya?” he said.

  Walk away, Maya. Just put one foot in front of the other. He didn’t say more, but even without looking, I could tell he hadn’t moved. I walked to my car but paused again, next to the driver’s side door. “I liked your song.”

  “Thanks, but—”

  I didn’t wait to see if he was going to keep talking. Hardly aware of what I was doing, I unlocked my car, got in, and drove away without looking back.

  I’m Maya. My name is Maya Davis. I gripped the steering wheel, chanting it in my head, over and over. I’m Maya. My name is Maya Davis.

  My crappy motel wasn’t far from the bar. I parked and got out, feeling dazed, like I’d just hit my head. My hands shook, making my motel key rattle against the big plastic keychain. I couldn’t get it in the lock. Was this the right room? I glanced up at the number on the door. One-oh-five. This was mine; I just couldn’t seem to make my hands work properly.

  I never should have come here.

  The door opened—finally—and I shut and locked it behind me. Touched the lock a few times to make sure it was secure. My heart raced and my limbs tingled with adrenaline. I leaned back against the door and took a deep breath. I needed to calm down.

  The room was a riot of maroon and blue with carpet that made me dizzy if I looked at it too long. The light over the sink flickered, but everything smelled faintly of lemon and bleach, so at least it seemed clean.

  The motel’s version of a minibar was a basket of packaged snacks and some tiny bottles of Jack Daniels. I grabbed a water glass from the counter next to the sink, unscrewed the cap, and dumped in the whiskey.

  It burned going down my throat, making me wince. I wasn’t much of a whiskey drinker, but I took a second sip anyway.

  Sip? Gulp? Semantics.

  He’d called me Callie.

  No one had called me by that name in thirteen years. I wasn’t Callie Kendall anymore. I’d left her behind a long time ago.

  But this was Gibson Bodine. Why had I thought he wouldn’t know me?

  The box in my mind—filled with old secrets—shook. It had been the key to my survival when I was a kid. I’d put away all the bad experiences I had at home and left them there. It was what had allowed Callie to put on a smile in public. Go to school. Hang out with her friends. Act like a normal girl. And the lock I’d put on it was indestructible. It had to be. Callie’s life had depended on it.

  After I left Bootleg Springs, everything that had been Callie had gone into the box. Not just my home life—all of it. Who I’d been. The people I’d known. The places I’d loved. My old friends. Gibson.

  And Bootleg Springs. My favorite place in the world. It hadn’t just been a summer home to me. It had been home.

  But I’d had to put it all away. Lock it up tight.

  Seeing Gibson’s video when I was thousands of miles away in L.A. had made the box rattle, just enough that I was reminded of its existence. But moments later, it had stilled. The lock had held. I was safe from its contents.

  But being near him, breathing the same air, hearing his gravelly voice, had broken the lock and popped the lid open a crack—enough that the contents whispered their dark secrets. Memories beat at my subconscious, trying to break free.

  They still threatened to come out. All those demons I’d worked so hard to hold back.

  Closing my eyes, I visualized the box. It sat in an otherwise empty room. Its form had always been the same—an old-fashioned cedar chest with an enormous metal lock hanging from the latch. The lock was on the floor, open. The lid was ajar, as if something unseen was in the way, preventing it from falling closed.

  In my mind, I crouched low and picked up the lock. Pressed the lid down to close it and locked it up tight.

  Letting out a slow breath, I opened my eyes. Better.

  Except… Gibson Bodine wasn’t in the box anymore.

  He’d been one of the hardest casualties to bear when I’d left. Fear had kept me from contacting him. I’d fled for good reason, and my fears for my safety had been very real. They still were. The fewer people who knew where I’d gone—that I was even alive—the better.

  But god, it had hurt.

  I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed, old memories flitting through my mind. Afternoons spent by a little fire, deep in the woods so no one would find us. Gibson sitting on a log, strumming his guitar. Those icy blue eyes. Stubble on his square jaw. Me singing along, finding harmony to his melody.

  I’d lived for those afternoons. Just the two of us, isolated from the world. We’d talked about our favorite bands. About album covers and song lyrics. He’d taught me to play guitar and I’d filled journals with half-written songs.

  When I’d left, I’d had to let that all go. Gibson and all of Bootleg Springs. I’d put it in the box and locked it. I wouldn’t have survived if I hadn’t.

  But now that he was out, I didn’t think I could put him back in.

  Another deep breath and another sip of whiskey. I’d lied to him tonight. Lied right to his face.

  But he’d known me—said my old name. That had been such a shock. I looked different than I had thirteen years ago. The altercation that had prompted me to run away had left me with a broken nose and a scar on my cheek. I’d had surgery to repair my nose, but it was more sloped now. And I hadn’t received medical attention right away, so there hadn’t been much they could do about my cheek.

  Between that, my dyed hair, and aging from sixteen to twenty-nine, I’d thought I looked different enough that I wouldn’t be recognized so easily.

  Apparently I was wrong.

  That meant I needed to leave. Get myself out of West Virginia as quickly as I could. Even after all these years, I wasn’t safe here. Not as Callie Kendall.

  The postcards I’d sent to Jonah Bodine had been the one thing I’d allowed myself—the last connection to my old life. He’d done so much for me. As the years went by and I healed, I’d wanted him to know that I wasn’t just okay. That with the loving help of my new family, I’d put the pieces of a shattered girl back together. I’d wanted him to be proud. To know that the risk he’d taken for me—a girl he hadn’t even known—had been worth it.

  Jonah Bodine was dead. The man who saved my life—my hero—was gone. And there were no more ties to the town I’d once loved.

  Until I’d heard Gibson Bodine’s voice.

  Damn it.

  I looked up his video on my phone and played it for about the millionth time. Whoever had recorded it had been sitting to the side, leaving parts of the c
rowd visible in the frame. There were faces I recognized in that crowd. People I hadn’t seen in years. Not since I’d been Callie.

  They were adults, now. What were their lives like? So many seemed to still be there. I caught a glimpse of Scarlett Bodine, dancing with someone. God, she wasn’t a little girl anymore. Neither was Cassidy Tucker. Was that Bowie Bodine’s arm draped around her shoulders? And a woman who had to be June Tucker crossed the corner of the frame for a few seconds. She held hands with a tall, muscular guy.

  How many of them were married now? Starting families? They were planting roots, and half the time I didn’t know what time zone I was in.

  A tear trailed down my cheek. I missed them. The stupid box wouldn’t stay closed.

  And what about Gibson? Was he with someone? Seemed crazy to think he wouldn’t be. He’d be in his thirties now. Some Bootleg girl had no doubt snatched him up. There were probably three or four little Bodines running around that town—little boys and girls with their daddy’s blue eyes.

  Why did that notion make me so sad? This place was messing with my head. I hoped Gibson was happily married with a family of his own. Maybe that was why he wasn’t interested in a record deal. He had responsibilities at home. Made sense.

  It also made my stomach hurt. Or maybe that was the cheap whiskey.

  I glanced at my phone. I hadn’t called Quincy and Henna since I’d been here. It was late, but I knew hearing their voices would help me calm down. I brought up their number and hit send.

  I waited while the phone rang several times. My adoptive parents eschewed a lot of modern technology, including cell phones. They had one house phone in the kitchen. It looked like something out of a movie from the eighties, with a long twisty cord so they could walk around while they talked. I’d tried to convince them to get cell phones a few times, but they said the radiation was bad for their auras.

  It was the same reason they didn’t own a television or a microwave.

  “Hello?” Henna answered.

  “Hey, it’s Maya.”

  “Hi, sunflower,” she said. “It’s so nice to hear your voice.”

  “Sorry to call so late.”

  “Is it late? I hadn’t noticed.”

  I laughed. Of course not. Henna had always lived by her own calendar—one that had little to do with actual time. “Good, I’m glad I didn’t wake you.”

  “Not at all, sweet girl. I’ve been on the porch, painting in the nude by moonlight. It’s wonderful.”

  “That sounds awesome. Is Quincy home?”

  “Oh yes, he’s around.”

  “How’s Blue Moon?” I asked and finished off the whiskey.

  “Well, there was a nude protest at the farmer’s market last weekend. At least until everyone got sunburnt. Then there’s the Pierce’s goat. You remember Clementine?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, a while back she escaped the farm and disappeared for a week or so. She came wandering back like nothing had happened. Turned out she got herself knocked up.”

  I laughed. “Really?”

  “She had three little goat babies last week on Jax’s side of the bed. They’re still trying to figure out how she let herself into the house.”

  Only in Blue Moon. “I bet that didn’t make him too happy.”

  “I suppose not. The baby goats sure are cute. Where are you now? Costa Rica? Japan? Maybe Australia?”

  “No, I’m back in the States.”

  “Welcome home, then. But your aura is vibrating so loudly. What’s bothering you?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m in West Virginia. It’s for work, but… I saw someone I used to know.”

  “Did you? How did that feel?”

  “Honestly, it scared me. I thought I was past this, but it’s making me feel like a kid again.”

  “You’re not a child anymore, sunflower,” she said, her voice soothing. “I’m sensing a lot of imbalance in your divine energies. Have you been meditating?”

  “Not as much as I should.”

  “That will help. Find your center and unwind the flows of energy that are twisted inside of you.”

  I smiled. Of course Henna would suggest meditation. It was her solution to most problems. Facing an important decision? Meditate. Fighting with a friend? Meditate. Stuffy nose? Meditate.

  “You’re right. I’ll do that.”

  “Good. I’m lighting my candles for you right now. They’ll send their light into the universe for you.”

  “Thanks, Henna. I appreciate that.”

  “Sunflower, remember, the past is the past. It can’t hurt you anymore. But dwelling there is just going to reopen old wounds that don’t need to be opened. I’d feel a lot better if you weren’t in West Virginia.”

  I sat up straighter. All her talk about meditation and energies was what I expected to hear. But why was she worried about me being in West Virginia?

  “Why?”

  “People are looking for you again. For Callie.”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth to keep the whiskey down. My stomach turned over and it took me a second to answer. “What are you talking about? The case went cold years ago.”

  “They reopened it,” she said. “I thought you’d know about that.”

  “What? How would I know? Is this recent? You never said anything.”

  She kept talking in the same breezy voice, as if she hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on me. “I don’t know much about it. Just things I’ve heard here and there. I thought you might have seen something on the neterweb.”

  “The internet?”

  “Yes, that.”

  For the most part, I’d always loved Henna’s spacey obliviousness to the outside world. She and Quincy had naturally insulated me from the fallout of my disappearance, at a time when I’d needed to be protected. And they’d been the ones to tell me Jonah Bodine had passed away.

  But my case had been reopened? If there was an active investigation, I really needed to get out of West Virginia.

  “No, I had no idea.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Sunflower, don’t go looking for trouble. Those old hurts are just going to weigh your spirit down. Let it go.”

  I thought about Gibson. His gravelly voice had taken root inside me. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “The choice is yours, but you need to be careful. Ask yourself whether this is a road you want to go down. If you’re prepared to see what’s at the end of it.”

  “I know.” I smiled again. “Let me guess. Meditate on it?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she said. “And make sure you’re taking your wheatgrass shots. Oh, Quincy waves hello. He took a vow of silence until the full moon is in Aquarius.”

  “Tell him I said hi. And thanks, Henna. I’ll let you know when I can come see you.”

  “I look forward to it, love.”

  “Me too. Love you.”

  “Love you too, sunflower.”

  I ended the call. Usually talking to Henna left me feeling calm and relaxed. Her soft voice was so soothing. But my case had been reopened? How was that even possible?

  I got my laptop out of my bag, set it on the bed, and powered it on. Anticipation tingled in my tummy as I Googled my old name.

  Oh god. I was going to need another bottle of whiskey for this.

  6

  GIBSON

  I drove home, feeling like a fucking disaster.

  Ever since Scarlett had found that damn sweater, I’d been stuck on the Callie Kendall roller coaster, and I couldn’t get off.

  My gut churned and my shoulders were knotted with tension. I sped down the empty highway, my headlights flashing against the trees, lighting up the lines on the road. I rolled down the window to get some air—Gus Porter had gotten me in to fix the window Misty Lynn had broken—but it didn’t help.

  Callie Kendall had died. I’d been certain of it.

  She’d been a sweet girl and I hated the thought that something terrible had happened to her. Wondering if my father had
been responsible, though—that was what had been eating me alive for the past year.

  But Callie wasn’t dead. And my father had helped her. He hadn’t killed anyone, accidentally or otherwise. But he had kept a big fucking secret for a long time. A secret that could have saved a lot of people from a lot of pain.

  That woman in the bar. Why had I called her Callie? What was it about her that had grabbed me so hard I’d followed her outside?

  Jenny Leland. I hadn’t seen Jonah’s mom since the day I’d been taken in for questioning. I’d been avoiding everyone. But she swore she’d seen Callie a year ago. She was the one person who might be able to sort this out. She knew what Callie looked like now.

  “Maya,” I said aloud, trying out the name. Was Maya Callie? Clenching my teeth, I punched the steering wheel.

  It was late, but first thing tomorrow, I was going to have a little chat with Ms. Jenny.

  * * *

  Jenny was already sitting in a booth in Moonshine. I nodded to Granny Louisa and Estelle on my way in. Half the people in here took one look at me, then started whispering. I rolled my eyes, ignoring them, then took a seat across from my brother’s mother.

  “Morning.” She pushed a full cup of coffee toward me. “I’m glad you called.”

  “Thanks.” I took a sip of coffee—strong and black, just like I liked it. “You’ve probably heard by now why Sheriff wanted to talk to me.”

  She nodded. “You were friends with Callie.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had a feeling there was more to this story than I knew,” she said.

  I appreciated that she didn’t press me for details, or ask if I’d been doing something with Callie that I shouldn’t have. Jenny gave me the benefit of the doubt, which was more than I could say for the rest of the whispering gossips in the diner.

  “I want to know more about the time you met her.”

  “Okay.” She took a sip of coffee. “Like I said, she contacted me after your father died. She was in Seattle for work, so she asked if we could get together.”