Page 73 of Moonshine Kiss
“It’s your moonshine, dumbass,” she told me as Devlin picked her up off of me and set her back on her feet. He helped me to my feet and propped me against the bar as I swayed.
“We’re gonna need some coffees, waters, and three more orders of chicken strips,” Devlin told the bartender, sliding a hundred dollar bill across the bar.
Leah Mae skipped over to me. “Can I design your wedding dress?” she asked, listing to the right. Leah Mae had only recently moved back to Bootleg so her alcohol tolerance was nowhere near as good as a native Bootlegger.
“I’m not marrying that good-for-nothing sheriff’s boy. He chose my father over me! And now that my nosy, interfering father gives him the thumbs-up Bowie acts like it’s off to the races.”
Lula thought about it, lips pursed. “Cassidy’s right. She has the right to be supremely pissed at both of them for at least a week or two.”
“Two,” I decided firmly.
“To Bootleg justice,” my mom said, wiggling into our circle holding her bourbon and Coke aloft. Half of it spilled down her arm, and I felt a little bit bad about how sticky we were going to make the interior of Devlin’s SUV.
“To Bootleg justice,” we all echoed, clinking glasses and sending an enthusiastic shower of beverages down our arms.
“You’re totally going to marry him though, aren’t you?” Leah Mae asked. “Because I see you in this fabulous lace dress with little cap sleeves. Cowboy boots. Some flowers in your hair.”
While Scarlett, Leah Mae, and Lula began to debate my bridal look, I looked to June for help.
She was frowning at her phone.
“Whatsamatter, Bune Jug? Why the face?”Did I just say Bune Jug? Good Lord, I needed chicken fingers stat.
“George Thompson is the reason for my face,” she said flatly.
“My cat?” I asked her, closing my other eye to bring her into focus.
“The receiver. The most consistent player in the league. His injury is most likely career-ending.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” I said. I was. I was a good little sister. I cared when my weird sister was upset over weird things. “Did I tell you why I’m upset?” I asked, eager to repeat all the reasons that I wanted to tie Bowie up and stuff him in the trunk of a car and drive it into the lake.
“You’ve spoken incessantly about it since we got here.”
“Do you want to tell me in-chest-antly about George?” I offered.
She gave a mopey shrug. “I could always depend on him for my fantasy team.”
“And you feel like he let you down?” I filled in the blanks. Juney came by her shit-tastic communication honestly.
“It’s stupid. He’s stupid. I’m stupid,” June said.
In elementary school, the guidance counselor had pulled my sister out of class to test her to see if she was weirdly gifted or just weird. Her IQ hovered somewhere around 141, putting her in the genius category.
The bartender plopped down a steaming basket of deep-fried chicken in front of me.
“Wanna eat your feelings with me?” I asked, offering her a chicken tender.
“I fail to see how eating trans fats will improve my overall mood.”
I snorted. “Honey mustard sauce is a proven mood enhancer.”
June narrowed her eyes at the grease-soaked, paper-lined basket. “I’d like to review the evidence for that statement.”
“Eat your fat and grease. It’s all the evidence you need.”
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Bootleg Night Out.”
I swiveled around on my stool and came face-to-face with the fried blonde hair and perpetually over-tanned face of Misty Lynn Prosser.
