Page 5 of The Bourbon Bet
So it’s also another morning, another performance.
The muted clacking of computer keyboards and the low hum of conversation fill the air, underscored by the soft, distant ringing of phones. The head receptionist nods when I enter and rises from his seat behind a solid, wide desk. “Good morning, Mr. Blackstone.”
“Morning, Sam,” I reply. “Please call Hanna and have her pull the Tobar account. And make sure the Derby Festival sponsorship materials are ready for my review by this afternoon.” The Kentucky Derby Festival’s Thunder Over Louisville was coming up in five weeks, officially kicking off the two-week countdown to Derby Day. We must have everything in order.
“Right away, sir.” Sam hands me a sheet of paper, the phone already at his ear.
I wave a thanks, heading to a meeting at the far end of the building. Entering the windowed hallway, my steps slow to a stop, as I squint at the bright sunlight. To the west, lush green lawns stretch into the distance, scattered with rickhouses. They sprawl across the lawn like sentinels—stark, unyielding.
My gaze fixes on one particular rickhouse, and memories leak through its wooden walls like aged spirits, sharp and burning. I’m pulled back to that summer when my father had all three of us Blackstone kids leading tours. It had been both terrible and marvelous. We’d had to deliver the same spiel four to five times a day for three months straight. That part was torture, but in between the tours, we were free to do as we pleased. And we made the most of it, flirting with visitors and employees, playing pranks on each other, and essentially raising hell.
I shake my head, recalling a specific time toward the end of that summer in that very rickhouse. All the tours had ended for the day and Lillianna, Thorne, and I had opened a barrel and gotten shitfaced. Sometime that night, we decided a game of hide-and-seek was the best idea in the world. Lillianna was supposed to seek us but fell into a boozy sleep. I found her in a shadowed corner, against a barrel, out cold.
Later, Thorne and I returned to the scene of the crime and took a bottle’s worth of bourbon from that barrel, then convinced a label maker to print a special one for us. We presented it to Lillianna that Christmas: Lush-Lillianna’s Boozy Bourbon.
My heart pinches. Does she still have the bottle? After that summer, things began to erode between the three of us. Competition and greed overtook camaraderie and closeness between Thorne and me. Lillianna fought constantly with our father and was rarely home.
Fast footsteps draw me back from the glass and the memory. Hanna, my PA, rounds the corner at a near run, then skids to a stop. “Oh! Mr. Blackstone, sorry,” she says. “Although I was looking for you.”
Her face is chalky, and she’s clutching her tablet against her chest. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
She glances over her shoulder as if afraid someone might overhear. “It’s your brother. He... he took the files from me. And when I tried to explain that you need them for today’s meeting, he...” she trails off, biting her lip.
“What did he do, Hanna?” I ask, my gut sinking into a pool of slime.
Hanna shifts her weight from foot to foot. “He said that if I ever questioned his authority again, He’ll fire me and make sure no one ever hires me. He said he could ruin my career with one phone call.”
“That asshole.” My insides still. It’s the opposite of calm or peace but the quiet of a circuit about to blow. His threat isn’t merely about her job but another calculated move in our endless chess game of corporate warfare.
“I–I’m sorry, Mr. Blackstone. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I’m only telling you now because he took the Tobar file you need for the meeting.”
“You did the right thing. I’ll deal with Thorne. And don’t worry about your job. You’re not going anywhere.”
She gives me a grateful smile, but the fear in her eyes remains. “Thank you, Mr. Blackstone. I appreciate that.”
I nod. “Right now, I need you to go to the conference room, offer them drinks, and let them know I’ll be a few minutes late.”
“Right away, Mr. Blackstone.” Hanna walks away, and I change directions to Thorne’s office.
My irritation hardens with each step. It’s bad enough that he’s interfering with my work, but threatening my employees is unacceptable.
Outside Thorne’s door, I square my shoulders and straighten my tie, making sure my expression is schooled. I’ll give him nothing, not even my anger.
I enter without knocking and demand, “Why did you take the Tobar paperwork from Hanna?”
My brother takes a leisurely sip of his espresso. Its strong, bitter aroma is laced with the unmistakable undercurrent of bourbon. The only sound between us is the clink of his small cup as he places it on the saucer. His blue eyes, as cold as our father’s, take their sweet time meeting mine. “I wanted to see how much they’re paying for our old barrels because I’m talking to a coffee conglomerate in theMidwest who’s interested in them.” His voice drips with the exact condescension that our father uses when dismantling someone’s argument. I know every nuance of this performance, from the casual sip of espresso to the calculated pause and the way he measures each word, like a chemist mixing a volatile compound.
He motions for me to sit. I ignore the gesture, preferring to loom. “What the hell does a coffee chain want with our barrels?”
“They want to store their beans in them, then charge top-dollar for ‘Blackstone bourbon coffee.’”
I lean on the wall next to Thorne’s prized Picasso, a grotesque carnival of clashing colors and mutilated forms. He acquired it at auction last year, outbidding three museum directors just because he could.
“Give me their number,” I tell him. “I’ll have Hanna call them to get more information and forward everything to the right department.”
“I emailed her all the details just before you stormed into my office,” Thorne replies.
“Next time, keep me updated, so I don’t have to waste my time coming here. And don’t ever threaten one of my employees again.” I glance at my Rolex. “I have to get to a meeting.”
