Page 9 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
"Naomi's not like that. She cares about people." His hand touched my shoulder gently. "She offered to help yesterday. She meant it."
I spun back to face him. "She's also dating you. Or whatever you two are doing. Which means she has a personal connection to you, and you have a personal connection to me. That's too messy."
"That's exactly why it could work." Jett's dark eyes searched mine. "She'd want to help because of our friendship. She wouldn't betray that."
Our friendship.
"I don't know her well enough to trust her with this." I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache building. "Yesterday you were the only person besides Octavia who knew. Now you want to expand that circle?"
"Sometimes you need more people in your corner." His voice softened. "Sometimes trying to handle everything alone makes it harder, not easier."
I thought about the past week—the isolation of carrying this knowledge, the exhaustion of avoiding Dylan, the constant fear of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person. Jett wasn't wrong that I was drowning. But throwing Naomi into the mix felt like inviting a wildcard into an already unstable situation.
"What if she tells her family?" I asked. "Or her friends?"
"She wouldn't."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that Naomi's offer of help was genuine rather than the polite noise people make when they don't expect to be taken up on it. But the risk felt enormous.
"She has access you don't have," Jett pressed gently. "Access that even Octavia might not be able to get. The Biggs family already opened up to her once. They might do it again."
He was right. I hated that he was right, but he was. Naomi could potentially learn things in casual conversation that a detective would never uncover through formal channels. The question was whether I could trust her enough to take that risk.
"I'll think about it," I said finally.
November 9, Sunday
small batchbourbon blended from a limited number of select barrels
THE HEADACHEhad started midway through the afternoon tour and steadily worsened until every bump in the road felt like a hammer against my skull. Another day of smiling through the churning anxiety, another day of pretending everything was fine while my world spun out of control. My brain wouldn't stop cycling through worst-case scenarios—Boyd confirming he was my father, Dylan's reaction, Jessica Biggs's fury, the scandal that would destroy their carefully cultivated reputation.
As the bus rolled back toward the campground, I pressed my fingers against my temples, trying to ease the throbbing. The decision had been brewing since yesterday's conversation with Jett. Maybe he was right. Maybe I needed help from someone with access I didn't have.
I stood, steadying myself against the seats as the bus swayed, and made my way toward the front. Naomi sat directly behind Jett, her fingers threading through his dark hair in a gesture so intimate it made my chest tighten with something I refused to examine.
"Naomi?" My voice came out rougher than intended. "Can I share something private with you?"
Her hand stilled. She looked up, surprise flickering across her features before concern replaced it. "Of course." She immediately shifted over, patting the seat beside her. "Sit down."
I sank onto the vinyl cushion, acutely aware of Jett's eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. My heart hammered against my ribs.
"What I'm about to tell you," I began, then stopped. How did you casually drop this kind of bomb? "It needs to stay completely confidential."
"I understand." Naomi's expression turned serious, her journalist instincts clearly activated. "You have my word."
I took a breath. "Boyd Biggs might be my father."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the road noise seemed to fade. Naomi's eyes widened, her mouth forming a small 'o' of shock.
"Boyd Biggs," she repeated slowly, as if testing the words. "Dylan's father."
"Yes."
She stared at me for several long seconds, processing. Then she exhaled slowly. "Well. Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction, isn't it?"
The matter-of-fact way she said it somehow made it feel less catastrophic.
"Did you and Dylan ever—" She paused delicately. "I mean, were you two ever, um..."
