Page 21 of Sweet Like Whiskey

My brothers all pause, seemingly doing the math.

“Thirty-two,” I answer.

Ash’s wide eyes swing my way. “Thirty-fucking-two?” he repeats, apparently over his concern about swearing. “How long can donkeys live?”

“Forty or so is a pretty standard upper limit,” I tell him.

“So there’s a senile donkey terrorizing the town, and you’re all okay with that?” Ash asks, sounding amused now.

Colton shrugs. “He earned his due. Saved little Marjory Bell when he was just a foal.”

“The donkey saved a girl?” Ash asks.

Remi smiles, the tale a favorite of his, but it’s Lawson who speaks up. “The story is legendary around here. The Bells are an old family in town. They own the distillery. When Marjory was three, she wandered off while the family was having a picnic. No one could find her until the Darling Donkey came trotting down the road, braying wildly. Curious, a few folks followed him to where, half a mile away, little Marjory had fallen into a sinkhole.”

“Holy shit,” Ash breathes.

“So, yes,” Lawson says before taking a sip of his whiskey. “He’s an asshole, but he’sourasshole.”

For some reason, Colton looks at me and grins. I flash him my middle finger.

“That’s wild,” Ash says, shaking his head. He’s leaning back in his chair, looking utterly at ease with his legs splayed comfortably and his whiskey tin in one hand. The other runs through his hair, causing the strands to fall messily around his eyes before he tucks them back behind his ear.

I swallow down my groan.

“What about you, Jackson?” Ash asks, startling me, even though I’m looking right at him. “Any wild stories? Other than the midnight skinny-dipping, of course.”

Colton snorts. “Jackson doesn’tdowild.”

“What does that mean?” I gripe.

“C’mon, bro. You’re too dependable. Toomature.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I mutter. If anything, Colton’s the one who could use a little morematurityin his life.

My brother shrugs. “It’s not. But name the last time you went and let loose.”

Silence falls around the campfire.

“He needs to get laid,” Remi says.

I sputter, staring at my traitorous brother. He just smiles back at me. “Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t know why I put up with this shit.”

“Come on, Jackson,” Remi says evenly. “Otto left—”

“No,” I cut in.

“—over two years ago.”

“It’s time to move on,” Colton adds gently, like he’s talking to a spooked horse.

“Really?” I ask that particular brother. “You’re talking to me about moving on? What about Noah King?”

Colton immediately scowls. “Did you fucking see this?” he asks, shifting around enough to pull something from his back pocket. He unfolds what appears to be a small newspaper clipping. “Look at this. ‘King Farrier Service, the best shoeing in three counties.’” He slaps the paper closed before shoving it back in his pocket. “Three counties. What a fucking dick.”

“You keep that in your pocket?” Remi asks.

“He’s just trying to get back at me,” Colton goes on. “This is a direct attack on the ad I put out last month.”

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