Page 4 of All Along The Watchtower

Rios huffed a laugh. “You do know you’re the only one of us with a woman, right? Jace and I have… friends at various ports of call, but nothing serious. And I’m not sure Ford has even hadthatin the past ten years.”

All eyes turned to me.

“What? Because I don’t talk about my love life, you assume I don’t have one?”

“Yes,” they all chorused.

“Jackasses,” I muttered. Though they weren’t entirely wrong. I’d been a serial monogamist throughout college before I’d finally called it quits with my on-again-off-again girlfriend, Emily. Since then, I’d tried the casual thing occasionally, but those kinds of hookups left me feeling hollow. There were women I knew in the service who’d have been fine with a friends-with-benefits sort of arrangement, but I couldn’t do that, either. I wanted permanence, and until I met a woman who made me see the potential for that, I didn’t see the point of wasting everyone’s time.

My friends were all grinning as Nadia returned with our drinks. I took a deeper swallow of the bourbon than I probablyshould have. It burned its way down my throat, dissolving the knot that seemed permanently lodged there whenever I came home.

Rios pinned me with a look. “Have you tried to talk to her on this trip?”

Though I’d never confessed to any of them what had gone down that terrible summer, I knew they meant Bree. There wasn’t any hiding the fact that she loathed me now. Glancing down into the warm golden liquid in my glass, I shook my head. “No. She made her position about me very clear, and I have to respect that.”

I’d fucked up the best thing in my life, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to outrun that regret.

It was something I was still trying to figure out how to live with.

CHAPTER 2

BREE

I rolled silverware into napkins while Monty waved his hands with his customary dramatic flair, nearly knocking over the flight of experimental brews lined up between us.

“Darlin’, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried a sour with blood orange and hibiscus. It’s absolutely divine.” He lifted one of the small glasses, holding it up to the pendant lights like he was examining a precious gem. “Though I suppose we should probably give it a more marketable name than ‘Divine.’”

“Your last divine creation was that chocolate porter that tasted like burnt tires.” I snatched the glass before he could spill it. The brew had a lovely rose-gold color, and the aroma wasn’t half bad.

“That porter was ahead of its time.” Monty pressed a hand to his chest. “And Peter loved it.”

“Peter loves you. He’d drink motor oil if you served it to him.” What I wouldn’t give for a partner with that kind of devotion. I credited my brewmaster and his husband for the fact that I hadn’t one hundred percent given up on true love. I’d only given up about eighty-five percent.

“True.” A dreamy smile crossed Monty’s fine-boned face. “That man is a saint. Unlike my mother, who still can’t believeher only son is ‘wasting his degree’ making beer instead of practicing law in Charleston.”

“And God love you for it.” I took a sip of the sour. The tartness hit first, followed by citrus notes and a subtle floral finish. “Okay, you might be onto something with this one.”

“Of course I am. When are you going to learn to trust my genius?” He leaned against the bar, waggling his perfectly groomed eyebrows. “Now, what shall we call it?”

As it was January and the slow season, the Tuesday night crowd was thin—just a few regulars at the far end of the bar and a couple of tourists sharing a pizza in the corner. I had time to play this game. “Island Sunset?”

“Too basic.” Monty wrinkled his nose. “This is art in a glass, sugar. It needs something with more punch.”

“Hibiscus Hurricane?”

“Better, but still not quite there.” He grabbed a cocktail napkin and started scribbling. “What about... Blood Orange Bombshell?”

A gravelly laugh erupted from the end of the bar. “Sounds like what Duck’s ex-wife used to call herself,” Wally called out.

“Watch it, Briggs.” Duck shifted on his barstool. “That woman was a natural redhead.”

“What?” Milt cupped his ear. “Who’s dead?”

“Nobody’s dead,” Pop shouted, then turned to me. “How about calling it ‘Sunset Strip?’”

I poured them each a taster. “Pop, that sounds like a gentleman’s club.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Cliff grabbed his glass. “Might boost sales.”

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