Page 101 of Bourbon and Secrets

I lean against the chair to her right and level with her. “You’ve put all your faith into the FBI figuring this out and making sure the people who hurt you and your family will end up getting justice. I don’t like those odds.” She understands racing and gambling, and I see when what I’m saying clicks in her mind. “If all of this doesn’t end how you want it”—I hand her Murray’s card—“now you have another option.”

She looks down at it, not convinced. “This isn’t going to fix anything. This would create a mess.”

“Sometimes you need to make a mess in order to make things right.”

“I’ve already made bad calls here, Linc,” she says, tilting her head and turning over the reporter’s business card, her tone shifting. “I kept things from my sister, from my mom. And Cortez. The fucking FBI is leaning on me. I don’t care about anything more than making Waz pay for what he’s done.” She chokes back a sob. “And it’s gotten?—”

I give her a Foxx shoulder squeeze and cut her off. “I know what it feels like to be stuck. To feel like you don’t have any other choices in doing what someone else wants. Doing the right thing sometimes is as simple as protecting the people we love.” I look at the card she’s holding, tapping it once. “That’s another way.”

She searches my face for what I’m really saying. And then she lets out a breathy laugh. “You love her,” she says, like it isn’t something she had considered.

My chest warms as I smile. “I protect what’s mine, Maggie. And that includes Faye now.”

She looks down at her nails, reminding me of Lark when she gets into her head.

“You had to keep a secret for a long time. I know how that can feel like you’re drowning in it. But you’re strong, Maggie. Just like your sister. And now you’re in a position where you hold all the cards. If it gets too dangerous for you. For her.” I look at thebusiness card in her hand once more, before I step away. “That right there is your failsafe.”

Chapter 36

Faye

Clive hitsthe bass at the same time that Marshall on trumpet digs in and throws the best solo I’ve heard in a really long time. For as much as Griz wanted to badmouth these guys, they’re some of the best jazz players I’ve ever had the pleasure of performing with. The kick of the piano riff is the perfect spot in the song to finish the number.

With soft pink ostrich feather fans outstretched above and below me, I move around the room as the spotlight follows. The satin red slip dress scoops low enough that if I tip my hips forward and bend, the audience is teased with glitter-brushed cleavage and the very tops of my rhinestone tassels. I was going for an old Hollywood look, as usual, but tonight deserved a little extra glam. In the velvet loveseats tucked into the corner, Prue and Romey shimmy their shoulders in time with the music as Marla sips her draft beer. Marla isn’t smiling, but she’s been dropping in a few loud whistles between lulls in the music.

I pop my hips toward the bar, raising my arms gracefully while the feathered fans rotate in each hand. Tonight’s song is the bluesy rendition of Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good,” which is exactly how I’m feeling, knowing there is a plan in play.

When I hop up onto the bar as directed, a shot of bourbon waits for me. After the chatter about mine and Lincoln’s little show at the rodeo after party, Hadley thought it would be a good idea to add in bourbon at the end of the night.

So tonight, with the band readying the final few notes, I hold up my shot of bourbon as the jazz singer says, “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve been a wonderful audience. Cheers to Foxx Bourbon for the last round, always on them.” She tips her glass toward the door, and there he is. Lincoln Foxx, looking like a fantasy, perfectly assembled in black, with a smirk painted across his lips, and dimples pinched, doing maximum damage to every pair of panties watching. His ocean eyes are focused on the only thing he sees: me.

As I wait for the audience to tip theirs back before I follow, another familiar face in the crowd catches my attention. With his attention fixed on me, Wheeler Finch sips a glass of port, relaxed back in his seat. Alone. Hadley has been very clear that Waz isn’t allowed at Midnight Proof. He’d gotten himself in enough trouble, and she’d asked her father to keep him away. But I hadn’t expected Wheeler to be here either for some reason. I haven’t seen him at a single one of my shows since I started here.

Tonight, of all nights, seems like a bad coincidence. A cool shiver rushes up my back, and I keep my smile from faltering, actively trying to avoid looking back his way again.

Keeping up with the finale, I stand on the bar and pour my shot of bourbon with flair. As soon as the long pour goes down my throat, Hadley knows to pull the string on the back of my dress, and it falls away as I give my hips an exaggerated twerk. My hiked-high satin shorts are cut so my ass cheeks get theproper attention, while the rhinestone covers accentuate each breast, giving the crowd the finale they’ve been panting for. I move my shoulders and hips so that my entire body shimmies in time with the drummer hitting the cymbals, the trumpet carrying out the last note. It’s the kind of show that people don’t forget.

When I hop down from the bar, I move with quick steps down the hallway toward the small dressing room that Hadley converted from a storage closet. Before I can even start to unbuckle my heels, there’s a tap at the door as it opens. “Hey, Peach.”

I release a silent sigh of relief that it’s him. As he walks in, I’m smiling wide, and he doesn’t stop until his arms wrap around me and his lips press just below my ear. “Mmm, you smell like my bourbon.”

Taking a deep breath of him, I love the way it feels to be in his arms—the warm scent of toasted oak and tartness like a bourbon soaked cherry consuming my senses. It’s delicious.

“I didn’t think you would be here tonight.” I glance at the clock that reads just after midnight. “Who’s with the girls?”

“They opted for an evening with Griz to learn the harmonica. Lily told him she wanted to try to read his palm for him.” He smiles, moving his hands to my hips as he looks at me. “And I don’t like missing you out there?—”

I cut him off with a kiss, too worked up about what’s happening next tonight. Moaning against my mouth, he holds on to me tighter, kissing me thoroughly—just what I needed.

The clearing of someone’s throat and a knock on the open door interrupts, and we break apart.

“Faye, just wanted to see if we were still going to have that drink,” Maggie says confidently, leaning against the doorframe.

There’s no plan for drinks, but she’s figuring out a way to get Lincoln out of the fray. He isn’t supposed to be here, and sinceI’m trying to keep him away from the plan, he probably thinks he’ll be taking me home now that my performance is over.

But Maggie and I have an important task to complete tonight, one that he’ll find out about later if everything goes smoothly.

Within the next hour, we’ll be at Finch & King stables, planting the rest of the surveillance cameras before the staff arrives for the 5 a.m. training. I had already gone on a Finch & King stables tour, which, as I had assumed, was a well-oiled machine. Tours run frequently, even in the winter months, taking groups through the stables, feeding horses, and observing the vast landscape peppered with horses on their paddocks tours. It’s the mask for what happens behind the curtain. The mistreatment and criminal-level manipulation of an industry that my sister and I are determined to expose.

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