Drunk on You Page 5

  Chapter Five

  Allie finished the regular company data compilation quickly, so she could shift to her own project. She opened her double-secret folder and went over her plans—making sure nothing would be knocked out of alignment by one gimpy marine. Since the elders had shut her out, she was making an end run to test market Rainbow Dog Whiskey—flavored, un-aged bourbon. The distillery managers would be taking the Blue Mountain bourbon entries to the On the Rocks liquor festival, since the rest of the family was on their cruise. Brandon and Eve planned to leave the vacation a few days early to go to the awards ceremony, but everyone else would skip it this year. Thank God. Allie planned to go a day early to sneak her samples of Rainbow Dog into the competition. If all went well, she’d have an opportunity to launch her hillbilly chic product right around Blue Mountain’s objections.

  Looking after Justin had thrown a clinker into the works, but she was sure she’d manage to figure out something to do with him when she left for Georgia. Maybe one of his bimbo lady friends would come stay with him.

  That thought gave her a stomachache, but she shoved it away and played with some fantasy sales projections.

  Hitting “enter” one last time, Allie watched the number she was looking for appear in the highlighted cell on her laptop screen. “Yes!”

  “Yes, what?”

  Allie jumped and slapped the screen of her computer closed. “What are you doing?” She sat back, trying to pretend that she hadn’t been doing anything top secret.

  “That’s my question. What are you working on?” Justin leaned on his crutches behind Allie’s seat on the couch. She’d been so focused that she hadn’t heard him drag himself into the room. But now she was aware of his breath stirring the hair on the back of her neck. Why did he have to breathe like…like…sex?

  After his bath earlier, he’d claimed exhaustion and closed his door on her, saying he was going to take a nap, but Allie had heard strains of Judge Judy and The People’s Court coming from his room. He was avoiding her. Which was fine, she told herself. She had work to do.

  “Nothing. Just some marketing data.” She turned to look at him, so she didn’t have to feel him breathe his sexy breath on her. Or smell his sexy clean body. Except now she had to look at his stupid sexy face.

  “Uh-huh.” He shook the hair out of his eyes. Since leaving the service, he hadn’t had it cut, and it grew fast. He’d be looking like a hippie in a couple of weeks if he didn’t get to the barber soon. Yeah. A dirty, lazy hippie. Not a sexy boy next door aching for her fingers in his mop. She eyed his impressive shoulders, stretching the threadbare Bourbon Trail T-shirt that was more hole than fabric. “You don’t wear that shirt in public, do you?”

  “Only for you, Sneezy.” He tilted his head. “I am, however, not as dumb as I look, and I’m not easily distracted. What are you working on?”

  She hated when he called her “Sneezy.” It made her feel about fourteen years old, trying to be cool and hang out with the boys while they sneaked cigarettes and hid Hustler magazines in the clubhouse they’d built in the woods.

  When the boys were off at football practice, she’d gone in and stolen the cigarettes they hid there, breaking them in pieces to make it look like a raccoon had gotten in and torn things up.

  The porn she didn’t mess with though, other than, yeah, okay, maybe, to look. She’d spent some time on the internet after that, trying to find out if her own parts were normal, because she didn’t look like those girls. Who knew there were so many different sizes and shapes of cooches? Of course, she’d also learned there were a lot of different sizes and shapes of penises, too. And after seeing Justin naked today, she—

  “Hey, babe, my eyes are up here,” Justin said, laughing.

  She realized she was staring at the crotch of his knit basketball shorts and jerked her gaze to his face, but the damage was done. She was totally turned on, just from being so close to him. Again.

  “I know it’s amazing, but you’ve already had your free look for today.”

  Her cheeks grew hotter. “I was going to make chicken cacciatore for supper. Does that sound okay to you?” She tucked her laptop under her arm, pushed off the cushions, and started for the kitchen.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” He reached across the back of the couch, grabbing for the computer.

  She sidestepped and he got a handful of her shirt, pulling her toward him. He was at a distinct disadvantage, balance-wise, but had at least seventy-five pounds more muscle, so they fell toward each other, landing on the sofa in a pile of limbs.

  “Damn!” He lay over her, bum leg between her body and the back of the couch, other knee between her own. Oh. His perfect, hard thigh. Right there.

  Through the haze of lust brought about by lying in a tangle of Justin, she managed to ask, “Is your leg okay?” She had visions of explaining how she failed in her first twenty-four hours to keep Justin safe. Bad enough she’d gotten him injured in the first place; now she was knocking him down again.

  “Yeah. But you do have a knack for sweeping me off my feet. Are you okay?”

  “Well,” she said, “that’s an interesting question.” Her laptop slid to the floor, the hand that had been holding it now on his waist. He held himself slightly above her, so his whole weight wasn’t pressing her down into the couch, but impulse wanted her to pull him fully over her, wondering what it would feel like to have him collapse against her, spent after an orgasm.

  Her other hand was trapped between their bodies, lower, and she realized that she was feeling…not the padded top of the brace under his gym shorts, but—she wiggled her fingers experimentally, turning her hand just enough to feel—no, that wasn’t the brace.

  She gasped.

  “Jesus,” he said. But he didn’t move away, as the not-brace became not-soft.

  Her own body warmed and throbbed in response. Looking up, she was shocked to see that his expression—lust and confusion—mirrored her own thoughts. Lust was edging confusion for the lead. Good sense had fallen far behind.

  She stroked him. The hard length outlined against the silky fabric of his shorts allowed her to explore contours she’d admired from a distance earlier in the day, both on the deck and in the tub. “Okay,” she said, hearing her voice waver. “You’re right. It’s a really nice dick.”

  The laugh that huffed from his chest vibrated against her, causing her to arch against him with a whimper.

  Which he apparently misinterpreted as distress.

  “Oh, shit, babe. Sorry.” He struggled to move off of her, but his bad leg was wedged between her body and the couch, and she still had a firm grip on his penis.

  She reluctantly released him and moved to the edge of the couch to give him room.

  A few seconds and much thrashing and cursing later, they were sitting side by side, looking anywhere but at each other. Her chest tightened with embarrassment. She figured—hoped—Justin would escape back to his room, and started to rise so she could help him find his crutches.

  He surprised her with a hand on her arm, and then shocked the hell out of her with his words. “We should talk about this,” he said.

  “Okay…”

  His blue eyes shone with sincerity. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me. After…you know, after the patio the other night, and this just now… I’m not going to molest you or anything. My God, you’re Dave’s little sister. It’s just…you know, I’m a guy. My body has a mind of its own.”

  Of course it did. She knew that.

  Be my girl.

  Justin didn’t differentiate between women physically or mentally.

  Looking down, she noticed a damp spot on the front of his shorts, which gave her pause, eased the mortification that her indiscriminate groping had caused. He might not want her—at least, not specifically her—but his body certainly liked her.

  Annoyance flared in her chest. “Is this where you’d tell your wife, after she catches you with your secretary, ‘I have needs’?” She did st
and then. “I’m pretty sure I’m the grabby one in this instance. But your virtue is safe with me.”

  As she attempted to flounce from the room, she caught sight of his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace, and thought for a moment she saw…longing? But when she glanced back, he was shaking his head and adjusting that damned brace again.

  …

  Dinner conversation was somewhat stilted after the near miss on the couch. Justin ate everything on his plate and asked for seconds, all the while scrambling for small talk.

  Why was he struggling for something to say? He was the supreme deity of meaningless conversation. He could schmooze anyone, from a cranky Muslim shopkeeper to a crankier four-star general. He just couldn’t seem to stay out of the minefield that was Allie McGrath without stepping in something.

  “Do you want some iced tea?” she asked, getting up to carry their plates to the sink.

  “I’d like a drink, if you’re pouring.”

  “You sure you don’t want iced tea?” she asked.

  “Hey, it’s still five o’clock somewhere.”

  Allie sighed. “I’m not going to turn into a nag, but you seem to be drinking a lot lately. If there’s something you want to talk about—”

  “Thanks, babe. I’m good. Just a little sore, and a shot of family comfort is better than any painkiller.”

  She nodded, apparently accepting his denial. She could probably tell that he wasn’t completely comfortable at home. Hell, everyone could tell. He saw the worried glances, noticed the tiptoeing around. At least Allie didn’t tiptoe. She practically scampered.

  He was so used to the routines of military life that the casual atmosphere of home, combined with the enforced inactivity of his convalescence, made him irritable and restless. Although the scampering—that was distracting.

  Drinking, however, was more than distracting. A shot or three took the edge off, blurred the discomfort of reality. He’d ease up as soon as he got the hell out of here—away from his perfect brother and the overambitious expectations of his father—and got to work out West.

  He refused to consider—especially since Brandon and Clyde weren’t even in Crockett County at the moment—that adding alcohol to his bloodstream was an attempt to neutralize the ardor simmering in his body. He could not go there. He’d promised Dave he’d watch out for Allie, not compromise her virtue.

  “Are you going to go down to the distillery tomorrow?” Allie set a glass with about a quarter of the recommended dose of bourbon in front of him. “I’ve got to deliver some paperwork and check on…something. If you want to go down and see the new rickhouse, I can drive you.”

  Justin dreaded going to the distillery. He’d managed to avoid it since coming home. Seeing all of those little bottles of Dave’s 8-Ball had nearly destroyed him the other night at the anniversary party. Seeing Dave’s dream project finished—that might do him in completely. But staying here, with nothing to do but try to keep his hands off Allie, wasn’t an option. And he needed to snoop around. He had to figure out what the hell she was up to with her flavored white dog project. Brandon’s explanation the other day in the hospital sounded a little wonky. Of course, that could have been the pain meds.

  “Yeah, I’ll go. Do Caleb and Sherry need help getting shit ready for On the Rocks?”

  Caleb and Sherry, the middle-aged married couple who lived on the Blue Mountain grounds, conducted tours of the distillery and ran the little café that sat inside the gates of the plant.

  Blue Mountain’s entry into the tourism business had been another of Dave’s brilliant ideas. He said he didn’t have anything else to think about while on patrol in Afghanistan, so he came up with ideas and emailed them home to Brandon, who sorted through the dumbass ones (like sponsoring a bourbon-tasting fund-raiser for Little League baseball teams to promote the idea that bourbon should be a part of every activity from the earliest age) and occasionally implemented something that might have a shot of working.

  “Yeah, they’re ready for On the Rocks,” Allie said. She’d come around the table and handed Justin his drink, but in her other hand, she carried her laptop. She put it on the table, tapping it nervously. “But I was thinking. Maybe you and I should go, instead of Caleb and Sherry.”

  …

  “Yeah, right.” Justin’s voice echoed into his bourbon. He took a drink, then put the glass down carefully on the table. Wiping at his mouth with the side of his hand, he pushed his chair back.

  In spite of his definite lack of enthusiasm, it was now or never. Sometime between trying to keep her project from Justin and almost having an orgasm from touching his genitals, she’d decided to share her secret. She put her computer in front of him and opened the screen. She took a deep breath and stepped behind him. “Just watch this, okay?”

  After a few seconds, the screen brightened, and the media player appeared. Bluegrass music accompanied video of the rolling hills of western Kentucky, water bubbling over limestone rocks in the Blue Mountain River, and Thoroughbred colts frolicking in green fields surrounded by dark brown fences.

  Justin shot a look at Allie as her own voice replaced the music.

  She cringed to hear herself, but was proud of the words she’d put together, a testament to the good people of Kentucky and the fine bourbon tradition of corn, barley, rye, and wheat whiskey, aged in new, charred oak barrels, and the excellence of Blue Mountain Bourbon’s long-standing history in the region.

  Then the music changed to a country rap song, accompanying video of a NASCAR race, interspersed with laughing, beautiful people riding around in beat-up trucks.

  And then her voice again introducing Blue Mountain’s Rainbow Dog Whiskey—cherry-flavored Red Dog, apple-flavored Green Dog, and a berry Blue Dog, among others.

  After the video ended, Justin picked up his glass and stared into the amber liquid, swirling it a little.

  “Well? What do you think?” She bit at a hangnail, trying not to bounce while she waited for his reaction.

  “What are you trying to do?” he finally asked.

  “I want us to jump into the future with both feet. Moonshine is hot. Between reality TV and shows like Justified, Greater Appalachia is cool as hell. Have you seen Daryl on Walking Dead? He’s like the sexiest redneck ever.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Greater Appalachia?”

  Allie shrugged. “If it’s not a thing, I’m going to make it a thing. I’ve done a ton of research. We have the capacity to get into the market.” She leaned over his shoulder, inadvertently flattening her breast against his back, and sending her nipple on a fact-finding mission. Ignoring her hormones, she hit a couple of keys and pulled up a slide show presentation with her financial projections.

  “We can use Dave’s and your raw 8-Ball recipe, if you’ll sign off on it. Then the old farts can’t accuse me of illegally diverting perfectly good fetal Blue Mountain bourbon. If we fired up that old pot still you and Dave used to make 8-Ball, we could have enough distilled and bottled up to take to On the Rocks. There are a bunch of distributors open to carrying moonshine, and if you’ll go and be the face of—”

  Justin held up a hand to cut her off. “Stop.”

  “But—”

  He leaned forward and twisted around, so she had to straighten and step away from him to see his face. “What do the ’rents say?”

  “Um, well…” Crap. The side of her thumb went back into her mouth while she decided what to tell him.

  “Leave that alone,” he said, pulling her hand away from her lips. “You’ve shown this to them, right?”

  “Yeah.” She shoved her hands into her pockets to keep from gnawing them bloody.

  Justin stared at her, eyebrow raised.

  She sighed and felt her shoulders slump. “I brought it up at the last board meeting, but the old people wouldn’t even consider it. Said the Blue Mountain name is all about tradition and exclusivity, Keeneland and country clubs. Selling white dog would be like bootlegging moonshine, and to quote my dear mothe
r, ‘We do not engage in white-trash activities.’”

  “What did Brandon and Eve say?”

  “You know how they are. They like it, but neither one of them would say ‘shit’ if they had a mouthful. Eve’s so busy trying to stay one step ahead of our mother, she doesn’t pay attention to anything but keeping the books straight. Brandon likes it, but he doesn’t have any power to make decisions. He says maybe after the new rickhouse is up and stocked, we can try some, send it out to local businesses, but I think we need to go bigger. We need to get it out nationally, because the local markets are sort of saturated. Send it out West. L.A., Vegas. Heck, San Francisco. Shake up the wine snobs a little.”

  Justin was listening, nodding, so she kept going. “We’re scheduled to start barreling up Dave’s batch to become 8-Ball bourbon in three days. But if you’ll help me, we can use part of that to make Rainbow Dog flavors and have it ready to take to Georgia.”

  Allie usually didn’t know enough to quit when she was ahead, so she figured she’d probably overshot the mark a little. But he was nodding. “Dave’s stuff is supposed to be the first bourbon aged in the new rickhouse.”

  Justin picked up his glass again, put it to his nose, and breathed deeply. Then he tilted the glass, draining the shot of 8-Ball. He stood, shoving the crutches under his arms. “I don’t think so,” he said, as he hopped around her and out of the kitchen.

  Chapter Six

  Justin woke with a nose full of vanilla and chocolate, and a head leaking brain cells. He eyed the empty fifth of bourbon on his nightstand. Well, at least he hadn’t fallen asleep curled around it like the stuffed bunny someone—his mother, probably—had pulled from the closet as a welcome-home gesture. He’d tossed the threadbare beast, which only had half of one ear and more closely resembled the Taco Bell Chihuahua than a rabbit, onto the chair next to the bed, where it sat glaring at him, accusation clear in its button eyes.

  What did the goddamned thing know about how it felt to try to sleep here, where the night was so quiet that the nightmares had room to breed and grow? The bourbon didn’t stop them from coming, but at least they were fuzzier when he woke up. “Don’t fucking judge me, Hoppy.”