Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs Book 5)

by Lucy Score

  June stepped away, and I heard her dial the phone.

  “Hi,” I said, suddenly self-conscious under Henrietta’s quiet stare. “I’m, uh, Shelby. Like June said. I’m studying small-town community and the hierarchy of neighbors for my dissertation. I have a survey for Bootleggers. I don’t know if you have a computer…”

  She continued to stare blankly at me.

  “Um, if you do,” I fished a card out of my back pocket. “This is the URL, I mean the web address for it. I’d love your input. You don’t have to do anything but type,” I promised.

  Reluctantly it seemed, she took the card.

  “It would really help me out,” I told her.

  There was no response. Just those wary brown eyes.

  “Is Gibson your friend?” I asked.

  Her unpainted lips curved slightly, and she nodded again.

  “I like him, too,” I confessed. “He’s nice. His brother Jonah is my roommate. And I really like him.”

  Henrietta paused and then, to my delight, flexed her arms, pointing to her biceps.

  I laughed. “Yes. That’s Jonah.”

  She nodded more warmly now. Inspired and curious, I pressed on. “Do you know the Kendalls?” I asked quietly.

  The ghost of a smile flickered away as quickly as it had come. She shook her head vehemently. No. No. No.

  “Gibson will be here in two minutes,” June said, returning to us. “He was out at the lumber mill.”

  Henrietta, studiously avoiding me now, crouched down again and began to pet Katherine in slow, soothing strokes.

  28

  Jonah

  Crickets and tree frogs provided the backdrop to my evening as I pulled up the spreadsheet I was working on and adjusted the number of reps. Once a week I went through all my personal training clients, checking their routines, their results. Reassessed goals. Adapted as necessary.

  Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

  Victories and failures. Constant adjustments to keep everyone moving in the direction of their goals.

  Night had fallen and with it came a crisp breeze cool enough that we’d opened the front and back cottage doors for the air flow.

  Usually I worked at the dining room table. However, tonight, I was sprawled on the living room floor with a puppy sound asleep between my legs. Billy Ray had exhausted himself chasing butterflies around the bush in the backyard that afternoon. His chin rested on my shin bone as if he couldn’t bear to be separated from me.

  Shelby was in her corner of the living room squinting at her laptop. Headphones at full volume, glasses perched on her nose. Constantly shuffling papers, tapping pens, jiggling feet. I could tell she liked the work, was energized by it.

  I liked watching her work. Hell, I liked watching her. There was something about her that drew me in and held me there.

  It was a cozy scene. A quiet Thursday night with a dog and satisfying work. I had to admit it was nice having someone to share it with. Nicer still to know that my mom was here in Bootleg Springs, that she’d be here for my birthday Saturday. A quiet cookout here at the house. That was the plan. I’d never been big on parties. Not with a single mom trying hard enough as it was to fill both roles. Even as a kid, I recognized that making sure Mom knew she was enough for me was important. It was easier on us both to keep the celebrations simple.

  Turkey burgers, grilled veggies, cold beers on the porch while the sun set. It sounded just about perfect.

  For once, everyone that I cared about happened to be in the same spot. I liked that feeling.

  Shelby sighed again, and I wondered if her arthritis was flaring up.

  I fired off an email to Doris with some cardio and flexibility outlines for the upcoming week. And then started on my newest client. One Shelby Thompson. My gaze flicked back to her.

  Her shoulders were tight, hunched. Long hours spent sitting usually led to poor posture. A problem common to most. Unfortunately for my pretty roommate, a hallmark of ankylosing spondylitis was the fusing of vertebrae, which could lead to spinal deformity.

  First order of business would be a short stretching routine designed to be inserted into her writing and research schedule at regular intervals. As I toggled back and forth between spreadsheet and how-to videos, she yawned loudly, the headphones muffling the sound to her own ears. Billy Ray let out a corresponding yip in his sleep and snuggled closer to my leg.

  I liked getting my hands on a new athlete, liked pointing them in the right direction. For most people, a few consistent tweaks made vast differences in their lives and goals. And I hoped it would be the same for Shelby. She was a researcher at heart, an observer. But judging by the reams of data she’d collected for her paper and her lack of progress on the actual writing, she had difficulty turning that research into action.

  That’s where I could come in. She’d read up on triathletes and training. Yet her efforts on her own had been haphazard and inconsistent.

  Shelby was on my watch now. It was up to me to give her a program that balanced her work, her training, and her condition. It was the kind of challenge I appreciated. And I had a feeling I would enjoy working with her closely.

  While she frowned over interviews and academic journals, I pulled together a schedule for the week. Running. Swimming. A bike ride to gauge her abilities. I penciled them into my own calendar, too, before emailing the finished product to Shelby.

  “Did you just email me from the living room floor?” she asked with a laugh, slipping off the headphones. Leaning back in her chair, she stretched her arms overhead.

  “All of my clients are getting emails from me tonight,” I said, closing my own laptop and sliding it to the floor. Billy Ray grumbled in his sleep.

  “I know I’m showing bias, but I find him to be the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen,” she said, staring fondly at the dog.

  “I agree with your hypothesis. Did you have a chance to work on his write-up?” I asked.

  She cringed. “Not yet.”

  Minnie Fae had offered to help us find a permanent home for Billy Ray if we were willing to foster him. We were supposed to be writing a profile that she could post on Minnie’s Meow Meow House’s website.

  “There’s no rush,” I said. “It’s probably better if he has time to get used to living in a house. Maybe let him get more consistent with not peeing all over furniture.”

  The first few days of having a puppy had been an eye-opening and excessive paper-towel-using experience.

  “I think that’s smart,” Shelby said, brightening.

  “How’s the dissertation coming?” I asked.

  “Ugh. It’s like writer's block for academia. I’ve collected more data and information than I could possibly use. The entire mammoth of a concept is outlined. I just can’t seem to write the damn thing,” she complained. “Plus, I found another project to distract me.”

  “Besides me and the dog and your training?” I teased.

  “Seeing all that research at June’s into the Callie Kendall thing really sparked some interest,” she confessed. “First of all, the situation is a researcher’s dream. Years of articles and conspiracy theories and the last twelve or so months of developments.”

  There it was, her disappearance into fact and figures. The distance she put between herself and the people involved.

  “There is a lot of material there,” I agreed, organizing my own papers and files into a stack.

  “Plus, I just got a vibe from the Kendalls.”

  I stopped what I was doing. “What kind of vibe?”

  “I used to be a social worker,” she said. “Sometimes you’d meet someone or you’d walk into a home, and it would just have dirty fingerprints. Like appearances were normal, but something beneath the surface was off.”

  “That’s what you felt in the five-second conversation with the Kendalls?” I asked, intrigued.

  “It made me wonder. Were they ever suspects? And if they were, what exonerated them in the eyes of the law? I’m hoping it’s not just because Ju
dge Kendall is a state judge. Bad people can have good jobs and be very good about hiding their bad.”

  “I’m not doubting your instincts,” I prefaced. “But those people lost their daughter in a very public way and have gone through hell in the last twelve months. Maybe that’s what makes them a little off.”

  “A little off,” Shelby repeated triumphantly. “You feel it, too. You’re just too polite or too guilty to really think it.”

  “Guilty?”

  “Your biological father is a person of interest. You and your siblings all feel some level of responsibility, which, however unnecessary, is understandable. You’re all good people. Good people feel bad about things. Bad people don’t.”

  The hair on her arms was standing up, and I wondered if she was cold.

  “How about we put it all away for tonight?” I suggested. “It’s getting late, and you haven’t had dinner. I’ll make something. We can go over the schedule I sent you. And maybe watch some TV or a movie?”

  Her eyes lit up behind her glasses. “Can I pick?”

  “Sure.”

  Under Billy Ray’s watchful eye through the back door, I grilled chicken breasts and roasted a foil pack of vegetables.

  While I cooked, Shelby opened two beers and got the plates and silverware ready.

  “Did you know Gibson knows Henrietta Van Sickle?” she asked, poking her head out the back door.

  I nodded, inserting the meat thermometer into a chicken breast. “Yeah, I think she sometimes cuts through his land on the mountain when she’s roaming. Sometimes he gives her rides into town.”

  “He picked her up at my parents’ cabin and took her in,” she said.

  “Do you think they bond over the whole hermit thing?” I asked, pulling the meat off the grill.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I gave her the link to my survey and asked her to fill it out.”

  “Those would be some interesting answers,” I predicted.

  “Henrietta thinks you’re pretty buff,” she said.

  “I thought she didn’t talk?”

  Shelby grinned and made a show of flexing her muscles. “She didn’t have to.”

  “Women,” I teased.

  She sniffed the plate with suspicion when I carried it into the house.

  “It’s chicken. You like chicken.”

  “I like breaded chicken with dip that’s main ingredients are fancy chemicals,” she complained.

  “You’re doing a great job with your training, but your eating could use that overhaul,” I reminded her.

  “It’s not that bad,” she shot back.

  “Oh, it is. Just try it.” I hefted the fork at her, and she turtlenecked away from it. I stepped in, cornering her against the kitchen counter.

  “Come on, Shelby. Just one bite,” I said, moving in slower with the fork. “It’s just vegetables. Nothing scary.”

  She pinched her eyes closed and opened her mouth. Before she could change her mind, I swooped the fork into her mouth.

  She chewed in tiny, frantic motions, her nose under her glasses wrinkling. Then she cracked one eye open. She looked at me suspiciously. “That wasn’t horrible,” she accused.

  “I know,” I said smugly.

  “What was it?”

  “Sautéed peppers and onions.”

  “But I don’t eat peppers and onions,” she argued.

  I shoveled another forkful in her mouth while it was open. She chewed, with less haste, then took the plate from me.

  “Why does this taste good?” she wondered out loud. “Is it because I’m starving? Maybe because I didn’t make it?”

  She speared a bite of chicken and popped it into her mouth. I waited.

  “Oh. My. god. This is so superior to dino nuggets! What the heck, Bodine? What else have I been prejudiced to?”

  I laughed while she shoveled nutrition into her face.

  “Slow down there, slugger.”

  I made up a second plate. “Dining room or couch?” I asked.

  “Couch. ”

  We sat and ate our dinners, watching a terrifying horror show. After we finished our food, Shelby slid her feet into my lap. I rested my hand on her smooth shins, resisting the urge to skim higher.

  It was comfortable. Relaxed. Even though I was paying more attention to the feel of her legs, the smooth texture of her skin, the way her lips parted in anticipation as she watched TV.

  Oh, boy.

  29

  Shelby

  I f an invitation to a Girls Night Out on a Friday at The Lookout was any indication, I’d been officially inducted into Bootleg Springs society. Scarlett, Cassidy, June, and Lula—the best massage therapist in the county—were waiting around a table near the dance floor for the round of drinks it was my turn to fetch.

  I’d spent the morning working out. Then a picnic lunch with my parents and Billy Ray. And wrapped up the day spending hours building charts and graphs for the dissertation that was going to drag on forever and ever. Pushing back gainful employment and essentially wasting all that money I spent on education.

  My frustration had risen to the point where Jonah made me go take a nap with the puppy. Tonight was a very welcome respite.

  The bar was crowded with regulars and summertimers. Peanut dust rose up from the floor from shells crushed by boots. Good-natured arguments were brewing around the pool tables. I’d been in town long enough to know that the good-nature often turned bad if left alone too long.

  “Usual?” Nicolette in her “I’m fluent in three languages: English, sarcasm, and profanity” t-shirt asked from the other side of the bar.

  “Yes, please. And a round for the table,” I yelled. I waited while Nicolette made the drinks and watched the fun unfold around me. It was a rowdy country band on the tiny stage in the back. They had a long-legged blonde fiddler.

  Just inside the door were two tables of Bootleg Springs elders gossiping about everyone who walked in. Bar-goers ranged in age from the newly minted twenty-one to the generous side of eighty.

  It was an eclectic microcosm of the community. A concentrated drop of everyone that made Bootleg Bootleg. I wished I would have brought my laptop to encourage people to take the survey. I’d gotten over two hundred responses, which was an impressive sample in a town this size. And with every question answered, I learned a little something new about community.

  I was still missing the hook for my paper. There was something I was looking for without knowing exactly what it was. But I’d know it when I found it. The thread that would tie all my work together.

  “Here you go,” Nicolette called, sliding the drinks across the bar to me. Cassidy appeared at my elbow and took half of the bottles and glasses. I followed her back to our table.

  “Did we miss anything?” I asked as Cassidy and I passed out the beverages.

  “Only twenty or thirty more pictures of potbelly Katherine,” Scarlett said with amusement.

  June retrieved her phone from her pants pocket. “Would you like to see a timeline of Katherine’s first bath?” she asked, already flipping through photos.

  “Hang on to those, June Bug,” Scarlett interjected. “I’ve got myself a few questions for Shelby here.”

  “I’ve got a question for you too, Scarlett. Why haven’t you filled out my survey yet?” I asked, taking a sip of my fresh gin and tonic. My second and last of the night. Alcohol and inflammation were kissing cousins as Jonah had explained.

  “Why haven’t you slept with my brother yet?” Scarlett countered. The music was loud, but not so loud that a couple of nearby tables took interest in our conversation.

  I leaned back in my chair. “I’ve indicated my interest,” I told her.

  “And?” Lula pressed.

  “And nothing, yet,” I said with a dainty shrug. I kept the kisses to myself. Also the sharing a bed thing that we’d been doing since Billy Ray joined our little family. Sleeping next to Jonah hadn’t led to anything besides sexual frustration on my part.

  Being in a m
an’s bed and still not having sex made me seem not very efficient.

  Scarlett let out a groan.

  “What was that for?” I laughed.

  “You’ll have to forgive our Scarlett,” Cassidy said. “She’s a little impatient.”

  “I put two people with tons of chemistry in close proximity, and you’re telling me that nothing’s happened yet?” Scarlett was incredulous.

  “Sometimes it takes more than chemistry,” I pointed out.

  Someone bumped my chair from behind. A young guy in a hurry to get his pretty girl on the dance floor. I watched his enthusiasm and envied the girl. The truth was, Jonah dragging his feet on my offer was starting to dent my pride a little. He hadn’t even tried to kiss me again.

  “I just don’t understand it,” Scarlett complained. “You two like each other just fine. You’re attracted to each other. Consenting adults living in the same house, and you still haven’t gotten naked. This doesn’t make any sense!” She slammed her beer down on the table in frustration.

  “Not everyone is as comfortable going after what they want as you are, Scarlett,” Lula reminded her.

  I watched the young couple two-step their way across the dance floor with eyes only for each other. I didn’t need that. Not now. Maybe someday. But for right now, I was too busy for those yearning glances and the kind of affection that would eat into every waking hour of my day. But a little healthy sexual gratification? What was wrong with that?

  “Maybe I came on too strong?” I hypothesized.

  “Did he find you naked in his bed with a can of whipped cream?” Cassidy asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Then you didn’t come on strong enough,” Scarlett said, slapping the table.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think that a physical relationship should be this difficult to initiate. Either we both want it, or one of us doesn’t, and in this case that would be Jonah.”

  “Your hypothesis is flawed,” June said with a frown.

  The band slowed it down with a ballad, and couples melted onto the dance floor and into each other’s arms.

  “What’s so flawed about it?” I asked June.