Page 70 of Bourbon Bliss
Gibson: kinda have to see this for yourself
He sent me a photo. The light was dim, and I was still trying to wake up. It was hard to tell what I was looking at. I squinted at the screen.
Wait. Was that June?
Me: Be right there.
I threw on some sweats and a t-shirt, stepped into my shoes, and didn’t bother grabbing a coat. I regretted that half-awake decision the second I stepped outside into the cold night. Despite the fact that it was early spring, it was still freezing. But I wasn’t going to pause to take care of my bodily needs. I was a big guy. Muscle would keep me warm.
Noise spilled out into the parking lot at the Lookout. Music and voices carried, even with the door shut. I went inside, and sure enough, there she was, just like the picture Gibson had sent.
June stood on a table in the middle of the bar, drunk as a fish in a barrel of whiskey. She teetered to one side, then the other, like she might fall right over. But she took a breath, held out her arms, and stayed standing—to a chorus of cheers and clapping from the crowd gathered around her.
What in the hell was she doing?
Her voice rose above the din. “All right, y’all, ready for the next one?”
More cheers. Fists, beer bottles, and mason jars raised in the air.
“Okay.” She held out her hands, motioning for quiet, although she already had the rapt attention of everyone in here. “Simon says—”
The crowd collectively gasped.
“Rub your stomach in a circle and pat your head.”
Everyone standing around her table attempted to do what she’d said. Most appeared too drunk to manage it. A pair of old ladies burst into laughter as they stumbled into a man with a barrel chest wearing a Bootleg Cock Spurs t-shirt. A girl about June’s age laughed so hard she had to sit down. An older lady I remembered as being called Granny Louisa was the steadiest on her feet, and she giggled as she rubbed her stomach and patted her head.
Front and center, leaning into each other like they might fall otherwise, were Cassidy and Nadine Tucker.
I knew who I had to thank for tonight’s shenanigans. I glanced around for Sheriff Tucker or Bowie Bodine, but I didn’t see either of them. Maybe the girls had given them the slip tonight.
June clapped to get everyone’s attention. “Simon says stop. Y’all are terrible at that. Okay, listen up. Jump on one leg.”
A guy with a trucker hat on backwards was the only one to jump. Everyone else pointed and yelled for him to be out. He slunk off to a table and sat down with a few other dejected players.
“Simon says…” She paused for dramatic effect. “Touch your knees.”
Everyone did what she said. Her speech wasn’t slurring much but I could tell by the glassy look in her eyes and the way she swayed that she was three sheets to the wind. That, and the fact that I doubted sober-June would be standing on a table in a bar leadingSimon Says.
“Simon says stop. Simon says turn in a circle.”
That one proved to be the undoing of several tipsy players, including Cassidy Tucker. Turned out Bowiewashere. He appeared out of nowhere to grab a wildly spinning Cassidy and guide her out of the way before she could collide with anyone.
I spotted Gibson by the bar. Gave him a chin tip in thanks. He returned it.
“Simon says stop,” June said through a fit of laughter. Her eyes met mine and her smile disappeared. “Hey everybody, look who’s here. It’s GT Thompson.”
Her use of my initials hit me hard. Drunk or not, she was sending me a message. Trying to shut me out.
Too bad for her, I wasn’t having it.
I marched over to her table, through a crowd of people trying to say hi. Ignoring the greetings and pats on the back—at least she hadn’t saidSimon says attack George—I put my hands on my hips.
“Hey, you.”
She mimicked my stance, resting her hands on her hips. “Hey, yourself.”
“What are you doing up there?”
