Page 84 of Moonshine Kiss
“Me, too. Think you’ll be able to forgive me?” I asked.
Her sigh was long and heavy. “Probably. Just maybe not right this second. I’ve got a lot of figuring to do, Bowie. I don’t want to make another mistake. I’m all mixed up and makin’ stupid decisions left and right. It’s not just about you. My job means everything to me.”
“I know it does, honey. But look what happened when I let someone else get between us.”
She pulled back and studied me. “It’s not the same thing.”
“It is. It’s higher stakes now.”
40
Bowie
“Is this even legal?” Devlin asked as we stepped inside the darkened interior of Bootleg Distillery.
It was 11 p.m. on a Sunday night. The distillery was quiet as a church on Monday.
“Almost entirely,” I promised, turning on the lights. “Besides, it’s tradition.”
Jameson propped the back door open with a cinderblock, and Jonah waved Gibson’s pickup truck up to the building.
Gibs hopped out and, with a flourish, yanked the tarp off the bed of the truck.
“I really feel like this is illegal,” Devlin said, eyeing the six five-gallon glass carboys fitted into a custom wooden divider.
Gibson slapped him on the shoulder. “Relax. We’re not the ones distilling it. We provide the mash.”
“Great-granddaddy Jedidiah’s recipe,” Jameson said, picking up the thread of the story and lowering the tailgate.
“Ya see here, gentlemen,” I said in my best Southern drawl. “We Bodines mix up Pappy Jedididah’s corn mash recipe, deliver it under the cover of night to the distillery, and then Sonny Fullson’s uncle Remus turns it into a big ol’ batch of moonshine for Bootleggers to flavor up for the contest.”
“What contest?” Jonah asked. Jonah and Devlin were gearing up for their very first Thanksgiving in Bootleg Springs.
Gibson hopped up into the bed of the truck and hefted the first bottle. “Black Friday Moonshine Tasting Contest,” he said.
Devlin and Jonah shared a look that very clearly said “What the fuck?”.
Jameson took the carboy from Gibson and headed into the distillery.
“We don’t have a license to distill,” I explained, reaching for the next bottle. “So we deliver the mash by darkness and let the distillery make it up all legal like. Then the contestants buy it, doctor it up, and we have ourselves a midnight tasting contest on Black Friday.”
Devlin looked relieved. “And we’re not breaking and entering, correct?”
Gibson jingled the keys cheerfully. He was always happiest just skirting the legal side of things.
“We Bodines have a reputation to uphold,” I told him solemnly. “Pappy Jedidiah would have a fit if we rolled up in broad daylight and made a legal delivery. We’re honoring our heritage.”
“And now you’re one of us,” Gibson said, shoving a five-gallon jug into Devlin’s chest.
“Ooof.” Devlin stumbled under the weight before recovering.
“Inside with the rest of ‘em,” Gibs directed.
We unloaded the jugs and lined them up in front of the still, a modern marvel compared to the copper monstrosity Great-grandad Jedidiah had used in his day.
In keeping with tradition, Remus had lined up mugs on the bar for each of us, and I was pleased to see he’d included enough for Devlin and Jonah. That was the thing about Bootleg Springs. You always knew you belonged.
Gibson ducked behind the slab of live edge cherry to play bartender.
