Page 3 of Whiskey Chase
She tilted her head back, the ends of her hair brushing the small of her back. The crowd cheered even louder.
“Drank, drank, drank!” I supposed it was the cheer to “drink” just with an accent.
With a flourish, the slip of a woman righted herself, opening her arms to her adoring audience, revealing the empty 32-oz. plastic mug in her hand. She spiked the mug off the tailgate and curtsied, offering me a shadowy look at just how high that skirt was riding.
The crowd loved her. And I had to admit, if I weren’t a shell of a man, I would have fallen just a little bit into that camp. She danced a little boogie in those boots and leaned over to offer high fives all around the bed of the truck. Until she got to me.
She had a wide mouth and a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her upturned nose. Her eyes were big and thickly lashed.
“Well, well, y’all. Look who finally came out to play.” Her voice was as sweet and potent as the moonshine my grandmother had brought to Thanksgiving dinner.
Before I could react, before I could demand that she turn the damn music down and have some respect for her neighbors, she had her hands on me. My shoulders to be precise. She planted and sprang, and I only had time to act on instinct.
I grabbed her by the waist as she hopped out of the bed of the truck. My arms reacted a little slower. I held her aloft and our eyes met. Sterling gray, wide, and sparkling. Was she laughing at me? Slowly, slowly, I lowered her to the ground, her body brushing mine every inch of the way down.
She was tiny, a West Virginian forest fairy that came to my chest.
“It’s about damn time you showed up.”
“Excuse me?” I managed to string two words together and congratulated myself.
She put her fingers in her mouth and let out a shrill whistle. “We can turn the music down now,” she yelled, or hollered, or whatever it was they did in this godforsaken town.
The volume immediately cut almost in half.
“Do I know you?” I asked, finally finding my words. I was quite certain there was no way this beer-swilling creature and I knew each other.
She ignored my question, grabbing my hand instead and pulling me to a trio of coolers halfway between the house and the bonfire. She bent and fished through the ice before producing two beers.
“Here,” she shoved one at me. “Everybody, this here’s Devlin McCallister. He’s Granny Louisa’s grandson.”
“Hey, Devlin,” the people circling the beer coolers chorused in an Appalachian twang.
Confused, off kilter, I glanced down at the beer in my hand and, with nothing better to do, twisted off the top. The music was down. Mission accomplished. I should go.
“C’mon,” she said jerking her head toward the crowd near the fire. “I’ll introduce you around.”
At this moment, I couldn’t think of anything I’d like less than being subjected to introductions. I just wanted to crawl back to Gran’s house and hide there until…
It was one thing when I was a state representative. A married man with a nice house and a five-year-to-D.C. plan. But now that I was a nearly divorced, newly disgraced lawmaker on leave? I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to start making small talk with anyone.
“Devlin, this is my brother Jameson,” she said, pointing her fresh beer bottle at a man in a gray t-shirt. His hands were shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched, as if he too didn’t care to be here.
I nodded. He nodded back. I liked him immediately.
“And this here is my brother Gibson,” she said, laying a hand on the flannelled shoulder of a man quietly strumming a guitar.
He eyed me as if I were in a police lineup and grunted.
People sure were friendly ‘round these parts.
“And this is my brother Bowie,” she said, knocking shoulders with a guy in a waffle knit shirt holding a beer. The family genes were abundantly evident when all three of them were in close proximity. Scarlett, on the other hand, had finer features, and in the firelight, I could see more red than brown in her long hair.
“Hey, Devlin. What’s up?” Bowie offered his hand and a quick smile.
“Hey,” I parroted, apparently having lost the ability to perform during even the most casual of introductions. My Queen of All Social Etiquette mother would die of embarrassment if she could see me now.
“Granny Louisa’s asked that we all make Devlin feel right at home,” Scarlett said, giving Gibson a pointed look.
