Page 16 of Bourbon and Secrets

“I got her,” I tell him as I kiss Lily on the head. “Laney can also handle her own, you know that.” I point at Lark. “We’ll talk about the party later. Be nice to your sister for me?”

She smiles and squeezes my shoulder. A sentiment of the Foxx men. We aren’t huggers, but when one of us is proud or happy to see the other, it’s always a firm shoulder squeeze. Lark pays attention. I still get hugs from her, but I love a good shoulder squeeze all the same.

“Didyou want to come up for a drink?” the photographer asks me. A pretty brunette whose name I’ve been purposely ignoring for this very reason.

I have no interest in allowing this to go any further—something felt off, and this woman was tied to a huge publication. Local gossip is one thing, but I’m smart enough to know that her affiliation withThe New York Timesis a red flag. There are plenty of ways for her to influence Murray’s story. She’s beautiful, but a night of fun isn’t worth the potential complications.

“I have an early day tomorrow, and I need to talk to my friend behind the bar before I head out.” While that’s mostly true, I’m not ready to go home yet. “But thank you for indulging me and keeping me company tonight.”

I can tell by the tight-lipped smile and nod that she wasn’t planning to be dismissed so easily. She wanted to have a drink at the hotel bar, which meant she really had no interest in leaving and seeing Fiasco or the speakeasy I had mentioned earliertoday. It would be effortless to take her upstairs and fool around. Suck, fuck, rinse, repeat. I struggle to remember the last time I felt anything that resembled genuine heat, never mind the kind of chemistry that doesn’t allow room for thinking, just reacting and leading. That dance that wipes away common sense and leaves two people breathless and wanting for more. Yeah, none of that’s happening tonight. I give her a kiss on the cheek, pay the tab, and thank her for the beautiful company.

Less than twenty minutes later, I walk down the stairs and through the double oak doors of Midnight Proof. I’m greeted by the warm, dimmed lighting from the chandeliers and the sound of the jazz trio kicking off their set. The sultry crowd and familiar faces wipe away any lingering thoughts about my evening with the photographer. Going home would have been the smarter choice, but Ace has texted me twice more complaining about the company he’s keeping tonight. I’m always better at charming the people who grate on Ace’s nerves.

I catch my best friend giving me a wide-eyed smile as I head toward the bar. “What are you doing here?” She glances at Ace across the room. “Figured it’d be past both your bedtimes by now.”

I flip her off. “He can’t hear you making fun of his age from all the way over there.”

The speakeasy is packed tonight, with a variety of people in town to talk about bourbon and horses. Business in a relaxed setting always makes for better deals.

I glance down the length of the bar toward my sister-in-law. “Whatcha making down there?”

She does a double take. “Linc! Did my husband send you to check on me?”

I smile at her. “Never!”

Laughing, she finishes her drink order.

Hadley stares at me knowingly. “Crap date?”

“Not a date. Just a distraction.” I shrug a shoulder.

She gives me a deadpan glare, wanting more details. When she realizes that’s all I’m going to say, she gives me an understanding smile. “Here, you get a Manhattan tonight,” she says, sliding the cocktail to me. “Can you let Brady at the door know that the show is starting in five.”

I tap my knuckles on the bar. “On it.” By the time I make it to the double doors, the lights are dimming. I lean into Brady, the bouncer. “Hadley says the show’s about to start, so let’s hold out on any more entries.”

He gives me a nod and does what he has to do.

I linger there just as the jazz band gets a little louder, playing something I recognize, but could never name. In a low riff, the bass starts, and the trumpet chimes in a few moments later. Leaning my back against the brick wall draped in black velvet curtains, I look around, watching couples and friends peppered throughout the highball tables and lounges, all sipping on something in coupe, rocks, or champagne glasses. I notice my brother entertaining another suit, just as the room grows quiet. It’s the type of silence that feels predictive of a winter storm. A storm you know is coming, but it just hasn’t broken through the clouds yet.

Hushed voices whisper and wait for the singer and the elusive burlesque performance to begin. I forgot that’s what tonight’s entertainment would be. It explains the above normal packed house on a weeknight. It’s been months now since Hadley mentioned the “smokeshow burlesque dancer” she had hired. Tonight was the first show.

I sip on my Manhattan—the rye whiskey is a nice switch from my usual bourbon neat. When I come to Midnight Proof, I let Hadley, or whichever bartender is pouring for the night, choose my drink for me.

The vermouth coats my tongue, and the rye eases down nicely. Dim lighting mixed with the music prelude and my drink have my body relaxing. But then a trumpet pitching loud and abruptly ending has me snapping to attention. In the center of the room, a single spotlight flips on, and underneath it, a woman stands in a black trench coat. Her dark hair is pinned up to one side with some kind of netting and pink gems that reflect the light. The dramatic sounds and lighting amplify everything. I’m fixated on her silhouette, eager to know the way it curves and dips beneath that coat.

I adjust my glasses and take another sip of my drink. But when she turns, the feeling of contentment that I had momentarily is ripped out from under me.

Green eyes I had once mistaken for blue are framed by smudged dark make-up that tips up to points along each side. A small beauty mark, one that sits slightly to the right, just above the curve of her cheek, is more confirmation. I know that mark. The same way I know that her hair is naturally blonde, not black.

FayefuckingCalloway.

Anger flares inside me, the same way a match would ignite when dragged along red phosphorus. It’s a chemical reaction that changes one element into another in a millisecond. The powerful emotion catches fire along my limbs, down my back, making my cock tingle, and every inch of my skin overheat.

I grit my teeth so hard that my jaw hurts. What the fuck is she doing back in Fiasco? I flex my hand at my side, remembering the night, along the edge of the cornfield next door to my house, being blackmailed with a fucking murder weapon moments after a kiss that never should have happened. It should have felt like payback, our kiss in that field, after everything that my wife had admitted to me that night. But it hadn’t felt anything like payback—andthatpissed me off.

The music evolves into an old tone that dips off and then the band’s singer draws out the opening chorus. This entire room must be sharing the sentiment of her lyrics, that she’sfeeling gooooood...because the echoes of hoots and whistles ring out just as Faye unties the belt to the coat. Each end of the belt hangs on their respective sides, swaying because of the dramatic way she flicked her wrists. Her fingers cloaked in satin gloves grip the long coat together, keeping it closed for a moment longer. Seconds later, the music gets louder, higher, and she sheds her coat in a way that’s so effortless and seductive, I can’t look away. She’s left in nothing more than a blur of dusty pink lace and satin. It’s sheer and shimmering as the spotlight follows her movements.

Fucking hell.I shift, fully aware that my body’s reacting to her. With my dick hardening and my face flushing, I’m fucking livid that she’s here. And then it clicks—she’s not visiting. She’s fucking working here.

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