Page 11 of Whiskey Kisses

“That’s too bad.” He shakes his head. “But you better start figuring out how you’re gonna separate yourself from that mess, Evie.”

On Saturday morning,I pick Opal up for our weekly jaunt to the farmer’s market. It’s a blue-sky-and-sunshine kind of day, blessedly free of work responsibilities as well as my father, who’s been holed up in his office since Tristan’s visit. No follow-up on my supposed training at the distillery this week, and I’m not complaining.

We wander the stands for hours, hitting up our usuals. Like hermama, Opal loves to cook, so she stocks up on fresh produce—okra, sweet corn, melons, berries, and zucchini. I have enough veggies growing at home, so I spend a small fortune on herbs and flower seeds, new plants, aromatherapy oils, and another book about medicinal tinctures. The vendor I buy tea from has locally sourced coffee today, so I buy a couple of bags. I treat Opal to lunch, she surprises me with flowers, and we leave around two, sun-kissed and content.

Later, Opal wiggles into a strappy slip dress the color of a sunset, the silk draped over her soft, round curves. “What you think?” she asks, her smug smile meeting mine in the bathroom mirror.

“That Eziah will freak out,” I say with a laugh, elbowing her out of the way so I can put on some mascara.

“Girl, please.” She scoffs, sweeping her blond box braids into an updo. “Who said anything about him?”

“Ha! We always see him when we go out, and you know it.”

“Yes, well.” She primps a moment more then spins and leaves, giving me some space. “You got any more of those gummies?”

“Why, you anxious?” I cap the mascara. “They might make you sleepy.”

“That’s what I want, for later,” she calls back. “I got my period yesterday, so I’ve been waking up with headaches.”

“In the jar by the TV. The little one.” Opal has dealt with migraines since we were in middle school. They get worse during certain times of the month or when she’s super stressed out. Her mother doesn’t like when she takes edibles or smokes to deal with the pain, but Opal hates the stuff her doctor prescribes, so I hook her up when I can. I use weed and its iterations sparingly myself, so I usually have it lying around. “You can take some home tomorrow.”

“Thanks, babylove.”

“Anytime, sweetcheeks.”

Hours later Opal follows me down a flight of stairs to our favorite bar, a below-street-level gem with speakeasy vibes and the best drink library in town. I celebrated my twenty-first birthday here, and then, a year later, scored a nice, fat account with management. Now Honey Hive carries several of Manning Distributors’ top-shelf liquors.

They also carry two of Daddy’s most exclusive small-batch whiskeys. I made that connection on my own and am especially proud of it.

The bar’s crowded by the time we arrive. There’s live music on the second Saturday of every month, and tonight the Hive has a popular local band that’s been getting a lot of radio play. Opal and I dance and drink a little, shouting over the music and hum of conversations, and when Eziah walks in with a couple of his friends, I give her a little shove, encouraging her to just do what I know she wants to do.

I’m playing darts with a couple of old friends when a hand snakes around my waist. Stiffening, I glance over my shoulder, verifying what that spicy cologne has already told me.

“Evie.” Cole Deschamps’ dark eyes are like soul-sucking twin black holes, the pupils indistinguishable from his dark brown irises. They’re always like that, whether he’s on a pill or sober.

“Cole,” I say briskly, brushing his hand away and putting a step between us. Narrowing my eyes at the board, I take aim and throw, missing the bull’s-eye by a fraction.

“Not bad,” purrs Cole, back on me as if compelled.

Opal, who’s sitting at a high-top nearby, rolls her eyes and whispers something to Eziah. Sighing loudly, I turn to face Cole. At 5’9”, I’m not tiny, but he towers above me, nonetheless. And that tall, wiry build is deceptively strong. I’ve seen him down guys with as little as one punch. “What’s up?”

“What d’you mean, ‘what’s up?’ I saw you over here and wanted to say hello.” He grins, his gaze dragging shamelessly down my body as he lifts a sweating glass to his mouth. DJ and Fabien, the usual suspects, are at his side with drinks of their own. “You’re lookin’ good … really good, Evie.”

“Thanks.” With a nod, I turn back to my game, accepting another dart from my friend Marcel.

But Cole just won’t go, his hot breath tickling my ear as he leans close. “What’re you getting into tonight?”

“Cole, come on,” I snap, cringing away. There was a time, when I was a naïve high school girl coming out of her shell, that Cole’s cocky, sly handsomeness held a dangerous appeal. He was a Deschamps boy through and through with that deeply tanned olive skin and dirty blond hair, known for fighting, selling pills, and breaking hearts. We fooled around for a couple months, but it didn’t take long for me to come to my senses. He’s rotten inside, to the point of being hollow.

“Why are you so mad all the time?” he asks, amusement sugaring his words.

“Because you don’t respect what I want,” I say. “You don’t respect my space. You act like it’s all a big joke to you.”

“That’s not—" He breaks off abruptly. “Ey, yo, what the fuck?”

I whirl around, stumbling back when I find Tristan Kelly standing between us. When did he get here? Before I can say anything, an obnoxious laugh explodes from Cole. “Who this, Evie?”

“I just watched her shake you off three times,” Tristan says, as calm as he was yesterday when he put Daddy in his place. “I don’t think she’s interested.”

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