Page 37 of Whiskey Kisses

Exhaling in resignation, he turns, gesturing for us to follow. His office, which is at the very end of the corridor, is pretty ritzy. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and antiques, and oil paintings of ancestors and Southern history hang alongside framed awards and accolades. A massive cherrywood desk commands the center of the room with a brass nameplate declaring his title as “President and CEO.”

Behind all that, a large bay window offers a sweeping view of the distillery grounds, a constant reminder of the legacy his family built and the responsibility he carries to steward it. But he’s not doing a very good job of that, is he? Doyle Whiskey might once have been a paragon of refinement, opulence and wealth, but it’s hanging by a thread these days.

Doyle tosses the paperwork onto his desk and points at it. “Now what in fresh hell is this? Your father knows damn well there was never any contract.”

“But you did make an agreement to pay back the money he lent you within a five-year period. It has now been eight. You’ve dodged all attempts we’ve made to collect, even to work something out amicably.My father was a friend, Doyle, but you’ve treated him like shit,” I snap, tired of the bullshit. “Consider this contract, thisvery realcontract, a warning to how far we will go if you do not cede ownership by the end of the week.”

“End of the week?” he sputters.

“Upon which you’ll have until November first to vacate the premises,” I add.

He stares at me, finally laughing. “Are you kidding me, boy?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Reaching into my briefcase again, I procure the contract that Kenny drafted outlining the specifics of the distillery’s change in ownership. He and I reviewed it with Dad and Lucky earlier on today’s video call, ensuring it captured all of our desired terms.

“I’ll leave this here with you so you can look it over,” I say. “I expect it to be signed by the time I come back on Friday. If it’s not, then we’ll proceed with legal action.”

Another bluff. Because if continued harassment and now the threat of a lawsuit aren’t enough to motivate Randall Doyle, it won’t be cops and lawyers he’ll have to worry about. It’ll be me.

And I won’t be civil.

12.Evie

“I’ll be back.” Grabbing my water bottle from the fridge, I head for the door. I went from daily jiu jitsu to sporadic attendance, and both my mental and physical health are suffering for it. I feel stiff and pent-up, frustrated with my out-of-control life. I need to get it all out on the mat.

“You on your way to class?” asks Tristan, glancing over my gi. This is the first time I’ve seen him all day. He’s been in his bedroom since he came home earlier, talking on the phone. “I’ll come with you.”

“Well, hurry up then,” I say impatiently, swinging my backpack over one shoulder. “It’s really far from here and I don’t want to be late.”

He leaves the room, returning a minute later in a pair of black gi pants, a plain white tee, and clean, all-white Jordans. His gi jacket and duffel are slung over one arm. “Let’s go.”

I speed all the way there, annoyed we’re living so damn far away from everything. I love Tybee Island, but it’s not the most convenient place to stay, not when my whole life revolves around Savannah. Well, maybe not anymore. Losing my apartment and my job did change things.

Tristan seems lost in thought as I drive, his seat reclined back so far it looks like he’s settling in for a nap. I thought guys stopped that nonsense in high school. “What’s up?” I overtake a slow-as-molassesMustang whose driver apparently doesn’t know how to drive a car of that caliber.

“Hm?” He stares at the road ahead, his eyes glazed over. It’s obvious he’s a million miles away.

“You’re being uncharacteristically quiet.”

“Just thinking,” he says.

“About?”

“You don’t want to know,” he assures me with a tired smile.

“Is it about the distillery?” I ask, amazed that no matter what man in my life I’m talking to, it always comes back to that blasted place.

“Yeah. I met with your dad today,” he says. “Threatened him with legal action. Gave him a contract and one week to sign it. After that, things get real.”

My heart dips unpleasantly at this news. “Realer than they’ve already been?”

“Mhm.” He shifts, returning his attention to the passing scenery. “I don’t think you understand just how much time, how many chances, we’ve given him. We don’t usually roll like this. The fact we’ve been this patient, when it’s obvious he doesn’t give a flying fuck about making things right, is a testament to the way my father treats his friends. Anyone else would’ve felt the heat months ago. I wouldn’t have even had to come down here.”

He's right, of course. If Daddy had just paid his debts, or at least been honest with the Kellys about his financial situation, Tristan wouldn’t have had to waste time by coming to Savannah. I don’t know Owen Kelly well, beyond what I saw during the summers their family used to visit, but he seems to be a fair, patient man. He was always kind to me.

But it’s undeniable that he and his sons have another, darker side. Not all of their business is on the up-and-up. Neither is my father’s, though. Makes me wonder if the shadiness started with him, or if he learned it from his own father. Doyle Whiskey wasn’t always legit. During Prohibition, my family produced unknowable amounts of illegal spirits and ran speakeasies throughout Georgia. I can only imagine the sort of lifestyle that went along with that.

Still, Tristan’s words administer an unexpected sting. They remind me that this is strictly business. We’re married on paper, but in reality,we’re no closer than we were as kids. The time we spend together is usually in the company of Finn, Malachi and Timmy, playing cards or watching TV. Sometimes they invite me to smoke with them on the patio, but I usually refrain. Seems like that’s their thing, and as welcoming as his friends are, I can’t help but feel like a third wheel. A fifth wheel. Whatever.

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