Page 7 of Whiskey Kisses

My heart races so fast that my face throbs, as if the blood it’s pumping has nowhere else to go but up. I place my coffee cup in the sink and turn to go. But my hatred for the man behind me swells to such a pitch that I pause in the doorway. “I thought you said that only common folk take the Lord’s name in vain.”

His pale eyes go dark as he rises from his chair. There are few things he hates worse than feeling disrespected, even though he makes a regular practice of disrespecting everybody else. Sucking in a sharp breath, Ispin around and march back down the hall. Doesn’t matter how old I get, I’ll always be a little girl and he’ll always be my father. And while I may be mouthier than I was when I was a kid, I know when to retreat.

There’s a bite to his voice when he calls my name, reinforcing my decision not to stick around. Yanking open the front door, I burst into the sunlight and stumble straight into a pair of strong, steady arms.

3.Tristan

Once upon a time, our family was close to the Doyles. Dad and Randall were old friends who’d gone to the same posh Catholic summer camp every year as kids and managed to keep in touch as adults. Every few summers, my parents took us south to spend a week or two at the Doyles’ massive estate, which was like something straight out of a gothic movie with its secret passageways and hidden doors. We’d play hide and seek for hours, our games often spilling into the gardens surrounding the house. We’d hit up the tourist shops along River Street, eating just-made fudge, then visit old cemeteries or haunted mansions. Whole days were spent on Tybee Island, swimming until we were wrinkly and sunburned.

Notwithstanding the business aspect of this particular trip, I’m looking forward to hanging out in Savannah again. Especially as an adult. As much as I love my city, a change of scenery couldn’t have come at a better time.

Over the next two days, I methodically make my way through a detailed to-do list, adding even the simplest tasks lest I forget something. My lists, calendars, sticky notes and alarms might seem excessive to some, but they anchor me when my ADHD tries to scatter my focus. I spend the night before my flight packing a suitcase and my duffel, which has all of my gear—gloves that still carry the scent of sweat, two freshsets of wraps. I toss a pair of sneakers in there, along with an empty water bottle. I don’t relish the thought of running in the heat, but giving up my routine is not an option. Hopefully I’ll find a suitable gym while I’m down there.

"You know you got this, right?” Lucky wanders over, peering at my suitcase. He came over with Liam a little while ago, bearing a six pack of my favorite beer and a couple of pizzas.

“You got this!” Liam affirms, flinging pepperoni in his zeal. He’s got a slice of pizza in one hand and the origami dinosaur I just made him in the other.

“Heck yeah, I do.” A smirk tugs at my lips, softening my concentration. “Just because I can’t step into the ring doesn't mean I’ve forgotten how to fight.”

“Exactly.” Lucky claps a hand on my good shoulder, the weight of it grounding. “Although I’m hoping Doyle doesn’t put up much of a fight.” He frowns. “But don’t underestimate him, you know? That fucker’s wily.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” I promise, not too concerned about it.

He hands Liam a paper towel and points to the fallen pepperoni. “Pick that up, please.”

“You should get a dog,” Liam says, swiping at the floor. “Shelby always licks up food.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I love dogs, and I’ve thought about getting a pet, but sometimes it just feels like too much responsibility.

“I’ve been thinking about sending Finn down with you,” Lucky continues.

“Not yet.” I shake my head. “Doyle’s more likely to let his guard down if it’s just me.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I just don’t like the thought of you riding solo down there.” Lucky rubs his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll wait, then. Call me if things start going sideways, though.”

By the timethe sun comes up the next morning, my plane is hurtling down the runway. I watch Boston shrink as we ascend into the sky, thetrees and buildings and still-sleepy roads washed in early morning orange.

Three hours later, I’m leaving Savannah’s tiny airport in a rental, blasting the rented Range Rover’s air conditioner in an attempt to mitigate the humidity and heat. Pulling up navigation, I plug in the directions to my new home, a fancy house in the historic district that belongs to my Aunt Vicki’s friends, Adair and Rob. It’s usually rented out to tourists, but they were happy to do us a favor.

Savannah’s languid charm welcomes me as I glide down its wide, tree-lined avenues. It’s an undeniably pretty city, all laidback Southern elegance with its Spanish moss-draped oaks and antebellum architecture. It’s rich in history and culturally significant, a lot like Boston.

At my navigation’s prompting, I pull into the garage of a cream, ivy-clad Italianate with pale blue trim. I message the owners to let them know I’ve arrived then let myself inside with the keycode. It’s a beautiful house, too big for just one person, but I’m not complaining.

I peek into the kitchen, pleased to see a bottle of wine and a welcome basket on the counter. Closer inspection shows me it’s overflowing with fancy chocolates, cookies from a local bakery, fresh fruit and mixed nuts. I have a wicked sweet tooth, so this comes in clutch. There’s a handwritten note propped against the wine, encouraging me to enjoy my stay, along with a list of things to do in the area. Forsyth Park is just a block away. Perfect for morning runs. I add a reminder to my phone to find a local boxing gym, too.

Upstairs, I pick the first bedroom I see—a spacious, sun-lit room dominated by a large, antique four-poster bed. Resting my bags on the settee, I strip off my already-sweaty clothes and take the first of what’s sure to be a ton of showers. Lucky and Maeve used to poke fun at my obsession with bathing, but I can’t help it. For someone who loves rolling around a jiu jitsu mat and working out until I’m drenched, I really hate feeling dirty.

Ambling back out to the hallway, I descend the curved staircase and call Kenny, our local broker, to make dinner plans. A quick check of my phone’s map app shows me that I’m actually pretty close to the Doyles’ in-town mansion. Not surprising, as Savannah isn’t that big. I’m tempted to pass by, but there’ll be time for that later.

Instead, I lace up my sneakers and go for a run. I’ve got a couple of hours to kill.

With nightfall drapingthe city in shadows, I head to my meeting with Kenny. The air’s thick with the promise of rain, the charged atmosphere mirroring the anticipation coiling in my gut. Finding street parking, I blend into the crowd moving down River Street, past a live jazz set and then the blues, the sugary scents of caramel and fudge blending with the savory aromas floating from the restaurants dotting the cobblestone street.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, sidestepping a drunk couple weaving by in the opposite direction. Spying the seafood restaurant Kenny told me about just ahead, I cross over and duck inside.

The hostess leads me upstairs to a bustling patio overlooking the river, where Kenny waves at me from a corner table. We’ve never met, but I recognize him from pictures. Kenny’s in his sixties, with the wide, solid look of a guy who once played sports and thinning hair that’s more gray than blond.

“Tristan Kelly. Well, if you don’t look just like your daddy,” he drawls, rising to shake my hand. His voice is low, genial, his smile amused. “Your brother, too.”

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