Page 65 of Bourbon and Proof

I try to hide my smile. “Alright.” Knowing it’s time for me to go, I glance at my brother. “Grant, dinner was good. Appreciate the company, as always.” I nod to him. “Let’s keep that blend between us for now.”

Laney plucks the freshly poured bourbon from Grant’s hands. “This smells delish.”

I look toward the front windows, waiting to see headlights, or at least the roar of a very loud engine. “I didn’t hear the Mustang come flying down the road. Is she still working?”

“Your wife?” she hums, giving me a knowing look. “It was quiet tonight. A lot of locals, not too many faces I didn’t recognize.” She glances at the bourbon she just drank, and then brings her attention back to me. “I like this. And she was still there when I left—” Laney leans against the top of the couch, looking like she wants to say more. I’ve known her for long enough now to know that Laney rarely holds back.

I glance at Grant, and then back at her. “What am I missing? Whataren’tyou telling me?”

“Gossip. A few people were talking about a little confrontation at Loni’s today with the fire chief. He got loud about her being married all of a sudden. Then there were lots of questions about you and her from the town busybodies. When I came in, she was...upset.”

That’s all it takes for me to slide my shoes back on and head for the door. “Is she alright?”

“You know Hadley,” she says thoughtfully. “She’ll tell you she’s good even when she isn’t.”

That isn’t good enough for me. And hearing it out loud doesn’t sit right. How many times have I listened to her tell Lincoln or Griz she’s “good?” Especially after this past year. I’m realizing quickly how I could have missed the shit she’s been dealing with—she doesn’t want people worrying about her.

“You have the keys?” I ask.

“To Midnight Proof, yeah, but if she wanted?—”

“With respect,” I say, looking at Grant. “Laney, give me the fucking keys.” Julep lifts her head up and barks at me, as if she knows I just cursed at her favorite person.

Laney smirks and digs into her back pocket. I catch them as she chucks them my way. “Thanks,” I call out. I’m out the door and in my car seconds later. She shouldn’t have dealt with any of that on her own. I gun it through town and make it to the main drag of Fiasco a handful of minutes later, running through the roster of things that asshole could have said to her. She’s a grown woman and can handle herself, but fucking hell, I didn’t like the idea that I’m hearing about this from someone other than her. And hours later.

“Ladies,” I say as I walk past the sisters starting their early morning prep at Crescent de Lune.

“Hey, Ace,” they both reply with a smile as I rush down the back stairs and toward the double doors of the speakeasy.

The music’s blasting loud enough that she doesn’t hear me unlock the doors and disarm the alarm. Anything this loud makes me uneasy, but for Hadley, she gets lost in it. Her codes are too easy to guess—she likes to tell people her favorite things, like numbers and dates, far too frequently. I always listen.

When I walk through the long black velvet curtains, she’s perched on the bar, shoes off and legs folded, a Boston jersey draped on the bar next to her, leaving her in a simple white tank. She’s concentrating on writing in that black notebook. I don’t know why I’m so interested in what she scribbles in there. It’s been the same one for as long as I can remember, and I don’t understand how she hasn’t run out of space.

She’s different when she’s distracted—still beautiful, but it’s something softer and more vulnerable when she isn’t spitting out sarcasm and insults at me. Her hair is gathered to one side, still messy and wild. She drains what’s left in her glass, and then pours out another shot of the most expensive bottle of bourbon on her menu. I should know, it’s mine.

“Why are you still here?” I ask, loud enough that she’ll hear me over Britney fucking Spears. “You closed two hours ago.”

Her head whips up, eyes meeting mine. She’s pissed off and ready to lace into someone. I’ve seen that look only a few times over the years—Hadley isn’t very good at hiding her emotions. And she typically carries a lighter mood. Right now, whatever looms over this room feels heavy. Angry. It’s a stark contrast to the exchange we had this morning as she sauntered past me with her bare ass and pussy out for show.

Lowering the volume on her phone, she hops off the bar. “I’m not interested in talking to you. Get out.”

Alright,Idid something to piss her off.

She plucks the shot off the bar, and noticing I’m making no moves to leave, she asks, “How did you get in here?”

I walk farther into the speakeasy. “Your alarm code is predictably 6969.”

With her head cocked to the side, she gives me a dead stare as she tips back a Glencairn filled halfway.

“You’re drinking a six-hundred-dollar bottle of bourbon like a Jell-O shot.”

It’s dim in here, but with the glow of the chandeliers splashing across the room, it’s bright enough to see the soul-cutting glare she’s giving me for that comment.

She walks around to the front of the dark oak bar and grabs the bottle next to her. Tipping it, she holds it high for a long pour, and with precision, fills the glass to its brim while her eyes stay pinned to mine. “I’ll drink my bourbon however the fuck I want, Daddy.”

“Don’t,” is the only word I get out before she’s tossing the full shot of bourbon at me.

Every drop in that glass splashes up my chest and across my face.

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