Page 1 of Bourbon and Proof

Chapter 1

Ace

The screen doorslams shut behind me as I drag my fingers through my hair slicked in sweat and river water. Unbuttoning my shirt, I toss it into the trash. I can burn it later. The caked dirt and blood along the collar and cuffs are hard to see on a black shirt, but they won’t go unnoticed at the dry cleaners. I wear a suit to the distillery every day, but killing someone is few and far between. If it was planned, then I would have changed and called in the necessary support. I don’t fucking like surprises.

All I have going in my favor is that it’s the Fourth of July, and in Fiasco, that’s the perfect time for someone to disappear. Everyone is in town celebrating and enjoying the distractions of dancing and fireworks. I prefer to avoid both. And truthfully, tonight, that worked out for the best.

I pull on a pair of Wranglers I typically wear to the stables and tuck my wallet in my back pocket. Not wanting to go upstairs, I dig out a pair of socks from the dryer. My black undershirt is still damp, but I need to get out of here. Right now,I want to disappear for a while, take one of the horses out for a long ride, and clear my head.

“Where are you goin’?” Griz asks when I turn the corner into the kitchen.

Swallowing down my frustration, I pour a heavy-handed splash of bourbon into the first glass I see sitting on the counter, ignoring the question that I don’t have an answer to.

“Things get out of hand?” he presses as he gives me a once-over. I’m good at masking emotions, but I just put a man down, and I’m still pissed about it.

I drain what’s left in my glass. “Why aren’t you in town?” As I pull on my boots, I add under my breath, “Usually can’t drag you off that stage.”

“Atticus,” he says in a more biting tone, eyeing the way I’m trying to get the hell out of here. “Not gonna ask for the details...”

He never does.My grandfather knows there are things that need to be handled sometimes, and asking questions only makes those things linger when they’d be better off forgotten.

When I still don’t respond, then push out of the screen door, his voice carries through it. “Find something that’ll ground you, Atticus. If it’s those horses or a woman, I don’t care. But the only way I’ll stop hovering is if you can figure out a way to balance all of this without letting it consume you. You’ll only be able to do it if you have something more—something to care about.”

I love him, but sometimes I could do without him telling me what’s best. I’ve taken on enough of the family legacy. I like the ease of being on my own, caring for the family I already have, and getting lost in the details of making good bourbon. He just needs to let me do life my own way.

Picking up my pace, I move past the garage and toward the stables. I grab a saddle, pads, bit, bridle, and reins to suit up my fastest horse. An old black stallion that’s pretty as hell, but he’san asshole of a horse when he’s not running and always trying to bite me. I don’t care. He’s fast. And that’s all I want. To feel the wind on my face and my heart pounding so loud the beat drowns out everything else.

The sticky air hits my skin, and I tilt my head up toward the purple-tinted sky—a storm’s coming. When the road bends and forks, I slow down and realize something’s off. It should smell like damp earth and the sugared air that Fiasco inherits from our distillery, but instead, exhaust and burning rubber have my instincts flaring.Fuck this day. Every part of me urges me to ignore it and keep riding. There are no headlights in sight, but as I move to the left of the fork, I hear music. An angry anthem jacked up loudly but muffled through speakers. Pulling on the reins to bring me to a stop, I squint to make sure I’m seeing what I think I am. The outline of a classic muscle car. It’s too dark to be sure, but I have a gut feeling that it’s a 1969 Ford Mustang. And it’s idling too close to the riverbank for my liking. There shouldn’t be any cars this far out, not to mention perched along a muddy edge on the side of the river that’s running angrier from the heavy rainfall this summer.

Nearly blinding me, headlights flip on, the music cresting louder and clearer as the driver’s door swings open. A riff of an electric guitar and aggressive bass has my horse stepping back, just as AC/DC screams out about being back in black.

What the hell is she doing out here?

I try to see if there’s someone in the passenger seat. Maybe she was fucking around with someone. It isn’t uncommon for people to park on the trails. But the dim interior light only proves that there isn’t anyone else in the car.

“What are you doing out here?” I shout over the music, trying to keep the horse at a distance, but despite pulling the reins, he moves us closer.

She mumbles something to herself and looks up at the night sky. “Playing with myself,” she yells back sarcastically. And then follows it with a raspy and unconvincing, “I’m fine.”

I know she isn’t fine. She wouldn’t have said that if she truly was.

My horse skirts to the side of the car to be out of the glare of the headlights for me to see her better. It’s dark outside, but the reflection of the dashboard light catches her just right. I give her a once-over. She isn’t drunk; she’s smarter than that to drive out here wasted. That isn’t it. But the way her dark, wild curls are messier than usual, how her tank top hangs too loose around the neckline, and smears of blood color her eyebrow and collarbone have me down and off the horse before I even notice her feet. No shoes.

It's like an alarm has been set off.

Bloodshot eyes find mine as I rush toward her. She holds her hands up, warding me back from touching her or coming any closer. My gut sinks at thinking about what the fuck happened. Who would have done something to make her hands shake and voice sound like she’s been screaming.

“Where are they?” The words come out gruffer than I want, but it’s taking a helluva lot of willpower to tamp down my rage.

Her blue eyes snap to mine, knowing what I’m asking.You’re not dealing with this on your own.I’ve witnessed Hadley Finch in a lot of moods over the years: pissed off, playful, prim and proper, but not shaken or on edge like this. This is panic and anger, and those two things never go well together.

It's clear someone was pawing at her and got rough. As much as I’ve found her annoyingly optimistic, gradually appealing in the past handful of years, and slightly unhinged beneath her surface, she’s as close to family as one can get without having our last name. Hurting her will never be acceptable or even remotely tolerated. This isn’t going to end well for anyone involved.

Blinking back tears, she lifts her chin. “I took care of it. Knocked him out with a cinderblock.”Good girl.Her face breaks for just a moment, squinting to cry, but she composes herself almost as fast. “I don’t know...He may be more than knocked out.”

I stay quiet, studying how she’s working really fucking hard to keep it together. When she finally meets my eyes, I tilt my head to the side and say, “Don’t make me ask again, Hadley. Tell me where.”

She exhales, swallowing roughly. “The stables. At my father’s stables.”

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