Page 28 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
"I'll wait out here," I told the group of retirees from Ohio as they gathered their belongings. "Jett will escort you inside for the tasting. Take your time."
They filed off the bus, chattering about the beautiful November day. Jett shot me an understanding glance, then followed the group.
I positioned myself near the side of the building, out of sight from the main entrance, and pulled out my phone to look busy. The cold air stung my lungs but felt cleaner than the stuffiness inside the van. I just needed to stay out here for forty-five minutes. Then we'd move on to the next stop and—
"Bernadette."
I looked up to find Dylan striding toward me, his face twisted with anger. He must have seen me through the window.
"Dylan, I—"
"Portia was right about you." His voice shook with fury. "You're a gold-digger. A con artist. You're out to get something from my family."
The accusation hit like a physical blow. "That's not true. I only want to know the truth."
"The truth?" He laughed bitterly. "What truth? That you want to be my sister now? Is that what you're claiming?" His facecontorted with disgust. "That's so gross, Bernadette. We almost—we were—"
"I know." My voice broke. "Don't you think I know that?"
"You pursued me. You flirted with me. You knew the whole time—"
"I didn't know! I swear I didn't know until—"
"Bullshit!" Dylan stepped closer, his hands clenched into fists. "You played me. You played all of us. And now you're trying to extort money from my family with this ridiculous—"
"Hey." Jett's voice cut through Dylan's tirade. He'd appeared from around the corner, his expression stern. "You need to cool off."
"Stay out of this," Dylan snarled, not taking his eyes off me. "This is between me and—"
"I said cool off." Jett moved between us, his body language protective. "You're way out of line."
"Out of line?" Dylan's voice rose. "This bitch is trying to destroy my family and I'm out of line?"
He swung at Jett—a wild, uncoordinated punch born of rage rather than intent to truly hurt. Jett caught his arm mid-swing, gripping Dylan's wrist firmly and holding it immobilized.
"Don't," Jett said quietly, his voice steel. "Walk away."
For a moment they stood frozen, Dylan's captured fist trembling in Jett's grip. Then Dylan yanked his arm away with a violent jerk, stumbling backward.
"This isn't over," Dylan panted, pointing at me with a shaking finger. "You're not going to get away with this."
He turned and stormed back toward the distillery, his shoulders rigid with fury. The door slammed behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
I stood there, my legs suddenly unsteady. Get away with what? Having a father? Wanting to know where I came from? I pressed my hand against the building's wall for support.
"You okay?" Jett asked, his voice gentle now.
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. Tears burned behind my eyes—tears I'd been holding back through the entire confrontation. How had this happened? Just weeks ago, Dylan and I had been close, developing something real. He'd looked at me with warmth and kindness.
Now he looked at me with hatred.
"I didn't pursue him," I whispered. "I didn't know about Boyd until after—after everything."
"I know." Jett's hand found my shoulder, steady and warm. "He's upset and scared. Not thinking clearly."
"He hates me."
"He's confused. There's a difference."
