Page 40 of Bourbon and Secrets

The bowl of water and small bucket of treats next to the front double doors has me tying Kit’s leash to the iron loop connected to the building.

“Stay here, pretty girl.” I give her a stern look. “And behave yourself. I’ll let you have one of those yummy bones we boughtif you take a nap for me.” The sidewalk is dry, and the sunshine must have warmed it, because the moment I step away, she lies down and rolls onto her back, making me chuckle.

The twangy echo of Dolly Parton laying down her laws, along with blow dryers whirring, overpower the bell on the door when I walk into Teasers. The smells of burning hair and acetone are faint, but the environment knocks me right back to plenty of haircuts and one horrific perm from when I was eleven.

“Holy fiddle shits, Romey, are you seeing what I’m seein’?

I smile at the familiar face adorned with a thick cat-eye and a front bump that would put any 1950’s pin-up to shame. I couldn’t tell you how old Maeve was, just that she’s looked the same as the day I met her.

Romey’s mouth opens mid-bite of something that looks like ambrosia.

“Maeve, hi—” I barely get the words out when she holds my hands, arms extended, and twirls me around like a damn show pony.

“Ladies!” she squeals, and the busy shop quiets. “Look at what the winter winds dragged in...”

I give a tight-lipped smile at her quirked eyebrow. If that face doesn’t say it all—where the fuck have you been? So nice of you to grace us with your presence, and all of that. I knew I’d surprise a few people and that the welcome was going to be dicey, so I might as well lean into it now that I’m getting some more positive reception. Stepping inside Teasers was like ripping off the band-aid.

“Hi, it’s nice to see all of you.” I take a deep breath. All eyes on me and working a crowd is my strong suit. However, I usually have music, feathers, and sequins to help.

“I would ask what you’re doing in here, but those roots are looking a bit longer than what I would consider natural,” Maeve says as she fingers through my hair. “I’m thinking some thickhighlights, a glaze, maybe help out with that little bit of fuzz above your lip. Unless you’re only here to ask if we’ve seen Maggie.” She raises her eyebrows and puts her hands on her hips in the best Wonder Woman stance I’ve seen in a long time. Only this one’s wearing Carhartt pants, cowgirl boots, and a crop top that reads:Kentucky’s Finestacross the chest. She’s tiny, but her attitude makes up for it.

“The shop looks really great, Maeve. And if you have time, I’d love a refresh,” I say with a warm smile.

I look around the place as it busies up again after the screeching-record stop from when I came in.

“Alright, Faye, would you like a mimosa, bloody, or just some sparkling water?”

I blink at Romey, who’s nudging me to follow her to the back of the shop, where a nice little bar setup awaits next to four wingback floral chairs. A couple of younger hairdressers ignore the little show and keep working, but I take note of the other people here.

Some familiar faces—a smiling and waving Prue, Fiasco’s librarian, Tonya and Darla, both secretaries to the town council, and Mary, who worked as a lunch aide at Fiasco Elementary. All semi-retired by now, I would imagine, and not too far from how old my mom would be. They were her friends.

The salon has been upgraded with plenty of new equipment since the last time I was here. Modern with a country flair. Whitewash with some pretty florals and black wrought-iron worked in where necessary—the mirrors, sconces on walls, and around the coffee and bar station. It’s a far cry from the small town salon I remember.

“No bourbon?” I tsk. “Breaking the cardinal rule of Fiasco, Romey.”

She smiles at me. “What do you know about Fiasco anymore, darlin’?” The jab isn’t unexpected. She eyes the leather strapsthat wrap around my shoulders and torso, a typical place that someone would hold a gun, but I like it for the pure contrast of something edgy paired with a simple white thermal shirt and well-fitted jeans. She doesn’t need to know that I have a small blade stuffed into the side of my boot, pepper spray with marker ink, and a small stun-gun in the secret pocket of my bag.

Romey clears her throat after she looks at something over my shoulder—likely her sister telling her to quit the shit. “The mimosa can also be dirty with a little shot of bourbon, a splash of orange, and topped with prosecco.” She winks as she pulls a mason jar glass.

The best way to get people to answer questions is to get them to start talking about themselves or gossip. It’s not a tactic, rather a little piece of common sense I had picked up long before I ever left Fiasco.

I clear my throat. “I’m guessing you heard about Maggie?”

“Oh, honey, your sister has been playing with the wrong crowds for a while now. That’s nothing new.” I hate hearing this again from someone else.

Everything’s unsettled when it comes to my sister.If I hadn’t left...

Maeve comes up behind me and loops her arm around mine. “You’ve been gone a while, sweetheart.” Taking a pause, she hands me the thin black wrap to drape around me as I take a seat in her chair. “Maggie is not—” She sniffs out a breath. “Your sister has a gambling problem. And the company she keeps...well, I’m not surprised...”

Maggie is dead set on me knowing I’m not welcome, but it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme. She’s been hurt and I won’t let something like that happen again.

I brace myself when I ask, “Who?”

Prue cuts in, “Waz King, for starters. Saw them having an argument a couple weeks ago.” Hearing his name soured mystomach. I didn’t trust anyone with the last name King, never mind when it was associated with my sister.

Why would she be involved with him in any way?I buried his brotherTullis in a cornfield five years ago. There should be no reason why my sister is hanging around with, never mind arguing with, Waz King.

Dammit, Maggie.

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