Page 31 of Pour Decisions
I had four tattoos, each of them representing some special moment, person, or place in my lifetime. The first, of course, was my last name on my left forearm. It was the first tattoo I’d ever gotten, freshly eighteen and cocky in a way that meant I thought it’d be cool to get my last name permanently marked on my skin in a tough-looking font. It spanned the full length of my ulna from wrist to elbow. There was also the barbed wire that wrapped high around my right biceps, the ends meeting to form “L for L.” Each of my brothers had the same, which stood for “Lawless for Life.” I had a compass on my left pec, right over my heart, the coordinates for my family’s ranch etched above due north, and a dream catcher running along my right ribs.
I loved all of them equally, had worked with an artist in Detroit for hours, painstakingly planning out the details of the compass and dream catcher to get them exactly right, but the latter was easily the most special.
My dad had always wanted his children to dream big. Thoughthe Lawless Ranch had been in his family for generations, he’d never lorded it over us, never pushed us to want to run it, never forced us into thinking we had no other option but to stick around Dusk Valley for the rest of our lives. He encouraged each of us to go out and experience life, to chart our own paths, let the stars guide us wherever they may. If that journey led us home, then so be it.
My dad had been my fiercest supporter, my loudest cheerleader, and never told me I couldn’t do something. Only asked what he could do to help me achieve my goals.
Which was why his death had dealt all of us such a massive blow, the kind of soul wound that would never fully heal. At least not for me, no matter how much time and distance I put between me and the day I’d gotten that call.
Reflexively, I thumbed his wedding ring on my pinky as my eyes scanned the photos decorating the walls of my office, snagging on the one taken nearly seventeen years ago. We were all huddled at center field, the Pac-12 logo scuffed and faded from the game beneath our feet. Aria was five, all crooked teeth and pigtails, swimming in one of my jerseys as I held her in my arms. My parents stood at my sides. My brothers, ranging in age from nineteen down to ten, were a mix of gangly limbs, Ducks tees, and braces, fanned out around and behind us. All nine of us grinned widely for the camera, both because the Ducks had just won the conference championship thanks to my five—four passing and one rushing—touchdowns, and because we were simply happy to be together. It was the final time the entire Lawless clan had been photographed together.
Dad died two weeks later.
And two weeks after that, two days before I was set to play in the Pac-12 championship game, I got the dream catcher tattoo in memory of him. It became a talisman and a reminder. Everything I did from then on wasn’t for myself anymore. It was for him and the seven other people in that photo with us.
“I just…” I started, coming back to myself and the conversation with Delia. I removed my hat and drove my fingers through my hair. “Next time, ask me before you use me as a thirst trap. We make decisions together or not at all, remember?”
“Aye aye, Captain,” she said, then hung up.
God, this woman was going to be the death of me.
By the end of the week, both our TikTok and Instagram accounts had over ten thousand followers each, and buzz surrounding the distillery was reaching a fever pitch. We’d received countless messages and emails from influencers wanting to collaborate with us, everyone from travel bloggers to food and beverage reviewers. When a popular Food Network host reached out to do a segment with us after we opened, I could grudgingly admit my backside—and everything else Delia was doing—was good for business.
And the longer I watched Delia work her magic on our business, the more I realized my other ones could use the same touch.
The second week of October, when our weekly status meeting disbanded, Jay and a few of his men headed back to the site, but I asked Delia to hang back.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Her tone was laced with apprehension, and I quickly placated her. “Nothing serious,” I said. “I just have a proposition for you.”
Delia quirked a brow but didn’t say anything, giving me room to proceed.
“I want you to take over social media management for Lawless, Birdie’s, and Overtime.”
Her eyes widened comically, her mouth popping open slightly. “Are you serious?” she asked.
“Dead,” I confirmed.
“But…why?”
“I’ve seen how hard you work, Whiskey. I’ve been paying close attention the last month, and while I was skeptical at first, the things you’ve done with the Unlawful social accounts are insanely impressive. I’d like your help driving traffic to my other businesses.”
“Really?” she asked, gaze pinging around my face, as if gauging my seriousness. Despite her clear reservation, her eyes were bright, alive with excitement and hope. In that moment, I realized that this may be the first time—or at least one of very few instances—when someone recognized Delia’s eye for detail, talent, and passion, and rewarded her for it instead of writing her off as a silly girl who spent too much time on her phone.
“Yeah,” I said with a reassuring smile. “You’re clearly talented, and I could really use your help.”
Delia leapt from her stool, arms outstretched, but held herself back at the last second. As if she was going to throw herself into my arms and barely kept herself in check. Honestly, I would’ve welcomed that hug. Instead, we settled for a handshake that felt far too impersonal.
“Oh, and as far as salary goes,” I began when she once again settled into her seat. I rattled off a number, one I’d reached after careful research of what she could be making working for some big time firm and a conversation with Cal about what I could reasonably afford.
In reality, I couldreasonablyafford to buy the entirety of Traverse City, but that was beside the point. I had a financial manager for a reason, and he informed me I couldn’t blow my entire wad on Delia.
No seriously, those were his exact words, and they conjured up images of blowing something far naughtier on Delia. Of her tan skin marred by my cu—
“Absolutely not,” Delia said, pulling me from my deviant thoughts.
“It’s only fair,” I told her. “I checked, and I talked with Cal.”
