Page 5 of Whiskey Kisses

Slowing a little, I ease my pickup through our rusted, wrought iron gates and park beneath the magnolia trees. They stopped blooming a couple months ago, but come spring, the air will be fragrant with them. “I’m home, Opal,” I murmur, interrupting my best friend’s diatribe about her work drama. “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

“Come over to Mama’s after jiu jitsu,” she says. “She’s making a roast.”

I groan, my stomach grumbling louder than the thunder overhead. “As good as that sounds, I have a ton of work to catch up on.”

“You sure? I know how much you like those little red potatoes, especially with gravy.”

“Don’t torture me,” I plead, peering out at the mud made worse by this summer’s incessant rainstorms. Judging by the thunder and mass of thick, gray clouds overhead, we’re about to have another one. I live in the loft over the carriage house, separate from the main house but still close. Maybe I should just take off my heels and run inside barefoot.

“Tomorrow, then. I’ll have Mama save you plate,” Opal promises. “Have fun. Be careful.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Talk soon.”

Lightning flashes, followed by a boom. Sweeping my purse and laptop from the ripped passenger seat, I hurry out of my truck as dropsstart falling. Climbing the outdoor stairs, I let myself inside just as the rain transitions from a drizzle to a crashing downpour.Great.I have less than an hour before jiu jitsu starts, and the studio where I train, Phoenix Rising, is all the way across town. I’m already running behind, but now I’ll have to contend with rush hourandpeople driving stupid because of the weather.

Kicking off my heels, I toss my bag and laptop onto the couch. Poppy, my ginger tabby, meows plaintively from the windowsill. It’s her favorite place to watch the goings-on of the garden below, birds and butterflies especially. She used to knock over the plants I kept there, leaving a sorry mess of soil and broken leaves, so eventually I just moved my plants and gave her the sill.

“Hey, Pops,” I coo, rushing over for a quick hello. She pushes her velvety nose up into my hand, purring loudly as I bend to kiss her. She’s such a little love. “Where’s your sister?” I ask, glancing around. Juniper, my Russian Blue rescue, is the more aloof of the two. She’s probably lounging in my bed.

Tossing a few blueberries into a bowl of Greek yogurt, I browse the day’s text messages and emails as I eat. My job as a liquor sales rep consists of traipsing up and down the coast all day every day, connecting with bars and restaurants interested in our products, so I’m forever bringing home my work.

I take a quick shower to freshen up and yank on my gi. My phone rings as I’m pulling my long, red hair into a ponytail, but it’s Daddy. Again. I never feel like dealing with him, and I’ve got just twenty-five minutes to spare, so I ignore the call. Praying that the traffic gods are feeling generous, I grab my backpack and venture into the pouring rain.

Sunny goes for my sleeve,but I pull back instinctively, avoiding their grasp. Stepping quickly to the side, I wrap my arm around their waist, trying to establish control, but they’re just as quick, countering my attempt with a well-timed hip escape. Breaking free from my grip, they create distance between us, resetting their position with impressive agility. I take a moment to reassess, looking for an opening.

For the next few seconds we cycle through an exchange of grips,jockeying for position. Sunny has just slipped away again when I notice a slight opening in their defense. Launching into a forward sweep, I leverage the momentum to topple them to the mat.

As we hit the ground, I manage to trap their arm and get into a side control position. Sunny’s crazy strong and just as fast, so I guess it’s not surprising when they manage to fend off my attempt at an Americana hold. Heart pounding, mind racing, I transition into an armbar instead, easing back with a firm grip and applying pressure until they tap out.

I release the hold and we rise to our feet, panting. “Not bad, Evie,” they say with a grin, bumping their fist to mine.

“Thanks,” I say, allowing the pleasure of my win to wash over me. This is the first time I’ve ever gotten the mighty Sunny to submit.

“Not bad for kicking your ass, you mean,” an amused voice pipes up nearby. “That was first-class domination right there.”

I glance back at Eddie with a snort. Opal’s big brother is the reason I’m here at all. He invited me to Phoenix Rising years ago when I was a weak, insecure, high-school freshman always hanging around his mama’s house. Nowadays Eddie is one of their main instructors. He competes, too, traveling around every couple of months.

Sunny scoffs at Eddie, jerking their chin in challenge. “Let’s go, then.”

I leave them to it and look for another sparring partner. There are a few women today, but as usual, it’s mostly guys. I don’t mind, though. I’ve been training here for so long that a lot of them feel like family, and those that don’t, like newcomers, usually fall in line pretty quickly. It’s a safe space.

After a couple of rounds with a petite brunette that meets me move for move and leaves me exhausted, it’s time for open mat. Sometimes I stay for that, but not tonight. I wasn’t lying to Opal when I said I had lots of work to do.

The sun’s gone down, but it’s not fully dark yet when I climb into my truck. I ease out of the parking lot, windows down, enjoying the fresh breeze on my sweaty face. The wet road shines darkly, shimmering with the reflection of passing headlights and lit-up signs.

Daddy’s ringtone goes off yet again. It’s tempting to let it go to voicemail, but he’d probably just walk on over to the carriage house laterfor a talk and I definitely don’t want that. Bracing myself for what’s sure to be another difficult conversation, I connect the call. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hello, Evelyn.” Thanks to thirty-five years of smoking cigars, his voice is like gravel. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

“I had a busy day at work,” I say, which is true. “And then I went to my class. What’s going on? Everything all right?”

“It’s the distillery,” he grumbles. I sigh silently, waiting. Of course, it is. It's always the distillery. “The warehouse on West Saint Julian flooded during last night’s storm. Thousands of dollars’ worth of bourbon barrels ruined. We've got inspectors and insurance people crawling all over the place down there."

"Oh, no.” I give a sympathetic cluck, though we’ve known about the need for roof repairs at that location for nearly a year. Maybe if he’d acted on that, we wouldn’t be dealing with damaged property and lost revenue now. “What do you need me to do?”

“What I need you to do is take a more active role," he says. “There’s only so much of me to go around. It's time to start learning the day-to-day operations so you can do your part.”

My stomach sours. The thought of being trapped in the distillery’s office under Daddy’s thumb makes my skin crawl. I’ve always been proud of my family’s legacy, and I love the artistry of making whiskey and bourbon. But the ideas I used to have for new products and fresh ways of marketing were quashed so frequently that eventually I just stopped sharing.

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