Page 66 of Whiskey Kisses

The new crew got in late. They’re staying at a rental six minutes away, a McMansion in one of those generic, brand-new subdivisions where half the houses are still empty. I pull into the driveway, parking behind a pair of black Suburbans, and walk up to the front door with Malachi and Finn.

Alex answers the door, pulling me into a hug. “Tristan, my man.” He grips Finn’s shoulder, then Malachi’s, as they pass. Robbie’s sprawled on the couch, talking on the phone while Andy sips a cup of coffee. These guys, I know. Alex is one of Lucky’s best friends. Robbie’s gone on jobs with us for years.

“Hey, Al. How was the drive down?”

“Brutal,” he says with a grimace. “I’m getting too old for road trips.”

“Stop bitchin’,” laughs Robbie, getting up to throw me a fist bump. “What’s good, T? You running this town yet?”

“I’m halfway there,” I joke, nodding toward Perry. He, Sullivan, Jett, and Vance round out the crew. I don’t know them as well, but Lucky does, and if he sent them down it’s because he trusts them as the best Saoirse’s got. We’re family here, bound by loyalty and our time in the trenches, if not blood. “How’s it going, man?”

We gather around the kitchen table, kidding around and sipping on shit coffee while we catch up. They tell me what’s been happening back home, and I bring them up to speed on the scene in Savannah. Who to watch for, what to expect. What to avoid.

“And you might as well know, ‘cause you’re gonna find out anyway, I got married,” I add, flashing my left hand.

Alex’s jaw hits the floor. “What the fuck?”

Robbie, who married his high school sweetheart super young, yanks me into a congratulatory hug. “Lucky didn’t even say nothin’!”

“We had to keep things under wraps for a while, didn’t want anyunnecessary attention,” I explain, patting Robbie on the back as the room explodes with exclamations and good-natured ribbing.

“Who’d you marry?” demands Alex, still looking at me in disbelief. “Must be some girl to tie your whorin’ ass down.”

Smirking, I take a long sip of coffee. He’s not wrong. If there’d been a vote amongst our friend group on least likely to ever get married, I’m pretty sure I’d have won outright. “Her name’s Evie. It’s … a long story.”

“That’s it? You can’t just drop some shit like that and not give us details!” Andy looks past me to Finn, who’s leaning against the wall behind me. “She’s not imaginary, is she?”

“Trust me, she’s real.” I laugh over the snickers. They don’t need to know she’s Randall Doyle’s daughter. They’ll learn soon enough—for now, it's best they focus on one thing at a time. “You’ll meet her later, okay?”

Finishing up our coffee, we leave for the distillery. Perry stays behind in case we need someone close to Timmy and Evie.

The distillery’s parking lot is oddly quiet for a Friday morning when we pull in. There’s just one car at the far end. I park right in front of the main doors, unable to shake the feeling that something’s off.

“They are open, right?” Alex echoes my thoughts from the back seat, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.

“Supposed to be,” I answer, grabbing my briefcase from the floor by Malachi’s feet. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Doyle was up to something, though.”

The guys wait in one of the Suburbans while Alex, Finn, and Malachi come inside with me. The same blonde receptionist from last time is on the phone at the front desk. She holds a finger up when she sees us, her voice low as she talks to whoever’s on the line. After a moment, she hangs up and looks expectantly at me. “Mr. Kelly?”

Either she’s got a great memory, or Randall told her I was coming this time. “Yes, ma’am. Is Mr. Doyle here?”

She gives a small nod, her smile hesitant as she glances at the others. “You can go on back. He’s expecting you.”

We nod our thanks and walk toward the back offices, the sound of our footsteps echoing against the high ceilings. The door is ajar, and I don't bother knocking as I push it open. Randall’s enormous desk is a chaotic mess of paperwork, but his leather chair is facing the largewindow with its vista of his land. He swivels slowly around when he hears us enter the room, a glass of whiskey in hand. “Kelly,” he greets in a gravelly voice, raising his glass in a mock salute before downing it in a single gulp.

“Doyle,” I reply.

His gaze slides over to my entourage and then back to me. “Didn't realize you'd be bringing company,” he gripes.

“Then you don’t know me very well,” I counter, motioning for Finn to shut the door.

“Truer words have never been spoken. Now, what can I get you boys?” he slurs, walking unsteadily to the bar across the room. “We got, ah … let’s see … my daddy’s favorite, the rye whiskey. Real bold, with notes of black pepper, cinnamon, and dried fruit. Or maybe you’re into bourbon, eh? Smooth and sweet, caramel and vanilla, toasted oak?”

“We’re fine, thanks.” I gesture to an empty seat across from him. “May I?”

Pouring himself another drink, he waves us toward the seats. I set my briefcase on the large desk between us. Malachi and Alex take the seats nearest the door while Finn places himself near the windows overlooking the distillery grounds.

“You know,” Randall says, settling heavily into his chair once more. “You should know your product if you’re gonna sell it, boy.”

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