Page 6

Lincoln

I spin my gold band around my finger. I only wore it when I was around my girls. It hasn’t meant what it was supposed to for a long time—a promise to love someone. It’s a promise I hadn’t realized had been broken. And I couldn’t even be mad about it. I mourned someone I was so angry with, so many words left unspoken between us. A family curse, a tragedy, whatever anyone would call what happened to Olivia, it doesn’t matter. I lived through it all, knowing what she’d done to break us. And it feels like it left me that way too.

“I have no desire to fix it. I stopped loving you a long time ago.” She said it like she was sorry, but like I should have known that she had kept secrets so well that it never crossed my mind that she’d had any in the first place.

So now, the ring came off when I’m not playing any of the roles I’ve been given—lonely widower, single parent, loving father, or Kentucky’s most sought-after master distiller. When I need to be someone other than the easy-going Foxx brother and take what I want instead of following pleasantries or rules.

GRIZ

You planning to talk about your batch any time soon?

My grandfather is pushy when he’s excited about something. Hell, he’s pushy about most things. He just delivers it in a way that makes it seem like your idea. And when it comes to bourbon, he’s always excited. Ever since my baby brother released his special edition of bourbon, Griz expected both Ace and me to do the same. Exceeding expectations is Ace’s department. I’m expected to put out great bourbon every day, and now I need to do something exemplary. I’m not excited or inspired by that. If anything, I’m annoyed.

I have an idea about what I could do, but it isn’t going to go over well. My grandfather is open-minded, but Ace is adamant about following the rules. He doesn’t want to put out anything other than bourbon. No bourbon finished in specialty barrels or anything that could steer away from the core of what Foxx Bourbon delivers. I can’t find the right time to pitch my idea because of that, so I’ve been ignoring Griz’s question any time he asks.

Clearing my throat, I stare in the mirror, wiping the condensation from the shower with one swipe. More lines around my eyes than I remember. Still plenty of hair on my head. It’s one asset the Foxx men have in our favor. Even Griz still has a thick head of hair. Though he’s almost stark white now, matching his thick mustache. At one time, he and I looked the most alike. Our hair was darker brown than both my brothers’, and wavy when it was long enough. Maybe it’s time for a new look. I clean up around my neck with the razor, but instead of a clean shave, I leave my five o’clock shadow. It’s the middle of winter, and the weather is cold anyway.

“Dad, are you almost done? I need to get my robe.” Lily knocks, then again, louder, not even a few seconds later. “Can you hear me? Are you staring at yourself in the mirror again?”

Jesus, this kid.

Chuckling, I wrap the towel around my waist and open the door. “Why is your robe in my bathroom?”

She rolls her eyes. She’s gotten really good at being nine. “You have the better bathtub, duh.”

I smile at her. “Bought you some new bath bombs.”

Her eyes light up as they meet mine in the mirror. “You did, where?!”

“Just added them to the shelf.” I nod to the corner. It’s not hard for me to lean into being a girl-dad. If bath bombs get me smiles like that, then I’ll gladly buy as many as they want until they move onto the next obsession. My girls have had enough tears and felt enough sadness in their short lifetime. They deserve better than what they’ve been given.

I make my way into my walk-in and pluck a pair of jeans for tonight.

“Cozy vanilla cream and sparkling razzleberry. Dad, razzleberry isn’t an actual fruit, right?”

I’m fingering through my shirts when she finds me.

“Don’t think so, Lil,” I shout from the closet.

“It doesn’t say it’s a real fruit.” She holds up my phone to show me the search. “Oh, you got a text. Uncle Ace says he’s drinking with a few assholes at Midnight Proof.” Her eyes widen, lips rolling inward, realizing what she just said. “I’m just the messenger.”

With a quirked eyebrow, I hold out my hand for my phone. “Don’t read my texts, please. You should owe the curse purse.”

“Technically, Uncle Ace owes.”

I put my glasses on and look at the screen. “Lily, my phone has a passcode.”

With a nod, she smiles up at me. “I know my birthdate, Dad.”

How am I not supposed to laugh and applaud that? But I keep my dad hat on for a couple more minutes. “How did you know it was your birthday and not Lark’s?”

She walks to the back of the closet and stands on the small stool, reaching for the row of darker dress shirts. “You use Lark’s birthday for your computer password. And your birthday for the passcode on all the doors.”

“Seriously?” I deadpan.

“Here! Wear this one.” She hands me a black dress shirt, then hops off the stool. “You look the most handsome when you wear this one.”

“Stay off my electronics, kiddo,” I call out after her.

When I come down the stairs, Lark is sprawled out on the couch, roaming through Netflix. I do a double-take because my eleven-year-old looks more like a teenager every day—braids and dresses exchanged for sports t-shirts, high socks, and lip gloss. It honestly makes the center of my chest ache.

“Lark, you’re going to hate the next few words out of my mouth, but I’m going to say them, anyway.” I look at the clock. Grant will be here any minute. “You need to watch something that your sister is going to like, too.”

“C’mon, Daaad,” she groans. “Why do I have to? Lily isn’t even in here right now.” Sitting up quickly, she glares at me as I move toward the kitchen.

I take out the ice cream tub and two bowls as my oldest gives me a look of death. I thought this wasn’t coming for another few years, but Lark is on the cusp of turning twelve, and my sweet girl is quickly turning into a fire-breathing dragon of chaotic emotions. She also refuses to laugh at any of my jokes anymore. It’s an eye roll, or a huff, or, my favorite, being ignored.

“So did you decide what you want to do for your birthday this year?” I hold my breath, waiting and hoping she just says hanging out with a couple of friends.

“Spa party sleepover, just with some of the girls from my softball team, and maybe a few from my class last year. A few from this year, too. Maybe.”

Thank fucking goodness. A few friends I can handle. “Okay, who’s planning this spa party sleepover?”

She smiles at me, but it’s one of mischief. One that tells me I don’t know what I’m in for before she even responds. “Maybe Auntie Hadley can help you?”

Shit. I give her the side-eye and grab two spoons and hold one out for her. Raising my eyebrows, I make circles in the air with it. “What does that mean, ‘help me?’ You’re going to have to break down what this is going to look like. And how many people are we talking about?”

“Like, fifteen or so.” She glances up at the look of sheer horror I’m trying to mask.

But I’m already shaking my head.

She follows it up with, “That’s not that many, Dad. And we probably won’t even sleep. And maybe things like doing face masks and making our own lip balm.”

“Lark, that’s the entire softball team. Not a few friends,” I say as calmly as my brain will allow. “Can you pick two?”

She exhales heavily and tilts her head like the question is ridiculous. “Dad...”

Clearly the wrong question—leave it to a pre-teen to have you second guessing the kind of parent you actually are.

“My softball friends are really my best friends, but if I invite some of them, then I have to invite all of them. So that would be somewhere around twenty–ish.”

“This is not winning me over. What happened to fifteen? I liked that number better.”

She rolls her eyes, but instead of letting her fall down the rabbit hole of catching an attitude from this my-dad-is-so-lame moment, I open the top of the ice cream tub and try to throw her off her game.

“Come, tell me if this is poison before I try it. You’re younger, you’re more likely to survive.”

A small smile cracks out.

Got her.

She digs into the new container, taking out a massive hunk of the chocolate peanut butter swirl.

Almost exactly as the ice cream hits Lark’s mouth, Lily runs into the kitchen, sliding a solid three feet in her fuzzy socks until she ricochets an arm length from the counter. “Dad, please, please, please, can I have ice cream?”

“You have an Oreo in your hand.”

She plops it in her mouth and then holds up her now empty hands. With her cheeks filled while she chews, she gives me a double thumbs up. I stifle a laugh because it’s exactly what I would have done at her age.

Lark digs in for another spoonful and says, “Then fifteen for the party is okay?”

I’m being hustled by my own kid. “You swindled me, didn’t you?”

Over a mouthful of ice cream, she smiles. “I learned from the best.”

“Mhmmm, I see how it is.” Licking my spoon, I drop it in the sink. “Bedtime tonight is nine o’clock,” I tell them while I grab the sprinkles from the top cabinet. “You both had a busy week. I don’t want to come home and you’re still awake.”

“When are you coming home?” Lark asks as she clinks spoons with her sister.

“Late. And definitely after nine.”

“Are you going on a date?” Lily pipes up. The question has me pausing, because they’ve never asked me that before. I’ll get an occasional update about a friend’s mom asking if I’m still single, but they make barf faces and never really say much else.

I clear my throat. “Nope, just meeting a new friend.”

And that's the truth. I haven’t been interested in dating. Flirting, drinks, and some casual encounters are the extent. I’d already had the parts of life that allowed for more. The falling in love, marrying, kids, and then slowly falling out of love. And even after that, it didn’t end well. Hell, anyone who knows my last name doesn’t want that either. It’s foolish, but it feels too real to ignore the fact that just about any woman who fell in love with a Foxx ended up dying. With the exception of my new sister-in-law, Laney, who barely escaped a massive fire, a rickhouse explosion, and a serial killer. My hope is that she paid her penance to carry our last name and avoid the curse.

My girls don’t need to know why there won’t be anyone coming into their lives. It just isn’t something I want.

“What new friend?” Grant asks as he walks through the living room and toward the kitchen.

“Uncle Grant!” Lily shouts and jumps up on the couch, catapulting herself onto his back.

“Never gets old,” he says with a smile, as Lark gives him a high-five and knuckles.

“I’m assuming you’re heading to Midnight Proof at some point?”

I look around for my other boot. “Yeah, why?”

“Hadley roped Laney into bartending with her tonight.” He gives me a look that I know very well—he’s not thrilled about it. “Keep an eye on my wife, please.”

My brother has always been possessive of the people in his life, but he took that up a notch after Laney came waltzing into his world. It feels good to see my kid brother in love and happy again. I wasn’t sure that I’d ever get to witness it. We’d had a handful of tough years—the Foxx family. It messed Grant up in a way I understood, because I was experiencing it too.

“I got her,” I tell him as I kiss Lily on the head. “Laney can also handle her own, you know that.” I point at Lark. “We’ll talk about the party later. Be nice to your sister for me?”

She smiles and squeezes my shoulder. A sentiment of the Foxx men. We aren’t huggers, but when one of us is proud or happy to see the other, it’s always a firm shoulder squeeze. Lark pays attention. I still get hugs from her, but I love a good shoulder squeeze all the same.

“Did you want to come up for a drink?” the photographer asks me. A pretty brunette whose name I’ve been purposely ignoring for this very reason.

I have no interest in allowing this to go any further—something felt off, and this woman was tied to a huge publication. Local gossip is one thing, but I’m smart enough to know that her affiliation with The New York Times is a red flag. There are plenty of ways for her to influence Murray’s story. She’s beautiful, but a night of fun isn’t worth the potential complications.

“I have an early day tomorrow, and I need to talk to my friend behind the bar before I head out.” While that’s mostly true, I’m not ready to go home yet. “But thank you for indulging me and keeping me company tonight.”

I can tell by the tight-lipped smile and nod that she wasn’t planning to be dismissed so easily. She wanted to have a drink at the hotel bar, which meant she really had no interest in leaving and seeing Fiasco or the speakeasy I had mentioned earlier today. It would be effortless to take her upstairs and fool around. Suck, fuck, rinse, repeat. I struggle to remember the last time I felt anything that resembled genuine heat, never mind the kind of chemistry that doesn’t allow room for thinking, just reacting and leading. That dance that wipes away common sense and leaves two people breathless and wanting for more. Yeah, none of that’s happening tonight. I give her a kiss on the cheek, pay the tab, and thank her for the beautiful company.

Less than twenty minutes later, I walk down the stairs and through the double oak doors of Midnight Proof. I’m greeted by the warm, dimmed lighting from the chandeliers and the sound of the jazz trio kicking off their set. The sultry crowd and familiar faces wipe away any lingering thoughts about my evening with the photographer. Going home would have been the smarter choice, but Ace has texted me twice more complaining about the company he’s keeping tonight. I’m always better at charming the people who grate on Ace’s nerves.

I catch my best friend giving me a wide-eyed smile as I head toward the bar. “What are you doing here?” She glances at Ace across the room. “Figured it’d be past both your bedtimes by now.”

I flip her off. “He can’t hear you making fun of his age from all the way over there.”

The speakeasy is packed tonight, with a variety of people in town to talk about bourbon and horses. Business in a relaxed setting always makes for better deals.

I glance down the length of the bar toward my sister-in-law. “Whatcha making down there?”

She does a double take. “Linc! Did my husband send you to check on me?”

I smile at her. “Never!”

Laughing, she finishes her drink order.

Hadley stares at me knowingly. “Crap date?”

“Not a date. Just a distraction.” I shrug a shoulder.

She gives me a deadpan glare, wanting more details. When she realizes that’s all I’m going to say, she gives me an understanding smile. “Here, you get a Manhattan tonight,” she says, sliding the cocktail to me. “Can you let Brady at the door know that the show is starting in five.”

I tap my knuckles on the bar. “On it.” By the time I make it to the double doors, the lights are dimming. I lean into Brady, the bouncer. “Hadley says the show’s about to start, so let’s hold out on any more entries.”

He gives me a nod and does what he has to do.

I linger there just as the jazz band gets a little louder, playing something I recognize, but could never name. In a low riff, the bass starts, and the trumpet chimes in a few moments later. Leaning my back against the brick wall draped in black velvet curtains, I look around, watching couples and friends peppered throughout the highball tables and lounges, all sipping on something in coupe, rocks, or champagne glasses. I notice my brother entertaining another suit, just as the room grows quiet. It’s the type of silence that feels predictive of a winter storm. A storm you know is coming, but it just hasn’t broken through the clouds yet.

Hushed voices whisper and wait for the singer and the elusive burlesque performance to begin. I forgot that’s what tonight’s entertainment would be. It explains the above normal packed house on a weeknight. It’s been months now since Hadley mentioned the “smokeshow burlesque dancer” she had hired. Tonight was the first show.

I sip on my Manhattan—the rye whiskey is a nice switch from my usual bourbon neat. When I come to Midnight Proof, I let Hadley, or whichever bartender is pouring for the night, choose my drink for me.

The vermouth coats my tongue, and the rye eases down nicely. Dim lighting mixed with the music prelude and my drink have my body relaxing. But then a trumpet pitching loud and abruptly ending has me snapping to attention. In the center of the room, a single spotlight flips on, and underneath it, a woman stands in a black trench coat. Her dark hair is pinned up to one side with some kind of netting and pink gems that reflect the light. The dramatic sounds and lighting amplify everything. I’m fixated on her silhouette, eager to know the way it curves and dips beneath that coat.

I adjust my glasses and take another sip of my drink. But when she turns, the feeling of contentment that I had momentarily is ripped out from under me.

Green eyes I had once mistaken for blue are framed by smudged dark make-up that tips up to points along each side. A small beauty mark, one that sits slightly to the right, just above the curve of her cheek, is more confirmation. I know that mark. The same way I know that her hair is naturally blonde, not black.

Faye fucking Calloway.

Anger flares inside me, the same way a match would ignite when dragged along red phosphorus. It’s a chemical reaction that changes one element into another in a millisecond. The powerful emotion catches fire along my limbs, down my back, making my cock tingle, and every inch of my skin overheat.

I grit my teeth so hard that my jaw hurts. What the fuck is she doing back in Fiasco? I flex my hand at my side, remembering the night, along the edge of the cornfield next door to my house, being blackmailed with a fucking murder weapon moments after a kiss that never should have happened. It should have felt like payback, our kiss in that field, after everything that my wife had admitted to me that night. But it hadn’t felt anything like payback—and that pissed me off.

The music evolves into an old tone that dips off and then the band’s singer draws out the opening chorus. This entire room must be sharing the sentiment of her lyrics, that she’s feeling gooooood ...because the echoes of hoots and whistles ring out just as Faye unties the belt to the coat. Each end of the belt hangs on their respective sides, swaying because of the dramatic way she flicked her wrists. Her fingers cloaked in satin gloves grip the long coat together, keeping it closed for a moment longer. Seconds later, the music gets louder, higher, and she sheds her coat in a way that’s so effortless and seductive, I can’t look away. She’s left in nothing more than a blur of dusty pink lace and satin. It’s sheer and shimmering as the spotlight follows her movements.

Fucking hell. I shift, fully aware that my body’s reacting to her. With my dick hardening and my face flushing, I’m fucking livid that she’s here. And then it clicks—she’s not visiting. She’s fucking working here.

I glance down the length of her, salivating as I watch her hips and thick thighs sway. And how her waist dips in like an hourglass. It's impossible to look at anything or anyone else as she moves through the crowd, her hips ticking back and forth in time with the drumbeat. When I finally swallow, I look around to see the entire room focused on every detail of her. She’s an entirely new kind of focal point. The kind that turns heads and bodies on. There isn’t a single person paying attention to anything or anyone else other than her, including me.

Faye stands in front of where Ace and his party sit. The three men casually watch on, each of them with a glass of bourbon in one hand. Their eyes glide down the length of her body, and I’m sure a roster of thoughts about her run through their minds. Plenty are running through mine.

She perches herself on the table in front of them, eyes locked on one of the assholes my brother spoke of earlier, as she raises one gloved arm above her head. Taking her time, she drags the satin glove down to her elbow, and then, with one finger in her mouth, uses her teeth to pull it off the rest of the way.

“What do you say, boys?” Faye says to the band, loud enough for the audience to hear, cutting into the sultry song. “Are we feeling good?” Some hoots and whistles echo off the walls and I’m smiling like a goddamn idiot. She smiles in that sexy way that she’s perfected. Every facial expression and movement are for a purpose.

Her hands meet her hips, chest out, and she pulls some string on the already barely-there dress, removing the outer layer of sheer pink. She’s left in a pink satin bra and shorts set. Beneath the reflection of the chandeliers and spotlight, her skin shimmers. Two rows of crystals hug her neck, and as if they are droplets of water, they splash down from her collarbone, loosely dripping down to her chest, framing each mouth-watering breast.

A loud whistle from the bar has me clearing my throat and blinking. I feel like I’ve just been slapped across the face. I should leave. I should go home and deal with these feelings in the morning. But I don’t move from my spot. I can’t.

I track her movements across the room. Faye smiles and takes a seat on one of the men Ace was rubbing elbows with. Some asshole who owned auction houses who had been on a private tour of the distillery earlier today. His meaty hand rests on her lower back, fingers splayed lower than what I would consider a respectable way to touch a stranger.

She leans closer and whispers something to him. Smiling, her neck cranes away from him as her head dips back, leaving her sprawled across his lap. But it’s when her head is tipped fully back that she locks eyes with me. It’s brief, but her body tenses, and the carefree, flirtatious expression falls as she keeps her attention on me for a few beats more.

“You’re not supposed to be here, and you know it,” I mumble to myself. I can’t figure out what pisses me off more: the fact that she’s back in my town or that I can’t stop watching her. My dick twitches as she drags her hands up the center of her body, and then, with the change in tempo, she stands up and moves along the open space between chairs and the stage. She’s teasing the entire room, and I’d put money on the fact that not a single seat in the house is dry or soft.

Crossing my arms over my chest, my eyes roam down her body once more. Her shoulders thrust back, accentuating the shape of her full tits that strain to escape the pink satin propping them so perfectly. My thumb finds its way to my mouth, and I drag it across my lips, wondering what hers would feel like—urgent, plush, an appetizer. The smooth skin creased between her bottoms and where the curve of her ass ends as she turns looks like the perfect place to drag fingers and graze teeth.

What the fuck am I thinking?

The singer kicks into the chorus again and the room echoes with more whistles as Faye unbuckles her right garter belt first, and then covers her mouth as if to say, Oops! When she flicks the other side open, her eyes meet mine with a smirk this time. That’s when she starts moving toward me. Don’t you fucking dare.

I hear Brady, the bouncer next to me, say, “Holy shit, she’s coming this way—” He nudges my chest with the back of his hand.

Walking right up to me, she winks— she fucking winks . And then her attention veers to Brady. The fucking guy who looks like a linebacker and is a good six inches shorter than me. He swallows and stares at Faye. Jesus, she’s rendered him stupid.

“Hi, handsome,” she says in a sweet, projected voice, her Kentucky twang loud and proud. “Would you mind helping me?”

But I don’t let him answer. “Is there a zipper, or will I need a knife?” I interject. My voice is deep and loud enough so that I know she hears me.

Her eyes shift and anchor to mine. The exchange between us is simple. He’s not going to fucking touch you, so you better ask me for that favor.

She looks over her shoulder at the crowd. The spotlights throughout the room highlight various tables, making it just bright enough for everyone to see who she’s planning to play with. Me . With a smile dancing along her lips, she turns back and slides her hand along my forearm and clasps her fingers around mine, guiding me back toward the bar where a vacant stool waits. When we get there, she presses herself close, runs her fingers down the center of my shirt, and then gives me a little shove onto the stool and just as the trumpet tips up in a high note. The crowd isn’t as loud, but the move encourages a few whistles and hoots. Stepping back, she raises her leg slowly, the ball of her heeled foot hitting right above my belt. I don’t move my hands when she leans forward, her foot pushing into me as she asks, “A little help, Foxx.”

It’s impossible to ignore where we are, but my body buzzes with the anticipation of touching her. The jazz band plays just the instrumental interlude as I do. Her heels don’t have a buckle. The feathery pouf that rests along the top of her shoe is a nice touch—she’s a goddamn pin-up girl from head to toe. I slip the back off first and then the front, tossing it to the side. I hear a few people shout out my name and Hadley or Laney—one of the two—whistles again from behind the bar.

Starting from her ankle, I glide my fingers and the palms of both hands up her calf and to her knee, where the ninety-degree angle forces my fingers to her thigh. I let my palms run underneath instead of the sides of her legs, slowly pulling at the light pink fishnet stockings. Rolling them down her leg, my fingers brush along her smooth skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Touching her like this shouldn’t feel so good. And people watching should make me think twice, but it doesn’t.

She switches legs and signals for me to do the other. As I repeat the same movement, I can’t help but look at her face this time, focusing on the plump bottom lip painted in the same color pink as the netting I’m gliding down her leg. When I move my attention upwards, having no problem looking someone in the eye, she swallows, and the playful hint on her lips struggles to stay in place. My heart races as my fingers linger against her skin. And my breath catches as I catalog the beauty mark on her upper cheek, the way her throat works to swallow, and how her chest expands as she watches me.

The second my fingers pull away, the trance between the two of us is broken, and she snaps back into character. Now even shorter without her heels, eyes linger for an extra beat on me, and then flick back toward the small circular stage. She drapes the stockings around her neck, each leg resting against her tits. The trumpet, bass, and singer end the song on a long drag of the words “feeling good” as she tosses the satin bra to the side, revealing only the valley of skin between her tits. The fishnet stockings hang strategically over her as she struts away, the lights cutting out, leaving behind the echo of applause. I rub my thumb along the pads of my fingers. I feel like I’ve just been fucked. And the satisfaction isn’t lingering.

It's a very distinct feeling, the same one I experienced the night I stumbled into her on the edge of a dark cornfield. Only now, she’s exchanged dirt and blood for satin and fishnets. Time hasn’t changed a fucking thing—she’s still dangerous.

It was easy to figure out what she had been doing in that field, especially after discovering who had been considered missing shortly after, and why she would need an alibi. Whatever her angle is for being back now, I’m going to figure it out. But not tonight.

“Lincoln.” Ace’s deep voice cuts in as he waves me over. I clear my throat, my head still reeling over a woman.

I smile as I walk past the bar, and Hadley asks, “What’d you think about the show?”

Giving her an unimpressed glance, I focus back on my brother. Anything that would pull my focus away from who I just watched peel off her clothes so publicly, so seductively, is what I need right now. Goddamnit.

“I’d like to introduce you to Brock Blackstone,” Ace says as I step closer.

I extend my hand to shake his as I recall the name and how his business supports ours.

“Yes, that’s right. Blackstone Auctions. I’ve heard some remarkable things are auctioned and sold through your business.”

As he shakes my hand, I try not to think about how they’re the same fingers that were splayed across her back. The same hand that glided along her skin. “So much more than what you would expect,” Blackstone answers. “My private auction, specifically, might interest the both of you. I’ve acquired...” He pauses curiously. “Very beautiful things. And many more that are useful to businessmen in multiple arenas.”

He looks around the room. “Speaking of, where did that gorgeous thing flitter off to? Will you excuse me?”

I toss back the rest of my Manhattan and watch as he meanders toward the bar. Ace stands next to me, drinking his bourbon. “Interesting crowd here tonight, don’t you think?”

I give him the side-eye. “The entertainment included?”

He lets out a laugh and takes another sip. “She looks...different.”

And just like I had done a handful of years ago, I lie to my brother again about the same person when I say, “I didn’t notice.”