Page 6 of Promise Not To Fall

1 part Knob Creek® bourbon

1 part Sailor Jerry® spiced rum

1 tsp pumpkin puree

¼ part maple syrup

1 dash orange bitters

Juice of 1 lime wedge

2 parts ginger beer

Put all ingredients except ginger beer in a mixing glass

Add ice and shake with mixing tin to break up puree

Strain into double rocks glass over fresh ice

Top with ginger beer

If desired, garnish with grated nutmeg

We land in Miami around noon, but still have another thirty-five-minute flight to Nassau. That’s about the time Rylee starts pushing the alcohol on me. She knows me pretty well. The more alcohol I have, the less likely I am to cause a scene.

“Don’t act like a controlling bitch,” she reminds me.

I roll my eyes and slouch toward the flimsy side of the plane that’s supposed to hold me in, with my rum and Coke in hand. People just don’t understand the difference between controlling and organized. There is a difference.

When we land in Nassau, it’s really no surprise that I’m drunk and sweating. My first words are. “It’s fucking hot.”

A light wind gently fluffs Rylee’s hair as she stands beside me and smiles, sweeping her hands over it. “We live in Phoenix. How is this hot to us?” She lets out a laugh and looks at me, glowing with sweat.

Call me a baby, but humidity is not something I enjoy. I’ve lived in Arizona my entire life. Heat doesn’t bother me. Feeling like I’ve peed my pants because my crotch is sweating, that fucking bothers me. Nothing good comes from a sweaty vagina.

“Will you just stop complaining?” Wesley glares at me. “You’re in paradise. Don’t be an asshole the entire time.”

That isn’t the first time Wesley has called me an asshole. I’m almost positive it won’t be the last on this trip, either. We never get along. As you can tell. Silently I hope he gets eaten by a shark or kidnapped by a Bahamian drug cartel.

A dark-skinned man in a light blue shirt smiles at me as we carry our bags from the runway to a car waiting for us. “Welcome to the Bahamas! Enjoy your stay.”

I smile at him and gesture with a flick of my head toward the vehicle. “Does that car have air conditioning?”

He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Jesus.”

The drive through town, on the wrong side of the road, and over to Paradise Island is interesting. Our windows are down, because guess fucking what? Wesley refuses to roll his up, so it’s pointless to use the air conditioning. Jerk.

Warm, sticky air assaults my already pink cheeks, and it never fails that when the car stops, men approach the car. They warn you as soon as you leave the plane about the drugs and how they’re on every corner. They weren’t lying.

Just as we pass the straw market, I’m offered the first of many joints.

“You want some good stuff, little lady?”

I look at the driver. He isn’t paying any mind, and Rylee and Wesley are occupied.

“Is it legal here?” I know nothing about the drug laws here, and though I’m not into drugs, the thought’s intriguing to me. Rylee did say I needed to loosen up, didn’t she?

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