Page 5 of Bourbon Bliss
I opened the door to the bar, steeling myself for the assault on my senses. The Lookout was loud, music and voices spilling out into the cold night. Warm air engulfed me when I stepped inside—about two degrees above what I found comfortable.
Pausing, I gave myself a few seconds to find equilibrium in this new environment. It required tuning things out, erecting a barrier between my brain and the sensory input that beat at me. When I felt suitably insulated, I joined my sister and her friends at their table.
“Juney!” Cassidy said with a smile. “I’m so glad you came out with us!”
I smiled and gave her a stiff hug.
Cassidy and I looked quite a bit alike—both with dark blond hair and green eyes. The same upturned, lightly freckled noses. But our appearance was where the similarities ended. Our personalities were remarkably dissimilar, despite our shared genetics.
Of course, when it came to personality, I was remarkably dissimilar to everyone in Bootleg Springs, familial relations included.
However, our differences hadn’t inhibited our personal relationship. I’d always maintained a positive rapport with Cassidy. I felt a great deal of affection for my sister. We weren’t like other siblings. We’d rarely bickered or argued, even as children. We looked out for each other, each in our own way, and I appreciated that.
“I like your sweater,” Leah Mae said, pointing at my clothing choice.
“Thank you. The weather is cold, so a sweater seemed prudent.”
“And it’s cute, too,” she said.
I gave her a small nod. Leah Mae was pleasant. Considered beautiful in the traditional way, she was tall and thin with long blond hair and noticeable gap between her two front teeth. She’d been a model and on a reality TV show, but now she was back in Bootleg Springs and dating Jameson Bodine. They appeared well-suited for each other, and happy in their relationship. That was good. Jameson was my favorite of the Bodine men. He didn’t talk a lot, which made spending time with him comfortable.
I’d once heard someone say they thought Jameson and I should date. I didn’t have much desire to date anyone, but I’d been particularly surprised by the suggestion. I’d be the first to admit, I didn’t understand human relationships. But it seemed to me, from what I did know, that a functioning relationship required a certain degree of communication. Putting two people together who didn’t talk very much seemed like a recipe for failure.
Scarlett had also chosen a sweater for her evening attire. Hers hung off one shoulder, leaving her bra strap visible. I didn’t know if that was a conscious choice, or if her sweater didn’t fit right. Scarlett was petite and I suspected she often found clothing too large for her small frame.
She grabbed her sweater at the neck, pulling it in and out, as if to create a breeze beneath it. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hot. I might be ditching mine.”
“You wearing anything but your bra underneath?” Cassidy asked.
Scarlett held her sweater out and peered in, as if she’d forgotten what she was wearing. “Well, yeah. I’m not going to strip, silly.”
“Why not?” Cassidy asked. “Might be fun.”
“What’s got you so frisky tonight?” Scarlett asked.
Cassidy shrugged. “Nothing. I’m just in a good mood. Want to have some fun.”
“Baby, fun is my middle name,” Scarlett said. “Let’s get you nice and liquored up so you can go home and have wild, drunken sex with Bowie.”
I drew my eyebrows in. “Intoxication carries a high probability of nausea and vomiting. I fail to see how that’s conducive to engaging in sexual intercourse, especially of the wild variety.”
Cassidy patted my shoulder. “You have a point, there, June Bug. But getting a little tipsy is fun sometimes.”
That didn’t precisely address my point, but it didn’t matter. I took a seat on one of the empty stools and set my handbag on the table.
The band started a new song and a few couples moved in front of the tiny stage to dance. It was the oddest thing. The beat was too slow for much movement. They stood together, swaying back and forth, hardly moving their feet. I didn’t grasp the appeal of any sort of dancing, but I’d always found slow-dancing particularly inexplicable.
Gibson Bodine strummed his guitar and sang into the microphone while his bandmates, Hung and Corbin, played along. They were an eclectic-looking mix of men. Gibson was tall and bearded, his expression usually some variation of a scowl. Hung was a gray-haired Asian man, and Corbin looked like he still belonged in high school, with smooth dark skin and thick hair.
Cassidy brought me a drink and I sipped it quietly. The girls talked about the men—and cats—in their lives, which didn’t leave me much to add to the conversation. But I didn’t mind too much. After a while, I pulled a book out of my handbag and laid it out on the table to read.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” Cassidy asked, drawing my attention away from my book.
Bowie Bodine put his arms around her. “I missed you.”
“It’s girls’ night,” she said, but there wasn’t any conviction behind her words. Even I could tell she was glad to see him.
Which I found odd, considering they lived together. They were in the middle of a renovation, turning their duplex into a single residence. Bowie had likely seen Cassidy less than two hours ago. I didn’t understand how that was long enough to miss a person, but I let the question drift from my mind.
