Bourbon Bliss: Bootleg Springs Book Four

by Kingsley, Claire

  “Wow, that’s… eerie,” she said. “I wonder if there’s someone else out there with my face.”

  “One can only hope,” I said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Why would one hope?”

  “Two reasons. One, I’m fascinated by the fact that such enormous genetic diversity among our species can randomly produce these results. And two, you’re very pretty, so another woman would be fortunate to look like you.”

  “Aw, thanks, Juney.”

  I clicked back to the photo of not-Callie. “What do we need to do?”

  “I’ll tell Dad,” she said. “But I can’t promise this will reopen the investigation. Not if the Kendalls believe she’s Callie. One grainy internet photo isn’t proof that she’s not who she says she is.”

  “Okay.” I stood and closed my laptop. “Thank you for confirming my suspicions.”

  “Juney, leave this to the authorities.”

  I nodded. I didn’t like lying to my sister, so I decided not to do so verbally.

  “And no more talking to people in biker gangs. Unless it’s the Dirt Hogs.” Bootleg’s own biker gang was a group of octogenarians who wore leather jackets and sat on their motorcycles outside the Still on Tuesday nights while their wives played bingo over at the Lookout.

  “Thank you, Cassidy. I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow evening.”

  “Bye, Juney.”

  I left, my mind still buzzing with questions and possibilities. I didn’t have the answers. But I knew I was right about one thing. That woman was not Callie Kendall.

  And I was going to prove it.

  29

  George

  Nadine Tucker’s famous chicken and dumplings smelled like heaven. I sat in the living room of June’s childhood home, beer in hand, with her dad and Bowie Bodine. The TV was on, the sound turned low. June and her sister chatted with their mom in the kitchen while dinner simmered on the stove.

  June’s parents had invited us over for Sunday dinner. Their house was cozy, with photos of June and Cassidy as kids on the walls. An old wedding photo showed a much younger Harlan and Nadine Tucker. June looked like her dad.

  I took a drink of my beer and glanced around, suddenly having an odd flashback to earlier this year. Sitting in a club with music bumping through the walls, an overpriced drink on the table. People showing off their designer labels. Expensive shoes. What a show that had been. A shit-show. Groupies and hangers-on, people who only wanted a piece of your fame.

  This was a world apart, and I loved every bit of it. Reminded me of where I’d come from, and where I wanted to be.

  “All right, boys,” Nadine said, peeking her head into the living room. “Dinner’s ready.”

  We gathered around the table Bowie and I had helped set. Harlan and Nadine at each end, Cassidy and Bowie on one side, June and I on the other.

  “Well, isn’t this nice,” Nadine said, smiling at her daughters.

  “Dinner looks delicious,” Harlan said as he ladled the thick chicken stew into his bowl.

  Bowie looked like there couldn’t possibly be a happier man anywhere on earth. He smiled at Cassidy, giving her a quick kiss on her temple.

  We all dished up, and the food tasted even better than it smelled.

  “Mrs. Tucker—” I said, but she stopped me before I could compliment the meal.

  “Call me Nadine. And do you prefer GT, or George?”

  I thought about that for a second. “You know, I’ll answer to either. I’ve been GT since I was in middle school or thereabouts. By high school, even my parents called me by my initials. But I like my name. It’s old-fashioned, but I guess that’s why I’ve always liked it.”

  “Were you named for someone?” Nadine asked.

  “My grandfather,” I said. “I guess he was the original George Thompson.”

  “You live in Philadelphia, is that right?” Nadine asked. “Is that where you’re from?”

  “I do have a house there, but no,” I said. “I grew up in Charlotte. My folks still live there. I was in Philly because of football.”

  “Shame about that knee,” Harlan said.

  I nodded. “I only had a season or two left, at most. In football years, I’m old.”

  “So your parents still live in Charlotte, you say?” Nadine asked.

  “Dear, give the man a break,” Harlan said. “We don’t need his life story.”

  “Of course we do,” Nadine said, as if Harlan had just suggested something outrageous.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I don’t mind. Yes, my parents, James and Darlene Thompson, still live in Charlotte. I also have a sister, Shelby. My parents adopted her when I was five. She was almost a year old. Shelby’s the one who told me about Bootleg Springs, actually. She was out here for a while, but had to go home to Pittsburgh.”

  “Hmm, interesting,” Cassidy said.

  “George began playing football at the age of five,” June said. “He was a starting receiver for his high school varsity team all four years. He played for University of Alabama, and was drafted by San Francisco. After two years with San Francisco, he was traded to Seattle. Then he accepted a contract with Philadelphia where he played for the duration of his career.”

  “Thanks for the recap,” Bowie said, and winked at me.

  “She’s right,” I said. “That about covers it.”

  “And what are you going to do now that you’re no longer playing football?” Nadine asked.

  “That’s an excellent question.” I put my spoon down. “I’m fortunate I have the ability to take some time to figure that out.”

  “He means he has the financial security to support himself without additional income,” June said.

  “That is fortunate,” Nadine said with a smile.

  The conversation turned to other topics while we finished our dinner. June didn’t bring up Callie Kendall, which surprised me. It had been all she could talk about after we’d been to Hollis Corner.

  After dinner, and the best pecan pie I’d ever had, we said goodnight. June’s parents thanked me for coming. I shook her father’s hand and kissed her mom on the cheek. Then they stood on the porch, their arms around each other, and waved as we all left.

  It was so damn wholesome, I wished my parents had been here to see it. My mother would have fainted with joy to see me dating a girl from a family like the Tuckers.

  I held June’s hand on the short drive to her house. It fit so nicely in mine. She looked delicious in her collared blouse and brown pants. So very June. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye, and got an idea.

  Instead of turning onto her street, I kept going and took another road out of town.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “It’s a nice night. I thought we might take a little drive.”

  “Okay.”

  I drove around the lake and pulled off near a deserted beach. It wasn’t time to swing for a home run, but maybe she was ready for some second base action. And something about having dinner with her family put me in a mind to make out with her in the back seat of my car, like we were a couple of teenagers with no other place to be alone.

  “Ever made out in the back seat of a car before?”

  “No.”

  “Oh god, that’s even better. Get your ass back there.”

  We both got out and slipped into the back seat, shutting the doors behind us.

  I wasted no time, pulling June close and finding her mouth with mine. At first, I just kissed her. I kept my hands on her waist, her face. Slid my fingers through her hair. Felt her soft lips.

  “Lips and fingertips are the most sensitive areas of the body,” June said, then leaned in to kiss me again.

  “Is that so?” I slid my tongue along her lower lip. “Is that why kissing you feels so damn good?”

  “Yes. A high proportion of the brain is dedicated to receiving and processing sensory input from the lips. That’s why they’re classified as an erogenous zone.”

  I growled, holding h
er head as I kissed her deeply. “Good god, it’s hot when you get all sciencey on me.”

  “You know what else kissing is good for?” she asked.

  It took us a long moment to get back to her question. I sucked on her lower lip, then delved in with my tongue. I needed her closer, so I pulled her into my lap. She straddled her legs on either side of me, her arms draped around my shoulders.

  “What else is kissing good for?” I asked.

  “Bonding.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I nipped at her bottom lip, then slid my tongue along it. “The flood of dopamine and oxytocin create good feelings and encourage people to form or strengthen their pair-bond.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” she said, excitement in her voice.

  “You’re not the only one who can get sciencey.” I kissed her again.

  “Should we be concerned about being seen?”

  “It’s dark. No one’s around. And that’s part of what makes it fun.” I brushed her hair back and met her eyes. “I want you to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Stop thinking. Just feel.”

  She nodded and I grabbed her ass with one hand, the back of her head with the other. I drew her in for a deep kiss, feeling the satisfaction of her body relaxing. My dick ached with the desire to be inside her again, but I ignored the discomfort. I was determined to bring her along with me and show her she was capable of intimacy, no matter how long it took.

  Besides, making out in a car on a deserted road was hot, even if it wasn’t going to end with sex.

  The more she relaxed, the more she moved, her body’s instincts seeming to take over. Her legs widened and she pressed herself closer. I could feel the heat between her legs through our clothes and it drove me fucking crazy.

  Our kisses went from slow and sensual to hot and messy. Tongues lapped against each other, teeth nipped at lips. I groaned, deep in my throat, as she pressed against my solid erection.

  I slid my hand up her waist toward her chest and paused, breathing hard. “Second?”

  “Yes.”

  Palming her breast over top of her shirt, I squeezed. She moaned into my mouth as I gently kneaded.

  “Nipples are another erogenous zone,” she said, her voice breathy.

  “Hell yes they are.”

  I unbuttoned her shirt, resisting the urge to rip it open and send her buttons flying. Her bra was plain white, without an inch of lace. It was so practical, and so her, nothing could have been sexier.

  She slipped the shirt off and I kissed across her shoulder, sliding her bra strap down as I went. Her skin tasted so good, I wanted to lick her all over. I pulled the cup down and she gasped as I brushed my fingertips across her nipple. It hardened at my touch.

  I licked her hard peak and she rubbed herself against me. Grabbing her hips, I encouraged her rhythmic motion. Let her know she could grind against my dick all she wanted while I lavished her tits with attention.

  Her soft moans were more exciting than the roar of a crowd. I licked and sucked, flicking her nipple, enjoying her taste. She moved faster, thrusting those sexy hips, sliding up and down against my erection.

  I didn’t say a word—didn’t want to interrupt. She was right where I wanted her. In the moment. Enjoying the sensations I was giving her. I thrust my hips into her just enough to give her the friction and pressure she needed. Sucked her nipples until she was breathing hard, writhing against me.

  With a sharp intake of breath, her movements slowed. She dragged herself up my erection in one long, hard stroke. I watched in awe as the orgasm overtook her. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Cheeks flushed.

  God, she was beautiful.

  Her eyes fluttered open. “Oh my god.”

  I drew her in close and held her. Stroked her soft hair. Her body was liquid against mine, relaxed and languid.

  “Did that feel good?”

  She nodded and sat up. “It felt very good. But what about you?”

  “It’s all right. We’re not keeping score on orgasms here, June Bug. I’m pretty damn thrilled I could make you feel good like that.”

  “Me too. And I’m feeling a great deal of affection for you right now.”

  I touched her face and kissed her softly. “I love you too, June Bug.”

  30

  June

  The afternoon sun was bright when George and I left his house in Philadelphia. He was putting it up for sale and moving to Bootleg Springs officially. I found that arrangement decidedly satisfactory. What I didn’t like was the fact that he’d done nothing more than put in a call to Andrea to have her take care of it. There was still something about her that didn’t sit right with me. I hadn’t brought it up again—I wanted to trust his judgment—but I’d also encouraged him to take a trip out to his house to meet the real estate agent in person.

  He’d agreed, and he’d been happy to have me come with him. I’d also talked him into taking me on a little detour. The woman claiming to be Callie Kendall had moved to Philadelphia, and I wanted to find her.

  One of the largest publishers in the world had announced a book deal to publish her memoir next year. The Callie Kendall story was already being called one of the most highly anticipated autobiographies in years.

  It meant she was once again newsworthy. She’d been interviewed by several reporters, telling them she’d moved to Philadelphia to start a new life. I’d done some digging, cross-referencing what I could find in photos online with information in her most recent interviews, and located her neighborhood.

  No one seemed to be questioning the fact that she’d chosen to live over four hours from Richmond, where Judge and Mrs. Kendall lived. Nor that she had yet to go anywhere near Bootleg Springs since her reappearance. I found those facts highly suspicious, and although they didn’t prove she was an impostor, they did support my theory.

  But before I could do anything else, I needed proof. Solid, scientific proof that this woman wasn’t Callie Kendall.

  “Do you feel better now that you had a chance to negotiate with the real estate agent?” George asked when we got into his car. He reached behind to set a stack of mail on the back seat.

  “I got you a much better deal,” I said. “He was going to overcharge you.”

  He smiled. “Thanks, June Bug. Where to now?”

  I plugged the address in the GPS app on George’s phone. “There.”

  “All right, Scooby-June. But please tell me we’re not driving over there so you can knock on her door and ask for ID.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I think at this stage of my investigation, speaking to her directly would be a mistake.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “Get a DNA sample.”

  George started coughing. “Excuse me, what now?”

  “As part of the original missing persons and potential homicide investigation, they obtained DNA evidence. If I can get a DNA sample, I’ll have a genetics lab run it against the known DNA from Callie Kendall. Then it won’t matter what she looks like or what parts of her story are questionable. DNA evidence won’t lie.”

  “Okay, I’m with you in theory. But how are you going to get DNA?”

  “According to the laboratory technician I spoke with, the three best sources would be a toothbrush, underwear, or a hair sample.”

  “June, I am not going to steal this woman’s toothbrush or panties. Especially panties.”

  I glanced at him with a smile. He was so cute when he got worked up. “I wouldn’t ask you to touch her panties.”

  “That’s good to hear. The only panties I want to make off with are yours.”

  His comment sent a little tingle rushing through me. But we were here on a mission, so I just smiled at him again. “Let’s see if we can locate her.”

  Following the GPS, we drove across town and pulled into a quiet neighborhood. The sidewalks were clean and the manicured landscaping was tidy.

  In my digging, I’d also discovered that the apartment Callie was living
in had been rented by Mrs. Kendall. That was a fact I hadn’t cataloged yet in terms of what it meant. Did it lend credence that she really was Callie? Were the Kendalls simply as fooled as the rest of the world? Or were they cooperating with her for reasons of their own? I wasn’t sure, so I kept that information in the neutral column.

  “That’s her building,” I said, pointing to the large brick structure on the left. “There’s a spot up ahead.”

  George parked and I dug into my handbag, pulling out a pair of oversize sunglasses and a scarf.

  “What’s that for?” he asked.

  “I’m going incognito.”

  “Are we supposed to just sit here until she comes out? This is pretty stalkery.”

  “According to what little I could glean from the most recent blog posts about her, I calculated the most likely time for her to emerge from her building as three in the afternoon.”

  “Which is right about now. Imagine that.”

  “I didn’t imagine it, I used—”

  “Just an expression, June Bug.”

  “Oh, of course.” I slipped the sunglasses on and put the scarf around my neck. I could pull it over my hair if I needed to, or use it to cover the lower part of my face. Then I got a second pair of sunglasses out of my bag and passed them to George. “For you.”

  “Don’t these just make us look suspicious?”

  “It’s spring. Sunglasses are an appropriate accessory, given the clear sky today.”

  He took the black aviators and slipped them on. “Indeed.”

  We waited in comfortable silence for a while. I watched Callie’s building. George traced his fingers along the back of my hand, as if he were mapping the shape of my bones. It was very distracting, but I had no intention of asking him to stop. Physical contact with George had become one of my favorite things.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man across the street. The feel of George’s fingers along my skin held my attention. But something tickled at the edge of my awareness.

  “Wait, is that…”