Whiskey Chaser (Bootleg Springs Book 1)

by Lucy Score

  Now, Bootleg Springs Spa was the place to rest, rejuvenate, and drop a crap ton of money.

  Cassidy laughed through her hot springs seaweed facial. “I bet that’s the sound your neighbors have been hearing since you and Devlin started knockin’ boots,” she said.

  “Devlin is my neighbor,” I pointed out. “He’s usually there making the noise with me.”

  “I’ve heard about you two,” Lula teased. “Makin’ goo-goo eyes at each other in the diner. Booking two whole hours in the hot springs.”

  “We used every second of those two hours,” I said smugly.

  June, bored with our conversation, turned the page in her copy of The Economist that she brought from home. She was having her toes painted a pearly pink. Cassidy picked the color for her when June’s apathy on the subject became apparent.

  “Tell me more about these magical multiple orgasms,” Cassidy sighed.

  “Damn, girl,” Lula said, digging her strong hands into the knots in my shoulders. “That explains the rug burn back here.”

  I giggled. I couldn’t help it. I felt good. The kind of good that meant everything in my life was going in the right direction. For the first time in a very long time, I didn’t have some kind of lingering doubt or anxiety about the future. Growing up, I never knew exactly who I’d be coming home to, the fun, happy mom and dad dancing in the kitchen and making mountain pies or the screaming, accusatory parents who fought and then sulked in silence for days.

  But now, things felt settled. I had a great job, a sexy neighbor who kept me entertained, friends to have a spa day with, and four brothers who annoyed the shit out of me. Life was about as perfect as it could get.

  “He’s great. The multiple orgasms are great. And I’m great,” I reported with satisfaction.

  “I kind of hate you a little bit,” Cassidy sighed.

  “What happened with you and Amos at The Lookout last time?” I asked her, knowing Bowie’s side of the story.

  “I gave him one dance for old time’s sake, and he was annoying. Thankfully Bowie cut in on him, but he just came right back the next song, talking about missin’ me and ‘let’s give it another chance,’” she mocked in a deep baritone. “Thing is, I haven’t missed him not one lick since we broke up, and that says enough to me not to get back on that merry-go-round.”

  “Then how did the fight start?” I asked. Lula’s thumbs found tense muscles in my lower back, and I yelped.

  “Girl, you have got to stretch. I tell you this every time. You can’t just be on your feet for twelve hours a day and expect your muscles to keep up with you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Yoga. Pilates. Stretch. I get it. Back to the fight!”

  “I don’t even know,” Cassidy hedged. She was totally lying. But that’s what she did to herself when it came to Bowie Bodine. “One minute Amos and I were dancin’, and I was like ‘thanks but no thanks.’ But he wouldn’t let go. He was insistent that I listen to him and give him another chance and blah blah blah. And it must have looked like he was hurting me from the table because Bowie and Jameson showed up and had some words.”

  I snorted. “As if you couldn’t take care of yourself.” Cassidy was not only proficient in firearms, but her hands could be considered deadly weapons, too. When I was demanding ballet lessons and cheerleading skirts, Cassidy was earning a rainbow of belts in Tae Kwon Do. She got her black belt at eighteen.

  “Right?” Cassidy said with an exasperated sigh. “Thank you!”

  “So, Bowie and Jameson had words with Amos,” I prompted her.

  “Yeah. Words were had, Amos said something stupid, and then Bowie just decks him.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I lifted my head and made eye contact with Lula. She rolled her dark brown eyes in understanding. The entire town knew that Bowie was gone over Cassidy except dear, sweet, stupid Cassidy.

  “Anyway, you know how Bootleg is on a Friday.”

  “Everyone’s ready for a fight.”

  “Yep.”

  “You know what I find interesting?” June interjected over her magazine.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That prisons are noting a significant upswing in the delivery of contraband via recreational drones.”

  Cassidy laughed. “June Bug, when are you gonna start taking an interest in human relationships?”

  June raised an eyebrow. “Not until absolutely necessary.”

  Lula and I chuckled over that.

  “Changing the subject,” Cassidy said. “What I find interesting is that I have never seen Scarlett Bodine so giddy.”

  “I’m not giddy,” I argued. “I’m drunk on orgasms.”

  “Giddy. After all the guys I’ve seen you date, in high school and since, I’ve never seen you light up like you do when Devlin walks in a room. Who knew your type would be a buttoned up politician? I mean, it’s almost comical.”

  “I don’t discriminate against any kind of penis,” I argued. “No matter what the person attached to it does for a living.”

  “Oh, no, I think it’s something more than straight up dick worship,” Cassidy decided. “I think you like him.”

  “Well, of course I like him,” I said grumpily. “I wouldn’t sleep with him otherwise.”

  “Wade Zirkel,” June said, flipping another page in her magazine.

  “Shut up, Juney.”

  She smirked. “You know, Scarlett. Perhaps the feelings you’re experiencing are what someone else would consider romantic love.”

  My body went rigid.

  “Whoa. From the way your ass cheeks just seized up, I’d guess that Juney just hit a nerve,” Lula pointed out.

  I lifted my head like a sea lion heaving itself onto the ice. “Love? Are you kidding me?” I didn’t like that thought one bit. I was a Bodine, after all. Bodines a) weren’t capable of love and b) made a huge mess of long-term relationships.

  “I know your mama made you promise to wait, but I think she’d be givin’ you an exception for Devlin McCallister,” Cassidy pointed out innocently.

  “We haven’t talked relationships. We’re not even exclusive,” I scoffed. Though if Devlin McCallister thought it was okay to stick that fine dick in someone else, he was sorely mistaken.

  I had no intention of ever getting married. Not that it was something I’d ever discussed with anyone. My promise to my mama was just my excuse. After seeing my parents’ marriage and all the drama and pain that entailed, I had no interest in ever chaining myself for all of my miserable eternity. So if somehow my heart had gotten confused and stumbled a little bit over Devlin, it was just going to have to unstumble itself right quick.

  “We’re just having fun,” I insisted.

  “So, you won’t be upset when he packs up and goes home?” Cassidy asked.

  I hadn’t thought about it. Not really. I’d been too busy getting under his skin, into his head… and into his bed.

  “I’m well aware of the fact that he’s only here temporarily.” My stomach lurched.

  “Annapolis isn’t that far from here,” Cassidy pointed out.

  “What? You think we’d sign on for a long-distance relationship?” It wasn’t the worst idea, but it sure as hell wasn’t as convenient as strolling next door to take my clothes off.

  “Or you could move there.”

  “And do what?” I asked, baffled.

  “I believe my sister is suggesting that you could follow Devlin and be in a relationship,” June piped up.

  “He’s a politician. Can you really see me being some politician’s girlfriend?” The room went silent as everyone present considered the idea. Cassidy started snickering, and then they were all in a full fit of laughter. Even June was smiling.

  While I was glad they got my point, I’ll admit I was the teensiest sliver hurt by their agreement. I wasn’t a politician’s anything. I wouldn’t keep my mouth shut. I wouldn’t prance around in cocktail dresses and bat my lashes while the “menfolk” did the work. I knew it wasn’t fair for me to be pissed that they
agreed with my own assessment, but sometimes you expect your friends’ opinions to be higher than your own. Their easy agreement checked a box that I’d been trying to avoid thinking about.

  Why couldn’t I be a good partner for Devlin?

  I’d never backed down from a challenge before, not when it was something I wanted. Maybe I just needed to figure out what it was that I wanted where Devlin was concerned?

  27

  Devlin

  I knocked on Scarlett’s back door, noting that the tiny table here on the porch was set for two with napkins and utensils. There was a candle on the railing next to the table.

  I heard footsteps and watched with pleasure as Scarlett hurried to the door. She wore a long dress with blue watercolor blossoms that swished around her ankles. Her feet were bare.

  “Hi,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair hung loose down her back.

  She’d spent the day at the spa with her friends, and I’d expected her to look more relaxed than she did.

  I leaned in for a kiss, intending to just brush my mouth against hers. But she shoved her hands into my hair and held on for dear life as she kissed the hell out of me. She pulled back just as abruptly, leaving me stunned and breathless.

  “What was that for?” I asked.

  She smiled up at me. There was something a little shy and a lot unusual for Scarlett in that smile. “Just an appetizer,” she said. “Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  Uh-oh. Scarlett Bodine was many things. Many wonderful, good, wild things. A cook was not one of those things. Even her sandwiches were borderline terrible. I wasn’t much better in the kitchen, but at least I didn’t try to kid myself about it.

  Something smelled burnt. Something else smelled just plain bad.

  “I hope you like chicken. I roasted one,” she announced.

  “Um. That sounds great.” I needed to find a meat thermometer stat. I was sure that chicken was one of those meats that could kill you if it was undercooked. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

  She shrugged, looking slightly ill. I wondered if she’d sampled something she cooked.

  “I wanted to try something new,” Scarlett said, sticking her chin out. “Just because it’s not something I’ve done before doesn’t mean I won’t be good at it.”

  “What can I do to help?” I offered.

  “How about you put the potatoes in the microwave while I check the asparagus?”

  I glanced in the pot on the stovetop. Dear god, she’d boiled asparagus… from a can.

  At least we’d have baked potatoes. I unwrapped them and dumped them onto the microwave tray, hitting the potato button. Idiot proof.

  “What’s the special occasion?” I asked. She was up to something. That much was clear, but as with everything Scarlett did, I couldn’t even begin to predict what it would be.

  “Hang on, let me go find the wine opener,” she said, hurrying out to the porch. Scarlett’s screened-in porch served as a bar of sorts during bonfires. She kept her bottle openers and corkscrew out there.

  I yanked open a couple of drawers before finding a rusty meat thermometer. Glancing over my shoulder, I opened the oven and shoved the thermometer in the smoking bird. Two hundred and forty degrees. I hoped that was hot enough to cook off bacteria. I heard her at the door and yanked the thermometer out and tossed it behind a roll of paper towels on the counter.

  “Looks great,” I said as if I’d been admiring the blackened bird and closed the oven.

  She brightened. “Thanks! My mama always used to say there was nothin’ easier than roasting a chicken.”

  Scarlett’s mama was a liar.

  Casually, I pulled my phone out as if to check my messages. I opened the browser and did a quick search for chicken temperatures. At least we didn’t have to worry about salmonella now.

  “There’s pie for dessert,” she said, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

  Oh, hell.

  “I didn’t have time to bake one so I bought it at the Pop In.”

  I bit back my sigh of relief.

  “Could Johanna cook?” Scarlett asked.

  I was unsettled by the quick turn of conversation. Especially since Johanna had recently reared her head in my life with that text message this afternoon. “Uh. I suppose she could. She just generally chose not to. We ate out a lot and had a part-time chef prepare meals for the week for us.”

  Scarlett looked relieved. I was just about to ask her what this was all about when something exploded. We both ducked behind her tiny kitchen island. When no shrapnel rained down upon us, I realized it was the microwave.

  “The potatoes,” Scarlett yelped.

  I made it to the microwave first and opened the door. One of the idiot-proof baked potatoes had exploded, coating the inside of the microwave with potato particles.

  “At least we can split this one,” Scarlett said, reaching in to grab the other potato. “Ouch! Hot!” She tossed it back and forth from hand to hand.

  She smacked her elbow off of the counter, and the potato landed on the floor with a dull splat. “Well, shit!”

  I grabbed it and brushed it off. “Five second rule, right?” The potato was probably going to be the only edible part of the meal, and I wasn’t going to throw it in the trash.

  “Should we wash it off?” Scarlett wondered.

  I shrugged. “Maybe if we just don’t eat the skin it will be fine,” I suggested.

  She nodded. “I’ll get the chicken out, and you can carve it.”

  “Great.” I had no idea how to carve a chicken. Would she be disappointed in that? Did all Bootleg men know how to carve birds? Hell, they probably went out and shot them first.

  She pulled the roaster out of the oven and put it on the wood top of the island. “It doesn’t really look like the picture,” Scarlett said, chewing on her lower lip and studying the chicken’s coffee-brown skin.

  It didn’t look like any roast chicken I’d ever seen. “I think it looks really good,” I lied.

  “Do you need any special utensils?” she asked.

  “A knife,” I said with authority. I’d never even seen my father carve the turkey at Thanksgiving. We always had it catered.

  Scarlett handed me a steak knife, and after burning the hell out of my hand on hot chicken skin, I grabbed a wooden spoon from the pitcher on her counter. Sawing through the skin was like trying to cut my way through shoe leather with a butter knife. The meat under the leathery skin was bone dry. At least we could dump the asparagus soup on top of it. I did my best to saw my way through and scrape meat off of the charcoal skeleton. It hit the plate sounding like jerky.

  “How about I just carve one side?” I suggested, wiping the sweat from my brow. “Then the rest of it will stay… fresh.”

  “That’s a great idea. I can use the rest for soup… or something.”

  Scarlett made up our plates—real ones, not the paper plates like I was used to with her—with half of the non-exploded potato, a soupy dollop of asparagus, and several chunks of chicken leather. “I thought we could eat on the porch,” she said nervously.

  “I’d like that,” I told her, wanting to wipe the worry from her face. I took the plates from her and beckoned toward the door.

  We sat at the tiny table, our plates touching. I was just wondering if I should eat the entire potato first to soak up the rest of the “food” on the plate when Scarlett took a deep breath.

  “I have something I wanna say.”

  I looked up from my plate grateful for the distraction.

  “I think things are good. Between us, I mean,” she added. She looked at me like she was waiting for me to say something.

  “I… think they’re good too?” I said suspiciously. Was she trying to break up with me? Give me food poisoning and then send me packing? Was this some kind of bizarre Bootleg Justice for not telling her that my almost ex-wife texted me with regrets?

  Tentatively, I picked up a chunk of chicken and examined it on my fork.

&nbs
p; “Well, I’ve been thinking that maybe we should… what I mean to say is… Oh, hell. I’ve never had this conversation before.”

  “What conversation?” I was getting more anxious by the second.

  “You can’t leave town without telling me, and you can’t get naked with anyone else,” she blurted out.

  I blinked, at a loss.

  “I like you,” she said to her plate, sounding like she was choking on the words.

  I forgot what I was doing and accidentally put the chicken in my mouth. It tasted like petrified feet.

  I cleared my throat, trying to soften the chicken with my saliva. “I like you, too,” I said through my mouthful. No amount of chewing was going to make this chicken softer. I was either going to have to swallow it whole and choke on it or spit it out.

  “Well, since we like each other. I don’t think that you should just up and leave without at least talking to me about it first, and if you think I’d be okay with you having sex with someone else, you are sorely mistaken.” Her voice rose.

  “Are you breaking up with me?” I demanded, moving the chicken to the side of my mouth.

  “What? No!” She looked horrified. “I’m doing the opposite.”

  “You’re asking me to be your boyfriend?”

  Scarlett looked uncomfortable. She shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not really asking. It’s more like telling than asking.”

  I sucked in a breath to laugh and lodged the chicken between my tonsils. My laugh became a coughing fit.

  She jumped up and slapped me on the back. I managed to spit the chicken out into my napkin. “Excuse me,” I gasped.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just went down the wrong pipe,” I said, gulping down my wine.

  Scarlett sat back down and forked up a mushy lump of asparagus. I didn’t care how much I liked her. I wasn’t touching that green slime.

  “So, what do you think?” she asked, her pretty gray eyes pulling me in.

  I thought the chicken was a biohazard.

  “I thought you didn’t want to talk about relationships,” I said. “The first time we had sex, I tried to bring it up, and you shut me down.”

  Scarlett took a deep breath. “I just never expected to get so attached to you. And now if you were to just pack up and go home, I’d be… upset.” Her eyes narrowed, and she pointed her drippy glob of asparagus at me. “And I’d be real upset if I caught you showing off that cock to anyone else.”