Page 6 of Bourbon and Proof

DADDY FOXX

I’m not doing this with you.

HADLEY

You’re going to have to be more specific. “THIS” can mean a lot of things.

DADDY FOXX

Stop it.

HADLEY

Make me.

If anyone were to ask me, I don’t believe in the stupidity of love at first sight. That’s a patriarchal practice that allows women to accept that attraction can be mistaken for love. Love should take time. Learning and longing. Maybe even a pinch of sacrifice and discovery. Or maybe my jaded perspective only exists because of my lack of experience on the subject matter.Lustandlikeare L-words I understand.Fuckingandfantasyare F-words that deliver. I believe in fantasy at first glance and lust at first sight. And both of those, for me, come in the form of my best friend’s brother. The six-foot-something pissed-off bourbon boy. His pretentious suits and rugged boots. His intensely dark brown hair laced with gray and silver that seeps into his sideburns and along each temple. A strong brow and gray-blue eyes that never look wistful or light, only stoic and layered with too much responsibility, strategy, and perhaps a bit of danger. Broad shoulders, an arrogant nature, and all the vibes of a man who does whatever the fuck he wants. Atticus Foxx, the ultimate fantasy. And because some days I think that karma must really have it out for me, he just keeps getting better with age.

In the background of texting said fantasy, Hawk cuts in, “You know what? I forgot I’m on an overnight shift tonight.”

I bite at my thumb and smile at the reality in front of me. “How convenient. That’s just across the street.”

It was annoying at first, the fire station directly across from my townhouse. This old three-level building that has been home for a while now. At first, the station bell and the engines were a bit of a nightmare, considering I worked late hours. But when I discovered the bell that connected my roof deck to the fire station, it became a perk.

He clears his throat and kneels back onto the bed, moving closer. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but...I’m good enough for some night games, but not to go with you to the wedding?”

Oomph.I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Night games are more fun than a wedding.”

Nodding, he shoots me a look of understanding, but I can sense some hurt there.

I let out a breath and overthink why I wouldn’t just bring him to my best friend’s wedding. It’s easy to picture him in a tux, but a part of me doesn’t want to make this more than what it was meant to be. “Can we just keep things where they are right now?” Biting my lip, I look around the room.

“And what happens when I want more?” he asks as he buckles his belt.

“Then we call it.” There’s no sense in beating around the bush. Maybe it’s time to call it. That isn’t the kind of question I expected from someone wanting simply to fuck around.

He crooks his finger for me to come closer, and I scoot myself toward the end of the bed. As I look at him, he tilts my chin up. He has a crooked smile and a little scar cutting through where his lip bows; it’s something I’ve always found attractive. Mysterious and a charming imperfection. “You’re too much fun to say no to...”

“Then don’t.” I smile, but then I force myself to add, “But Hawk, if this is more for you, then we should stop. No sad feelings or bad blood, just a high five and some good memories, yeah?”

He gives me a tight smile and checks his phone. He’s one of the good guys—even-tempered and never pushy. He’s easy to be around. Maybe that’s the appeal, especially lately. He leans into having fun despite being in charge of a full station of guys and is responsible for multiple towns across Montgomery County. And even though he’s folded into similar circles that I had been born into, he never kisses my father’s ass or looks for handouts from his brother. That’s his brother’s play, not his.

My phone buzzes in my hand again, only this time, it keeps buzzing. There aren't more texts from my best friend’s older brother. Instead, a new UNKNOWN number displays across my screen. My throat dries and my heart rate kicks up enough that I feel slightly lightheaded. The anxiety is instant.

I rub along my wrist and pinch my eyes closed for a second. I’ve been blocking new numbers regularly. It started with media outlets wanting statements about my father’s arrest. It’s since graduated to people looking for what my father owes. Angry people who, in some way, have been slighted or mistreated and feel it’s okay to come after me in the most passive-aggressive way possible—social media, emails, and then texts. Avoiding it is annoying, but rather simple. No more online social platforms, email could be easily changed, and my phone number too. Until it’s somehow found again. And the messages are becoming more specific.

I breathe in through my nose, purse my lips, and push the air back out. Doing that again, I slowly count to ten.

The name Wheeler Finch is no longer associated with triple-crown winners, unmatched training, and wealth. Instead, it’s tied to headlines that read:Kentucky Horse Murderer,TheLargest Con in Horse Racing History, and my favorite,The Devil of The Derby. He made millions of dollars for himself and his partners by fixing races, threatening and blackmailing trainers and jockeys, drugging horses with performance enhancers and snake venom. I couldn’t even wrap my head around some of those when I’d heard them. Then, as the sweetest cherry on top, the whole disaster of Finch & King Racing was left in my name while he faces a roster of charges. For me, it doesn’t need to be proven in court; I know he did it all. And I hate him for it. I can’t understand the fact that he’s on house arrest pending trial. His waiting feels too much like a luxury—police guarding entrances on an expansive estate with an ankle monitor and constant approval for outside communication. His assets, however, are under my control.

I’ve known my father isn’t a good man for a long time. But even that is a gross understatement, considering the charges awaiting him. It’s been almost a year since he was arrested, and every day since, I’ve felt the aftershocks. Arresting the proverbial bad guy was only the beginning.

Nobody tells you what you’re supposed to do when the life you’ve built starts to fray around the edges. Things that I’ve felt in my gut since I was young have been true all along. Being proven right comes at a cost, and it’s a much higher currency than ideas and affirmations.

My mother’s gone. And my father is the only family I have left. For most of my life, I’ve mistaken obligations for care. And I learned too late about love and its exchange rate. I stupidly allowed blood and loyalty to win out. And because of that, most of my hometown assumes I’m a loving daughter. But if anyone really paid attention, they would have seen how often I avoided being where I was expected. And now I get side-eyes and snarky comments, since everyone’s accepted the bullshit my fatherdoled out. It disgusts me. And that disgust is the reminder I need for anger to replace my anxious thoughts.

I press the side button on my phone, pushing the call to voicemail.

Today’s going to be a good day. A great one, even.

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