by J. P. Oliver
He lingered briefly in the doorway, gaze sweeping across the bar in search of a seat. His eyes settled confidently on the far side of the bar, and I thought he would pass without incident—before his eyes flickered to me. I felt a bit warm, caught staring, but I held his gaze until he gave a nod in recognition.
I nodded back and forced my eyes not to follow as soon as he had his back to me.
“That was interesting.”
I looked up from my drink, meeting Kat’s knowing glance. Her lips pulled into a smirk. “What was interesting?”
“That.” She nodded towards the general direction of Adrian. “I haven’t seen you interested in another man since your last relationship—what was it? A few years ago now?”
I pursed my lips. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Tsk. You know what I mean. Don’t play dumb with me, I saw that look.”
I lifted my glass to my mouth, the thick smell of alcohol permeating my senses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The last time I’d shared a glance like that with Adrian Cole was at Zach’s wedding.
He was what we called ‘a looker.’ As I looked across the bar, through the warm bodies and pool cues and stinging cigarette smoke, I thought he was also young—well, thirty, but there was an age difference. I remembered him hanging around with Zach and Wyatt at my parents’ house when we were younger, a goth kid with an artistic streak. Not that he was just some goth kid anymore. He had matured: black hair with spiked blue tips, an eyebrow piercing; I counted three earrings—two in the lobes, small studs, and one on the left cartilage, a small silver hoop—and I was very sure I saw a tongue ring when we were talking at the grocery yesterday. Adrian Cole was not the same; he was lean muscle and evergreen eyes and leather with a soft, rasping voice.
He was, conflictingly, just my type.
The backdoor flung itself open, wide enough to catch me and Kat’s eyes.
They were the doors connected to the hotel—the original speakeasy door that Prohibition-breakers would sneak in and out of back in the twenties—typically only ever used by the tourists who stayed in Kat’s cottages. But it wasn’t any tourist coming in through the backdoor.
“Oh, fuck me.”
My hand tightened around the glass.
Winston unbuttoned the top buttons on his peacoat—no doubt some expensive find from an obnoxiously pretentious boutique—smile spreading slowly over his face as he spotted us.
“Quick,” Kat sighed, “let’s talk about something he’ll disapprove of.”
I felt myself flounder. “Like what—”
“Anal? Let’s talk about anal.”
I almost choked on my own spit. “I’m not talking about anal in front of my evil twin brother—”
“What’s all this about…anal?” Winston's voice cut smoothly in, his brows arching. “Did I hear that right? That’s pretty crass, even for this place.”
The hope was that he’d just nose around a little, get bored, and leave, but instead, he took the spare stool beside me, posture ramrod and tight, controlled, opposing with mine, loose and leaning on the bar.
“Kat,” he greeted.
“Hey,” she said, voice heavy with disinterest. “If you’re not drinking, the door’s right over—”
“Kat, can I get another bourbon?” I asked, draining the rest of my glass. “Make it a double.”
She shot me a look and poured one out, watching us carefully.
I felt Winston’s eyes on the side of my face, studying, waiting, wound tight until Kat set the glass down—a double and then some—and I took my first sip, and he asked in his perfectly pleasant fake voice, “Drinking this early in the day?”
I hummed, exchanging a look with Kat, who looked about ready to call security on his ass. Not that that seemed to bother Winston in the slightest.
“New tattoos?” he tried, annoyingly patient as I paused, weighing whether or not it was worth answering.
“Yeah.”
“Since the last time I saw you, right?” he asked, and I could feel his eyes on my arm, scrutinizing, face pinching as he smiled, all sorts of twisted. “They’re very interesting, aren’t they? Good thing you work for dad. I doubt you’d get work anyplace else with a sleeve like that.”
I set my glass down with a pointed thump.
“You have something to say.” It wasn’t a question.
Winston grinned, all pinched. “Yeah.”
“Then why don’t you just go ahead and say it so I can enjoy the rest of my night in peace?”
There was a flicker of hurt in his eyes—or something akin to it, if he was even capable of hurting. I only knew he had the ability to hurt others. I saw some subtle shift in him—call it just being good at tuning into people, call it twin telepathy or whatever—like he was flipping his switch from coasting to cruel.
“You know, I heard the distillery’s running low on cash.”
It would have been bad enough to discuss this with him in private, but his voice was pointed and loud; carrying through to those close enough to hear it. Intentional and humiliating.
“Hey,” I whispered, harsh and snapping, “keep it down—”
“Word on the street,” Winston continued, mouth turning up, “is that y’all are having trouble keeping up with the demand. You know. All these tourists. I get you’re having trouble.”
I felt eyes on me. The whole world felt like it was looking at me; even if it was only the bar, my face hot with shame and anger. I wanted to deck that son of a bitch, but I couldn’t, not in public, not like this.
Billiard balls snapped loudly at the pool table. The music felt like it was swelling behind the hundred voices in the bar. Anxiety spiked inside me, all physical; an aching, twisting stomach. I felt sick with it, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the bar to hide.
I held Winston’s knowing eye. This was what he did: exploited your weakness.
I spread a hand over the alcohol-dampened wood, needing something solid. “Look, I’m not talking about this with you—”
“Why not? It’s part of the town, isn’t it? Part of the family?”
You’re hardly part of the family.
“I came here to offer my help, baby brother,” he soothed, loud as a stage whisper. “I want to invest in the Savage Distillery. Make this a real family company again—”
“No.”
He paused. Ran his tongue along his perfect teeth. “I—”
“I’m not interested in getting any help from the likes of you, Winston.” I turned away from him, lifting my glass to my lips. Around us, glasses were clinking and rattling as people chatted and celebrated. “And I’m really not interested in playing along with your bullshit tonight, if you’d just let me have a—”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Then I’ll make it.”
Winston scoffed, glancing off at the bar, knowing he was playing to an audience by now. He stood, rebuttoning his peacoat as someone stepped up to the bar behind him, gesturing for refill.
“If the company closes down then, it’ll be all on you, Victor.”
I kept my eyes bolted to the liquor shelf. “Fine.”
My neck felt hot to the touch. Sweat was beginning to form just under my jacket.
Winston’s hand rested on my shoulder, the touch itself condescending.
“I won’t make the offer again, Victor.”
I heard the words repeated in that statement: it’ll be your fault if the company closes.
I glanced up at him in the corner of my eye, frown set like stone. “That a threat?”
Winston shrugged. “Enjoy your drink.”
I saw his form disappear from the corner of my eye but didn’t turn to watch him go. I only trusted that he would be gone, his little scheme played out in the public forum, the deed done. He wouldn’t linger if his task was complete, and in the silence that followed, filled with the white noise of the Speakeasy, I knew his words were a threat, like he meant for the busine
ss to die with our father.
4
Adrian
My eyes trailed liberally over the lines of Victor Savage’s back: strong, sturdy, and lined with tension. His jacket hung off the back of his stool, leaving just his button-up, thin enough for me to get a halfway decent picture of how the muscles underneath might look, impressions under white cotton.
I watched him look away from some coiffed-looking asshole, a mirror image of himself, as the man buttoned his coat and let himself slither through the crowd towards the door.
My shoulders tensed, fingers stilling over the menu.
Winston Savage.
I remembered a lot about North Creek, but he was a prick I was all too happy to forget. I didn’t know him well—he left North Creek before I graduated—but I knew all the stories. Everyone in town knew the stories, just like they knew Winston Savage was no good.
As he disappeared, I looked down at my menu, figuring it was none of my business.
Being at the Speakeasy—holding the flimsy laminated menu in my hands—was an intense wave of nostalgia. Everyone and their mother snuck into this place back in high school—of course, things were more lenient back then, too. It was easy to bribe your way in or sneak past the bouncer—if they even had a bouncer. Often it was just a matter of showing up and having the bartender play at guessing how old you were.
Oh, and it helped, too, that I was friends with a few of the Savage-Crosses.
The inside was unchanged. It was a warm hideaway from the mid-fall air, cool and settling comfortably in, ready to haul us all into winter. The speakers were spilling a mix of oldies—definitely not twenties, but the music depended on the tastes of whoever was bartending.
As my eyes traced the old-timey font, I thought of Victor.
When I stepped in, his dark eyes were staring. He looked good, too, elbow propped against the bar, lit by the soft yellow lights, finger playing along the rim of his glass. I might have sat next to him and ordered one of whatever he was having, but I already had plans—with his brother and cousin, of all people. Zach and Wyatt were the first people I called when I got into town. After years apart, they were eager to catch up.
So, I’d grabbed us a seat at a table on the back wall, nestled under the photos of the oldest bootleggers, sepia prints of the famous John Savage and Martha Cross’s marriage, and old Isaac Savage with his eternal frown and trusty revolver.
“Hey.”
My head snapped up, drawn from my thoughts by the sound of an old, familiar voice. There they were: Zach Savage and Wyatt Cross, in the flesh, grinning from ear-to-ear. Zach was the first to laugh, patting my shoulder and pulling me into a side-hug.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.
Wyatt sat across from me while Zach sat adjacent, back to the bar.
“You didn’t,” I insisted.
“Been a long time,” Zach said. “Since when? Just after high school.”
I hummed. “Sounds about right.”
A questionable silence followed.
“Nice to see you, too,” Wyatt chuckled, brows pinching.
I grinned, but my eyes betrayed me, tracing a path back to Winston and Victor, who looked even more uncomfortable. The boys followed my eyes, turning in their seats to get a good look.
“Oh,” Zach muttered. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“Annoying your brother, it looks like,” I said.
We watched as their voices rose—or, well, Winston’s did.
Even through the muffled chatter, we could make him out clearly.
“Word on the street,” Winston said, “is that y’all are having trouble keeping up with the demand. You know. All these tourists. I get you’re having trouble.”
I frowned, glancing at Zach for confirmation. He gave nothing away, watching as Victor hissed something under his breath and Winston stood, buttoning his jacket with an air of complete dickishness.
“If the company closes down then, it’ll be all on you, Victor.”
“All right, c’mon,” Wyatt said, shaking his head, turning back to the table as Winston strode out. “This isn’t any of our business.”
My eyes lingered on Victor’s form before turning back in. I opened my mouth to talk, but was interrupted by a waitress, who took our orders in a rush with a dozen other tables to tend to.
“That all true?” I asked Zach.
He shrugged.
“Best not to ask,” Wyatt said, grinning wryly. “I stay out of all the Savage side of the family’s business, especially where Winston’s concerned.”
Zach shot him a dry look.
“What?” Wyatt laughed. “Y’all have a lot of drama.”
“So nothing’s changed then,” I said.
Zach grinned. “Some things have.”
I glanced down at his hand, spotting the band on his ring finger.
“What?” I huffed, making space as the waitress set our drinks down in front of us. “You married Curtis. I know. I was there. Like I said, nothing’s changed. You two were always all over each other.”
Zach smiled at that, perfectly pleased.
Wyatt lifted his beer bottle. I knocked mine into his, and Zach followed with his glass of the Speakeasy’s homemade Arnold Palmer. “Cheers.”
The silence that followed as we drank was as short-lived as it was comfortable. I felt at home around these guys, despite not having seen them in ages. It was like being in high school again, just a trio of goons.
“I feel bad for Victor,” Zach sighed, with a shake of his head. “I think he’s taking it the hardest. Y’know. Having Winston around again.”
“Can you blame him? Imagine sharing a damn womb with someone, only for them to end up like… that,” Wyatt said.
I grimaced, thinking it was a shame that they shared the same face. It was, admittedly, a very good one.
“So how is the family business?” I asked. “All evil-twin shit aside.”
He made a so-so gesture. “It’s good. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good, but we’re trying to expand to deal with all the tourists and demand. It’s just been tough on him.”
I glanced at Victor, talking with—Kat! That was her fucking name. Kat.
“Our dad’s been sick,” he said.
My eyes snapped back to his, the same old blues. “Shit. I’m sorry—”
Zach shook his head. “Thanks, man.”
“Cancer,” Wyatt said.
“Jesus.” I exhaled, sitting back in my seat.
The left side of the bar exploded into raucous laughter as someone scratched in a game of pool. Balls bounced on the felted concrete and knocked noisily into each other, then another game was set up.
I remembered Markus Savage from hanging out at their house all the time in high school. He was a good guy, funny, strong. To think of someone reliable as him taken down by cancer. I knew him. He’d never step down from the distillery willingly.
My eyes flickered over to Victor once more. “So, he’s stepping up?”
“Yup.” Zach took a sip. “Like I said, I feel bad. What with him being sick, he’s missed out on a few bills the past couple months. Some payables are even, what, 120 days out?”
“Wow.”
Wyatt shook his head and took a swig.
“Victor’s just been kind of… left with it.” Zach shook his head. “I don’t know what he’s planning on doing. He doesn’t talk with me about it a whole lot, but I know Beth’s been working with him, and she’s smart, so…”
“Hey,” Wyatt said, nodding at me thoughtfully. I knew he was being thoughtful, because he always had the same look on his face when he was thinking: scrunched up and brows knit tight. “You took something like that in college, right?”
“What? Me?”
“Yeah, you, dumbass,” he chuckled.
I smirked and flicked a crumpled-up straw wrapper at him. “Yeah. Accounting and business management.”
“That’s pretty boring for art school,” Zach laughed.
“I could take art classes and learn about the business side of shit.”
“Doesn’t seem that dumb to me,” Wyatt agreed.
“Thanks, Wyatt.”
“You run your own business, right? I here it’s doing really well,” Wyatt said, signaling to the waitress as she passed. “Can we get a basket of fries to share, when you get a chance?”
“That right?” Zach asked.
I nodded.
“You should talk to Victor, then,” he said. “I’m sure he’d appreciate it. I know he’d never ask for the help himself—”
“Maybe. I can’t just go over there and offer to fix his payables outright, though.” I took a sip of beer, letting it wash down my throat as I glanced at Victor’s back. “Especially after Winston made a show out of humiliating him.”
“Then…”
Zach paused just long enough for it to be strange.
Wyatt and I exchanged a bewildered glance.
“What?” I asked.
Zach’s lips split into a mischievous smile. “Ask him out to dinner. Seduce him. And then offer to help with the payables.”
Warmth pulsed through me at the idea; not like I hadn’t considered it myself…
Seducing Victor Savage. I took a long sip. Now that sounds like a plan I can get on top of.
5
Victor
With a toss, I threw back the rest of my bourbon and flipped the glass upside down, not a drop to spare.
I felt warm and just a bit fuzzed in my chest—not drunk, obviously, but it was enough to take a bit of the edge off after what had happened with Winston. The thought of turning and facing the sea of people—people who had heard our not-so-private conversation—sober wasn’t something I was too eager about, so: a drink. A double.
As I stood, I prepared to avoid any watchful eyes—but came face-to-face with a single pair, green and narrowed.
Surprise pulsed through me in the form of heat, a streak of it in my chest.
