Moonshine Kiss by Lucy Score & Claire Kingsley

Author:Lucy Score & Claire Kingsley [Score, Lucy & Kingsley, Claire]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: That's What She Said Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2018-12-06T16:00:00+00:00

35

Cassidy

“Men are stupid stupid faces!” I slurred, raising my glass.

“The stupidest,” Scarlett obliged. “No offense, babe.” Devlin was our designated driver.

“None taken,” he promised, elegant and gorgeous in navy slacks and a cashmere sweater with tiny threads loose around the cuffs. Kitten Jedediah, named for Scarlett’s moonshine-making bootlegging great-grandad, was hellbent on destroying everything the happy couple owned.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Devlin offered.

I certainly would. I launched into my sixteenth explanation of exactly why Bowie made me so damn mad, except this time I couldn’t quite remember the specifics. Thankfully, I had enough wits about me not to bring up the clusterfuck with Connelly at work. And the pictures. I shuddered. I couldn’t stop thinking about the pictures. There was something so…dark about them.

I knew the Bodines would want to know about the pictures. But I didn’t want them to get their hopes up. With Connelly running the show someone could produce a notarized suicide note from Callie and he’d still try for an arrest warrant on a Bodine.

So instead of talking about it, I drank.

We’d started at The Lookout and then made our way to a bar called The Still farther west. It was easier to get shit-faced in a place where you wouldn’t be as likely to have to arrest someone in a week.

The Still was a little shabbier than The Lookout. The floors were stickier, the darts were sharper, but the drinks were poured with heavier hands. Drunk was I. But not too far gone to forget to hydrate regularly and stuff fried food down on top of the liquor.

“June Bug, come take a selfie,” my mom screeched. Nadine Tucker didn’t let her hair down often, but when she did, she could rival Scarlett in party antics. I’d spilled my guts to her this afternoon about the Dad and Bowie situation, and in solidarity she’d left my father home with a frozen TV dinner.

June, mourning the career-ending injury of her fantasy football receiver and the lack of a Turkey Tuesday, came along to mope alongside me. Leah Mae and Scarlett were the only chipper ones in the group. But their good moods buoyed mine enough to keep me from thinking too hard about Connelly.

“Lula!” Scarlett shouted over the country twang of the band on the stage. The band was horrible, but the drinks were cheap, and that’s how I was blitzed out of my gourd before 9 p.m.

I swiveled on my stool and slid right off. Devlin, kind gentleman that he was, helped me back up. “Luuuuuulaaaaaa,” I crooned. “You’re so pretty!”

Lula was a massage therapist who ran the Bootleg Springs Spa. She was annoyingly beautiful with her flawless dark skin and fabulous thick hair. She was wearing a plaid shirt knotted above the top of her probably size four jeans.

I magnanimously chose not to hold that against her.

“I’m here to get the dirt on you and Bowie,” she told me.

“Bowie is a stupid face and you need a drink to hear why,” I insisted.

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