Page 14 of Sweet Pea

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink bourbon before.”

“It’s for her,” I motioned to the table. “She said not to come back with cheap shit because she’d know the difference.”

“Pretty and she can drink? Maybe I won’t stab her,” she said, taking a bottle from the top shelf and pouring a stiff double.

“Jesus, Sally Anne. I said she wanted a drink, not cirrhosis.”

“This is from my personal stock. If she’s a real bourbon drinker, she’ll love it.”

“Thanks, babe. I’ll take a young beer to go with that old bourbon as well.”

I took a deep breath and “reset” before walking the drinks back to the table where I found Callie texting.

“Your boyfriend wondering where you are?” I asked.

“No, just a text from a work colleague.”

“That little guy that was with you at the courthouse today?”

“His name is Rob, and he’s not little,” Callie replied.

“Defensive. So, he is your boyfriend.”

“No. As a matter of fact, he is not. Not that we’re here to discuss my personal life.”

“Yeah, about that. Why are we here?” I asked, taking a sip of beer.

“I think I’ll take a drink before answering that question,” she said, bringing the glass to her nose. “A.H. Hirsch?”

“Holy shit,” I said, nearly choking. “I guess you really do know your hooch.”

“I can thank my father for my love of bourbon, baseball, and the law.

“Your dad a lawyer too?”

“A judge. He works in Marion County.”

“You from there?”

“Born and raised in Aurora,” Callie said, once again flashing that smile before taking a sip.

“A judge for a father? Shit, that must have been a laugh riot growing up,” I said, trying to hide any trace of my desire to stand up, throw her over my shoulder, and take her to the upstairs crash pad. I imagined her tied up and waiting for me. I thought about which restraints I’d use and forced myself to stop there before I lost track of what Callie was saying.

“He was still a lawyer when I was little, but most of my life he’s been the honorable Judge Ames.”

“Is that why you went into law? To be like your old man?”

“Never consciously, but I suppose at some level I wanted to be like him.”

“You get along with your folks now?”

“Mom died when I was eleven. A car accident,” she said softly.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That must have been pretty tough for you.”

“Thank you. It was a long a time ago,” she replied, clearly trying to avoid the topic.

“I talk to my father a few times a week and as long as we stay away from the topic of politics, the Judge and I get along just fine.”

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