Page 15 of Bourbon and Lies

Hadley barks out a laugh and slings her arm around my shoulders. “Well, it looks like you might be seeing even more of her since she just moved into the cottage across from your place.”

The speed at which his eyebrows raise and lips part is priceless.

I smile with satisfaction.

Lincoln leans closer and quietly asks, “That true? You and Ace?”

There isn’t anything discreet about him asking since Hadley and Grant are waiting on the answer and the fact that a few workers behind Grant have started paying attention to this exchange. Grant gives his brother a glare and Hadley can't seem to tame her smug smile.

This is going to be the beginning of my story in this town. The gossip will flow from this interaction alone, so I want to be crystal clear: what I’m doing here is none of their business.

“The last time I checked, Hadley,” I say loudly while meeting Grant’s eyes, “what a woman does with her body, whether it’s with or without a partner, is nobody else's business but her own, right?”

“I knew I was going to love you,” she laughs out. “And yeah, Laney. Sounds about right to me.” She holds out her arm as a signal for me to loop mine in hers.

When we start to walk away, I pause and look at Grant from head to toe. I’ve been underestimated, overpromised, and left to pick up the pieces of a life that I don’t recognize. He might be beautiful, but I’m not going to be intimidated. Been there, donethat, wouldn’t recommend. “Don’t assume you know anything about me,cowboy. Because I’ll tell you right now, you’re going to end up being wrong.”

“Not a cowboy, remember?” he shouts back at me, watching as I go.

“Might want to consider wearing a different shirt, then.” His chambray shirt looks damn good. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, faded and worn. As a man in Manhattan, he would have been chasing or starting a trend.

I shift my eyes to Hadley. “Want to do that tasting now?”

“Laney,” Grant calls out.

When I turn back toward him, he looks like he’s going to apologize, but instead, he stands there, the stoic look masking his handsome face, staying silent.

“My name sounds good coming out of your mouth like that.”

I raise my eyebrows to challenge him to say something—go ahead,try to have the last word, cowboy.As I look over my shoulder at him one more time, I realize I’ve just figured out two very important things: I’ve definitely managed to piss off Grant Foxx just by existing in his small town. And I think I like it.

Chapter 9

Grant

“You believe that nonsense?”Del asks, hunched over his slab of prime rib. Our dinners at Hooch’s after his bowling league nights were a coincidence at first. A year had gone by after his daughter had been taken from us, and I still hadn’t found the backbone to face him. I didn’t get to her in time, and that wasn’t something I wanted to forgive or gloss over. He was my friend, and I couldn’t bring myself to talk about her and remember her. But Del couldn’t stop talking about her. He wasn’t ready to let people forget her.

Fiona’s death was ruled a homicide by a meth-head junkie found about a mile from the old tobacco farm. An old farmhand who had worked there years prior was squatting and tweaked out when the cops arrived. It had nothing to do with human trafficking or a drug ring. Or so the story was spun. Apparently, the intel was bad, and it ended in unnecessary loss of life. The case was closed before the grass started growing on her grave. None of it sat right. I left the force a month later.

I look up at the flat screen behind the bar. “No, I missed it.” But the truth is, I’m still thinking about the woman who crashed my day.“My name sounds good coming out of your mouth like that.”I honestly still can’t believe she said that.

But Del keeps talking, and eventually I stop thinking about those pretty lips and the way she stood in the middle of my workplace dishing attitude right back to me. “What they’re not saying is that this guy is some kind of ghost. My buddy up in New York says that somehow his last vic gets out of the storage facility she was being held in and escapes. Fire department shows up on the scene first and holds the guy. NYPD arrests him, and based on all the evidence they found, they’re looking to pin a half dozen missing persons on him. Not many vics because he savors them. You believe that fucked-up shit?”

“Jesus Christ,” I huff out. “This is what you and your FBI buddies talk about?”

He takes a fry from my plate. “Yeah. And the shit season the Yanks are going to have.” He cuts into his rare cut, and over a big bite, says, “That perp, though, there’s no pattern. It’s unclear if there are more locations—besides that one spot. It’s a damn nightmare up there.”

“Thought most of your guys would be retired?” I ask. Del knows everyone. It’s in his nature to ask questions and be the friendly guy. He always told me the bad-cop schtick was bullshit. You always got better details with honey than spit. “Retired or dead, but what the hell else are we talkin’ about besides cases and sports?”

“You boys need a refill?” Marla interrupts. She’s already pouring the pitcher of Ale-8 into our mugs. It’s one of four options at Hooch’s: water, bourbon, coffee, or Ale-8.

Del smiles at her. “Thanks, Marla.”

“You remember when Fi used to only let me put on football or Unsolved Mysteries,” Marla reminisces.

My throat tightens hearing her name. Five years and it’s still like a punch to the gut. The undercurrent of feeling like if I had only driven faster, gotten there sooner, she would have had backup. I tune out the rest of the conversation until Del nudges my arm.

“Anyway, the perp, from up north, the girl who survived, there were patches of her skin peeled off. The sick fuck wasn’t just torturing and killing them. He was eating them. Found other skins that were brining. Like he was pickling them.”

---