Page 24 of Bourbon and Lies

“Ace. Come on. It’s a weird fucking situation. Unless you were sneaking into her place without my knowledge, the girl didn’t leave that one-room cottage all week long. And it doesn't look like you two are into each other.” I rest one hand on my hip and drag the other across the scruff on my jaw. “Unless I’m losing my edge and totally misread?—”

“You like her.”

“I don’t know her. And the whole point is, aside from fucking her, neither do you.”

“So what?”

I give him a deadpan glare.

“I didn’t, by the way.” He clears his throat. “Nothing happened between us if that’s what has you so pissed off.” Then he gives me a knowing smile.

I exhale and try my best to school the relief I feel at hearing that. “Then why help her? Who is she?” My brother doesn’t open his door to people. He isn’t the nicest guy. He’s good to his family. But other people? Not so much. We’ve had plenty of disagreements over the years about the lines he calls gray and the ones I referred to as the law.

I know when he shrugs one shoulder that it’s all I’m going to get. And quite frankly, I don’t want to unpack my feelings with him as my audience any longer.

I walk out the side door and down the pathway to my place. It only takes a few feet before I hear Julep shooting out the dog door behind me to catch up. I make up my mind before I even make it past the front porch that it doesn’t matter if she was involved with my brother or not.

The only interest I have in Laney Young is keeping my distance.

Chapter 12

Laney

“The tastings wereout of order. We wanted to start with the 1936 blend and then work our way forward,” the PR person from Women in Whiskey said as we finished cleaning up. I tried to keep my attention on her and Lincoln, but I couldn’t help but glance at Grant. There was no way he could overhear this conversation from where he was walking with his team, but I felt embarrassed.

I realized I messed up the moment I heard the chairwoman describe the color. The bourbon being swirled wasn’t an almond color like she described, but a deep caramel. Just like the one after that wasn’t the “white dog” raw, unaged whiskey that went into the barrels. White dog probably should have been clear and not the darkest bourbon that was poured. It was a simple mistake for someone new, but to me, it felt like a failure. I had flawlessly handled everything for my events. The biggest requests executed perfectly, down to the tiniest details without a hiccup. Screwing up a luncheon for fifty respected women inthe bourbon industry was a blow to my ego. But it stung more, knowing that Grant was aware of what was going on. He wasn’t my boss—not directly, at least—but I still wanted to show him I was more than capable of doing this. It was the first time this week that he even looked at me. After dinner last week, he didn’t care what I was doing here anymore. He ignored my presence. I also didn’t want Ace hearing about this and think he’d made a massive mistake by offering me this job.

When the conversation wrapped, Lincoln grabbed a bottle and two glasses from behind the bar.

“Are you going to fire me?”

Lincoln smiled, calm as can be. “Not yet.”

“You should have her pour some rounds with the tour guides at closing time each day.” Griz winked at me from the end of the tasting bar. I hadn’t even realized he was there.

Lincoln tilted his head, thinking through it. “I owe you a little more time to learn all of this. I shouldn’t have just assumed you knew what they expected. There are some folks that come here and want to lazily enjoy some bourbon and our vibe. But there are plenty of others that take this very seriously. Those ladies are the serious bunch.” He leaned in closer. “Truthfully, the head chairwoman is not my biggest fan. She wanted a second date a year ago, and I didn’t. It was a whole thing.” With a wince, he batted at the air in front of him.

That was enough to push me to know more. I wasn’t someone who accepted mess-ups like that and shrugged it off. So, every evening since, right before the last tour of the day, I wrap up my emails and I tag along. I listen to the history of the brand. The nuances of choosing the right mash bill, why Foxx is different, and then I usually help with pours behind the bar. Sometimes, I’ll make a Foxx old fashioned or two, but usually, it’s a flight of their bourbon that ranges in a series of years they were made.

“Put it in storage,” the tour manager yells out to the barback behind me. It shouldn’t have pulled my attention, since I’m busy helping clean up. But it does, and I become fixated on the wordstorage.

That’s all it takes to go barreling down the rabbit hole of a memory, leaving me crawling out the other side feeling anxious and unsettled. It instantly makes me think of the storage facility back in New York. I’ve realized that loud, unexpected sounds make me nervous and urge me to walk faster, maybe even to run. But a simple word, and I felt uneasy? Over and over again. I hated this.

How am I going to live in this bubble? Just when I start to forget about what happened, I’m sucked right back in. I start thinking about the what ifs. What if I hadn’t pulled the fire alarm? What if I hadn’t heard her scream?

I asked Bea, “Am I in any danger?” and she didn’t give me a straight answer.

“This case isn’t wrapped up. I’m telling you all of this because you’re smart, Laney. Be selfish with who you allow to know the real you. The truth makes you vulnerable, and it’s in your best interest to keep it to yourself. Lies will keep you safe.”

Now that my day’s over, I can’t go back to my cottage and stew. I need to work out the nerves somehow, so I start walking. I used to walk everywhere. Streets and avenues. City blocks that bled into new neighborhoods were nothing compared to traipsing through horse paddocks and the flat fields of Kentucky. But it worked just the same.

By the time I notice how far I’ve gone, I’m feeling better. I like it here. The way it feels to wander without a destination. To feel the stagnant humidity blanketing my skin, smell the sweet and tangy air when the wind remembers it has a purpose. It’s all enough to be present and not pay attention to what’s behind me.

It’s also probably why I haven’t noticed the dark sky looming overhead, or registered the low rumble in the distance that wasn’t a loud muffler or big truck driving by. The whirl of a subway beneath rickety grates, blaring fire engines, and horns honking from impatient cab drivers, my ears had been trained to mute it all. Everything is so quiet here. Especially the way the atmosphere changes. It’s instant. Suddenly, rain pelts down so fast it looks like it’s rushing down sideways.

When I reach the stables, they’re cool and dry. If they didn’t smell like hay and echo with the sounds of their occupants, I’d think they were another vacant dwelling on the Foxx property.

The lights are on and every stall is occupied with horses, all curious about me as I make my way down the center. Hay spills into the main drag, and I find a large fridge next to a worn leather couch at the end. It’s the only spot that depicts humans and not just horses who’ve spent time in this space. I pluck a handful of peppermint candies from the overflowing bowl perched on top. Mint isn’t my top choice as far as candies go, but I take them anyway. With a sigh, I start walking slowly back down the center aisle and read the names of each horse above their doors.