Page 29 of On the Rocks

“Daddy, it’s okay,” I said, plucking my driver out of my bag again. “We’re almost done here, anyway. If you need to go, go.”

His brows folded together. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” I smiled, leaning my club against the cart before walking over to give him a hug. “I’ll see you at dinner sometime this week.”

He sighed when I was in his arms, wrapping me in a bear hug with a gentle kiss pressed to my hair. “You’re the best kid ever.”

“I love you, too, Daddy.”

I insisted Dad take the cart so he could get back faster, assuring him I wanted the walk. We weren’t far from the club house the way the course was lined up, anyway. And once he was gone, I swung my driver a few times behind where the tee was set up, preparing for the last long shot of the day.

As I lined it up, my thoughts drifted first to Dad, to his reaction when I’d brought up Anthony. HelovedAnthony — he and Mama had both made that very clear just after one dinner with him. And, provided that he’d just asked me to marry him a month ago and we were six weeks out from the big day, it was safe to say they both approved.

So, then, why the odd response?

I shook it off, cracking my neck and focusing on the ball. But as I squared my shoulders, my thoughts drifted again, this time back to Mrs. Landish and her cackling crew.

Which then led my thoughts to Friday night.

To Noah.

I wondered if he saw it that night at the bonfire — the stress I swore I was wearing like a choker. Annie didn’t seem to, nor did anyone else. But Noah… it was like he saw right through me.

I swallowed, let out a long breath as I cleared my mind once more, and hammered the ball down the green.

Noah

Everyone knew not to talk to me that Wednesday.

I showed up to work an hour early, desperate to get my hands dirty, my muscles fired up, my mind on anything other than the anniversary of my father’s death. That day marked nine years of him being gone, and I thought with time, that sting would fade. I thought I’d become immune to the pain, to the anger, to the aching emptiness I felt that no justice had ever been served in his honor.

But I’d been wrong.

Most of the week, I’d been fine. It was a normal weekend, a little partying and a little relaxing with the family. Church happened on Sunday, just like always. Once Monday arrived, I was back in work gear. And through all of that, my thoughts had been occupied by the Mayor’s daughter.

I didn’t like that Ruby Grace was on my mind, that when I was playing cards with my brothers on Saturday evening, I thought about the way her hair smelled as she sat on that saddle in front of me. I didn’t like that when I saw her at church, prim and proper in her lavender dress, I thought about how much I liked her better in the jean shorts and tank top she’d worn. And I definitely didn’t like that when I woke up on Monday morning, I had a hard-on the size of a sledge hammer after having a dream about her.

I wanted her off my mind. She was someone else’s fiancé. She was also nearly ten years younger than I was.

But now that my mind was taken over by thoughts of my father’s untimely death, I wished it was just her in my head again. I wished I could think about anything other than how badly this day would always hurt, for the rest of my life.

Marty, Eli, and PJ worked alongside me without saying a word that day. They didn’t even joke around with each other, sensing the mood I was in, the somberness that settled over the entire distillery.

The Scooter family and the board always glorified this day. The morning announcements asked for a moment of silence for the only employee to ever perish at Scooter Whiskey. They praised the safety plans they’d had in place, attributing the fact that there weren’tmoredeaths because of that plan they’d had in place. They praised the firemen, too, that they arrived so “quickly.” Then, they would read off my father’s accomplishments like a grocery list, have that one minute of silence, and then everything was back to normal.

Even though Logan was across the distillery preparing for his first tour when that morning announcement came, and even though Mikey was in the welcome center, getting the gift shop ready to open, I still felt them in that moment those announcements were read. I felt their hearts squeezing in pain the same way mine did, felt their anger, their hostility toward the company that paid their bills, that our grandfather had helped build, that we both loved and cherished but were also bound to in some sick, sadistic way.

I thought of them, of our family, all day long as I kept my head down, focusing on the task at hand. I built more barrels than my daily quota called for, but I didn’t care. As long as I was busy, I was okay. I just needed to get through the day.

I just needed to survive.

It was well after lunch when Patrick Scooter swung through the doors that led to the barrel raising warehouse. I hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t stopped working until I felt a number of eyes on me. I looked up at Marty first, who warned me with a stern brow fold, like he was worried I’d do something irrational. PJ and Eli watched me, too — their eyes flicking back and forth between the door and me. When I followed their gaze and saw Patrick talking to Gus, a clipboard in his hand, dressed like he was in an office in New York City rather than a distillery in Stratford, Tennessee, I clenched my jaw.

Patrick Scooter was a few years older than my father would have been if he were still alive. They grew up around the distillery together, almost like brothers until Patrick’s dad passed away, leaving the distillery to him.

Everything changed then.

I didn’t have any certified or blatant reason not to like Patrick, other than the fact that something in my gut told me he was a shit guy. Something in my gut told me he didn’t like my family.