Page 92 of Whiskey Kisses

Anyway, I can’t wait to show Tristan. He was so engrossed when we found all this stuff, but with Daddy’s death and the investigation that’s now unfolding, we haven’t really had the bandwidth to deal with them. Until this morning, anyway, when I picked them up in a desperate bid for distraction.

My phone chirps again, and I dig around until I find it. It’s Opal, asking how I’m doing. Sighing, I roll over, putting my phone on my chest. How am I doing? Well, it’s just past noon and I’m still in bed. The blackout curtains we put up are pulled tight, and the blinds are closed, creating an artificial night. I’m sure it’s a lovely day—I’ve always felt likeautumn is my season—but not even the allure of its brilliant blue skies and cold air are enough to draw me out. I don’t want to be outside. I don’t even want to be out of bed. I want to be here, where it’s quiet and safe and I can numb out.

I spoke to Maribelle briefly this morning. I didn’t really want to talk to her, but something kept pulling on me to call, so I finally did. She was subdued, but I could tell she’d been crying. She’d been the one to identify Daddy’s body, a task I wouldn’t have wished on anyone. We agreed to touch base again soon, to figure out the funeral, Daddy’s estate, and everything else that was too difficult to deal with at the moment. It was, ironically, the most civil conversation we’d had in a long time.

I let my eyes close, only to open them a second later at the faint sound of a car pulling up the drive. Car doors, footsteps on gravel, and then the front door, opening and closing. Male voices, one that sounds like Tristan. A tiny fissure cracks in my chest, hope streaming in like sunshine. He couldn’t be back already, could he? He said he had lots to do today, meetings and errands and whatever else he does when he’s not with me. I look at my phone again for the time, even though I just looked at it. 12:17 p.m.

No one comes upstairs, though, and Tristan would have, so maybe he’s not home yet after all. My stomach growls, and I’m abruptly tired of being in bed so I get up. After a brief shower, I pull on one of Tristan’s hoodies and a pair of soft, worn leggings that’ve seen better days, but I just can’t bring myself to toss. I grab my cushiest socks—these hardwood floors can get uncomfortably cold—and head downstairs. Timmy’s not in the living room, his usual haunt, so I follow the voices into the kitchen where Timmy, Alex, Malachi, Finn and Tristan are having an extremely loud, very animated discussion about?—

Alex, who’s leaning against the counter, makes eye contact with me as I enter the room. He nods his chin at me, and Tristan, who’s ranting angrily aboutthose dumb fucksshuts up midsentence, glancing back over his shoulder. His face is bruised, his left eye bloodshot, puffy, and swollen.

My heart drops to the floor. Gasping, I hurry into the kitchen and insert myself into the middle of their huddle, taking his face in my hands. “What happened to you?”

He winces, peeling off my hands and holding them between us instead. “Cole happened.”

“What?” I shake my head. “Why?”

He, Alex, and Finn recount the story, from the moment Cole and his crew rolled up on them in the distillery’s parking lot and took Tristan to when they dropped him off again, about an hour and a half later. “Such a pussy,” Finn finishes with a venomous laugh. “He couldn’t get revenge until he had Daddy and plenty of backup nearby.”

They all snicker, but dread’s filling me like a boat taking on water. Tristan’s the better fighter, obviously, but he was severely outnumbered today and trapped on enemy soil. And of course, Cole sucker punched Tristan—he’s always fought dirty, in every way that a person can. Just thinking about what could’ve happened today terrifies me and pisses me off so much I want to cry again, andI’mso tired of crying.

I’m tired of feeling helpless.

Tristan pulls me into his chest. “Hey, come on. I’m fine. He saw his chance and took it, that’s all.”

“He shouldn’t have taken it—he shouldn’t have taken you at all!” I sniffle into his wrinkled, blue dress shirt.

The huddle breaks up as the boys start rooting around the kitchen for food, and Timmy plops down at the table with rolling papers and a little jar of weed. Nothing like a sobbing girl to ruin the vibe, I guess.

“Yeah well, it won’t happen again,” he promises, stroking his hand down my ponytail. “They don’t realize it yet, but they’ve opened up a nasty can of worms.”

I pull back to look up at him. “What d’you mean?”

One side of his mouth tugs up. “It means I’ve been trying to keep it classy, but that’s done now. My parents are flying down tomorrow with some of their best.”

“Your parents?” I echo.

He nods. “My mom wanted to come and spend some time with you. She doesn’t like you being here by yourself while I’m out, especially after what happened to your dad.”

A fresh course of tears wells up, and I duck my head, wiping my eyes. “That’s sweet,” I whisper. “I’m not really by myself, though. Timmy’s here …”

“You need more than Timmy,” he says, his eyes tender as he lifts mychin. “He’s great, but Mom’s different. She’ll take care of you. Shit, she’ll take care of everybody. Dad’s coming because he doesn’t want Mom coming by herself.”

Guilt worms its way into my consciousness like a flesh-eating virus. “They’re coming here because I wouldn’t go up there, aren’t they? To Boston?”

“Nah, they understand why you need to stick around right now.” I chew my lip, unconvinced, but he dips down and gives me a quick kiss. “Don’t get too in your head about it. My parents are tough as shit, and they don’t do anything they don’t wanna do.”

“Sounds like you.” I smile weakly.

“Who do you think I get it from?” He runs his hands over my hips, squeezing. “Anyway, you’re not the only reason they’re coming. Dad wants to help me handle this situation with the Deschamps before it escalates any further.”

Dread tightens the knot in my stomach. How can things get worse when they’re already this bad? “Are you going to start making payments?”

Tristan’s eyes darken. “Now, why would I do a silly thing like that?”

It’s been over a decade,but Tristan’s parents are the same attractive, elegant couple I remember from childhood. Owen’s tall, ruddy and handsome, his sleek black hair now peppered with gray. Tristan inherited those bright green, perpetually amused eyes from him. Sloane is petite; I didn’t realize this when I was small because she was taller than me but now, I tower over her. She has quietly intense gray eyes that are difficult to look away from and wavy, brown hair that’s shot through with streaks of silver.

They bustle into the living room, barely having cast off their coats and shoes and suitcases before enveloping me in a hug so warm that, once again, I have the urge to cry. Tristan’s been so good with me, and so has Opal, accepting of and careful with my feelings, but the Kellys just feel sosafe. I haven’t felt parental love like this since my mother died.

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