Drunk on You Page 6

  “What did he do to you?”

  “Shit!” Justin jerked around at the sound of a female voice, then put a hand on the top of his head to keep it from falling off.

  Allie stood in the doorway, holding a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. “Butter and sugar. It’s what’s for breakfast,” she said, coming in and handing him the food.

  “Thanks, I think,” he said, taking a bite of Toll House awesomeness. The smudge of flour on her right breast momentarily distracted him from his hangover, but then he eyed the milk, and his stomach lurched. “I don’t suppose I can have a glass of water?” he asked.

  She didn’t comment on the empty whiskey bottle as she went into his bathroom, dumped the milk in the sink and turned on the faucet. She rinsed the glass and refilled it, then carried it back to him. After handing it to him, she paused, then reached for something on the nightstand.

  “Is this Dave’s watch?”

  Fuck. “Yeah.”

  She rubbed the face with her thumb, fiddled with the straps. “I’m glad you have it.”

  Justin’s chest burned. He swallowed as much water as he could to avoid responding.

  “He loved this,” she said, laying it on her own wrist and holding it in place. “He said it was as badass as a wristwatch could be.”

  “Put it back,” he snapped, before he could slap a gag order on his inner asshole.

  But she nodded and laid it carefully back on the nightstand. “Are you going to the plant today?”

  “I don’t know. My leg’s kind of—”

  “Because if you’re not, it would be cool if you put your marine stuff on and came with me.”

  “Huh?” He scratched his head. The sugar was starting to move into his bloodstream, but he’d done some serious brain damage with the liquor last night and wasn’t quite up to speed. “Where are you going?”

  Allie walked across the room and opened the shades. As she bent to pull up the window sash, he admired the way she filled out the jeans she’d painted on. She wore white sneakers and a red-white-and-blue striped T-shirt that rode up a little in the back, exposing the waistband of her thong, and a curlicue thing with leaves and…

  “Do you have a tramp stamp?”

  She jerked up and pulled her shirt down in the back. “I prefer to call it a thong accent.”

  Justin snorted. “No you don’t.”

  She shrugged, then grinned. “I really call it ‘pissing off Lorena.’”

  Laughing, Justin grabbed his head. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. It’s too early.”

  “It’s twelve thirty,” Allie said.

  “Oh, shit. Really?”

  “Yeah, really. You need to get moving. I want to drop off some paperwork at the plant, and then I’m due at the VA.”

  His stomach dropped. He picked up his phone and checked the date. “Why are you going to the VA?”

  “It’s David’s birthday. I volunteer at the long-term care unit there a couple of days a week anyway, but on his birthday, I take in cookies, talk to the old guys. It would be cool if you came with me. They’ve heard me talk about David—and you—so much. I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”

  “I don’t know. I think I’d better check on the rickhouse, do that inventory Brandon asked me to do.” He’d rather have dental work, but even going to the distillery sounded better than the VA. He was still processing her suggestion that they use Dave’s 8-Ball whiskey for her Rainbow Dog thing. Rainbow Dog. Christ. Almost as cute as she was.

  Allie sighed. “Yeah. Okay.” Her disappointment in him didn’t help his hangover any.

  Nor did it get him any closer to figuring out how—or even whether—he should help her with her business. Though the way he’d acted last night, he sure hadn’t set up any expectations that he would.

  …

  Justin waited until Allie drove away before he asked Caleb for the keys to the golf cart.

  “Do you want me to drive you somewhere, son?” the distillery manager asked.

  Caleb had been working at Blue Mountain as long as Justin could remember and had bailed the younger Morgans and McGraths out of many dumbass scrapes that should have gotten them in hot water with their parents. His wife, Sherry, had served the same purpose for the girls. Brandon had mentioned that she’d even dropped Allie off “for coffee” at a Starbucks a block from a family planning clinic when she’d decided she wanted to get birth control.

  Justin tried not to wonder who Allie had tagged to be her first. Brandon hadn’t said, and at the time, he hadn’t really cared. But now he hoped that whomever she’d been with had treated her the way she deserved, like a fucking goddess.

  “I’ll ride with you,” Caleb insisted, brow furrowed.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He took the keys and crutched out through the front door of the business office. Braced leg propped on the front end of the cart, he waved, then drove over the hill behind the bottling facility. The vehicle whizzed along the gravel path toward the new rickhouse that rose, tall and stately, a quarter mile farther east of its sister structure. Some people thought the buildings looked like prisons, with their tall, plain brick or stone walls, narrow windows on each level, sitting out in the middle of a field. When Justin decided he wouldn’t stay in Crockett County to be part of Blue Mountain Bourbon, he’d sung “Rickhouse Rock” all the way to the marine recruiting station. His father hadn’t been amused.

  But if he thought of the storage buildings as prisons, why was he drawn to this one?

  It looked out of place, its shiny newness unsullied by the extreme variations in Kentucky weather. Justin wondered how it would change from year to year, as the sun, wind, snow, and rain heated and cooled the building, as the bourbon moved in and out of the oak, gathering flavor over the years. But then he reminded himself that he didn’t care, that he really only liked bourbon for the effect, and that he wasn’t going to be here to see it happen.

  He maneuvered the golf cart to stop a few yards from the big front door, over which was a sign reading, Rickhouse 2: Dangerous Dave’s Den.

  Damn. Rickhouse 1 was named “Jamie McGrath’s Clubhouse” in honor of Allie and Eve’s late father, who’d died in a car accident when he was much too young.

  After taking his crutches from the seat next to him, Justin hoisted his pack over his shoulder and made his way to the door. He hesitated, not sure he was brave enough to enter. It was silly. Dave had never even seen this building. The families had broken ground the day they came home from Arlington, to honor Dave in a way he would have appreciated. Justin had gone right back to war. Not to honor Dave, but to avoid facing their families’ grief for as long as possible.

  What would Dave have thought of Allie’s Rainbow Dog idea? On one hand, he was a fan of bigger, better, bolder business, but he was also a traditional guy, trying to convince people everywhere they went to try Blue Mountain bourbon. Or any bourbon that was available.

  When their buddies in the Corps went to bars and ordered scotch, or—gasp!—tequila or vodka, Dave would buy them a shot of bourbon and offer a lesson in tasting. Of course, it didn’t take long for their friends to start ordering anything but bourbon just to get Dave to buy them a shot. Dave didn’t care. He wanted everyone to love Kentucky as much as he did.

  Entering the dark warehouse, Justin found a couple of new barrels sitting against the wall and hoisted himself onto one, putting his backpack on the one next to it.

  He breathed in, the scent of new construction overpowering the fainter angel’s share—whiskey seeping through the pores of the few barrels that had already been filled and put up. In a few months, when more racks contained filled barrels, the smell would be stronger. But by then his leg would be healed, and he would be out West, following his dream, saving forests and not all twisted up with Allie and her Rainbow Dog.

  He unzipped the backpack and pulled out a new fifth of 8-Ball and a couple of Cuban cigars. He also had Dave’s black dive watch, which he took out and sat on the barrel. He wouldn’t wear it,
even though Dave had made him swear he’d take it with him if he died. “Don’t let them bury me with that, man. It cost too damned much to rust underground. You take it and use it.” Justin couldn’t bring himself to wear it—the watch had killed Dave, and it was Justin’s albatross, but he’d dug it out of his seabag and put it on his nightstand. He’d pack it away again and keep it safe later.

  He tucked one unlit cigar in his mouth and put one next to the watch, for Dave, and cracked the seal on the bottle.

  “Since you can’t be here, dude, I’ll have to enjoy it for you,” he said to the watch. “But we can’t smoke in here, so just imagine, okay?”

  He pulled the cigar from his lips and took a hit of the liquor, put the cigar back, sat and stared at the rafters. Then he repeated the process, but the tightness in his chest didn’t ease. He thought of Dave, how he had struggled for his last breaths to exact the promise Justin was struggling to fulfill.

  The watch glared at him. “Stop giving me the business, asshole. I’m trying to look out for Allie, but she’s making it damned difficult.” He hoped Dave couldn’t see his real thoughts about her. How fucking much he wanted her, but… “She’s become quite a woman, dude. I’m not sure what you want me to do for her. She’s got this crazy booze project she seems to want my help with. It’s a good idea, actually, but I don’t think she should be using the white dog made for your 8-Ball.”

  He slugged back another shot of the finished version, looked at the label. A Justin Morgan and David McGrath recipe.

  Huh. It was half his recipe. He could let Allie use it for her Rainbow Dog project if he wanted to. His name was on the brand and probably on the paperwork. Hell, he never paid much attention, as long as they didn’t ask him to put on a tie or show up to actually work.

  He stroked his chin. This might just be the ticket to pissing the old man off enough to let him go without claw marks. Maybe a few figurative bruises, but…

  …

  Allie stopped at the office when she got back from the VA to see if Justin was still there, or if he’d gotten a ride back up the hill to his house.

  “He took the golf cart a while ago,” Sherry told her. “Caleb said he was going to check out Number 2, but I haven’t seen him since. Maybe he drove the cart back up to the house.”

  “I’ll go see if he’s still there.” She was surprised Justin had gone there without being held at gunpoint. He seemed so reluctant to get involved with anything to do with the business.

  “He looked kind of sad,” she said. “I bet he’s missing your brother, isn’t he?”

  Allie had a shiver of foreboding. Justin was sad about David, although he’d sooner die than admit it. The shiver turned into a cold fist around her heart. Would he rather die than live without his best friend? And he’d given away all of his money…

  Justin was unhappy here, and Dave’s birthday was no doubt making it doubly difficult to cope. And as much as he chafed at the comparison, he was his father’s son—and would sooner gouge out an eye than admit to feeling weak.

  She ran out of the office to her truck and took off.

  The rickhouse was dark in the waning daylight, but the golf cart sat nearby.

  Allie stepped out of the truck and waited for a moment. What was she going to find in there?

  “Are you just going to stand out there, or are you coming in here to toast Dave a happy birthday?”

  Startled, she peered into the faint glow coming from the building and made out the shadowed form sitting on a barrel, bum leg propped on another.

  “I didn’t know Dave was in there with you. I figured he was busy giving Saint Peter a lesson in barrel rotation.” Entering, her eyes adjusted to the dim yellow light of a desk lamp someone had left near the door, a remnant of the construction crew’s makeshift office.

  Justin swayed when she took the bottle, but caught himself before he toppled over, thick forearms braced on his thighs. His good leg was cocked to the side for balance, and there was space between his legs. If she stepped forward a foot or so…

  She tipped a shot down her throat, coughed, and wiped her eyes.

  “Easy, babe. Don’t overdo it. Don’t wanna wind up pukin’ on your shoes.”

  “Seriously? How wasted are you?” She started to step back, but—

  “Pretty wasted.” He reached and caught her around the waist, pulling her between those hard thighs. Even drunk, he had a magnetism she was too weak to resist. “Babe, you are fine.”

  Her lips parted, ready to taste the whiskey on his, and she felt a whisper of his breath against her. Then sanity kicked her in the butt. She wanted him, but not like this. He didn’t even know who she was.

  Stepping back, she sighed and reached for his crutches. “Come on, slick. Let’s get back to the house.”

  “Shit. You’re right. Dave would be so pissed off…”

  Allie stamped her foot, but she didn’t scream. That would have been childish. “David. Is. Not. Here.”

  Justin pulled back, standing straight, holding his crutches, and balanced on his good leg. “I know.” He appeared very sober. Eyes narrowed, focused on her; she knew then that he knew exactly who she was.

  She wasn’t some random girl he’d picked up in a bar; she was the little sister of his grief, of his hard memories. “I’m here. You’re here. And that’s okay.”

  She stalked toward him. He was still by the barrel he’d been sitting on, so she pushed him back onto it and wrapped her arms around his neck, pushed herself between his legs, and pressed her breasts against his chest.

  Against his soft, chiseled lips, she said, “We. Are here. Now kiss me.”

  And he kissed her.

  Holy shit, did he kiss her.

  After about half a second of shocked awareness, his lips parted, his tongue slipped out to touch her lower lip, and then his mouth was opening over hers, consuming, taking everything she was giving.

  Tongues tangling, lips brushing, teeth scraping, he held her tightly against him, one big hand on her backside, one in her hair.

  Gasping, she tore her mouth away from his. Staring straight into his shell-shocked gaze, she said, “Thank you.”

  He didn’t respond, just dropped his head and stared at the watch.

  “Come on, let’s get you home.”

  “I’m not ready to go,” he told her, shaking his head.

  “Justin. Come on. I’m tired, and I’m not leaving you here.”

  She reached for his crutches again, but was shaking so hard from emotion and arousal that she knocked over the remaining half bottle of whiskey onto the desk lamp, which shattered, sending sparks onto the stream of liquor, which ignited into a blue-white flame.

  Such a small, nearly colorless fire that spread so quickly to the liquor-soaked wood of the barrel.

  Allie leaped into action, grabbing a fire extinguisher from the wall and turning it on the flames, but the fire moved too fast.

  “Here, I’ll go get the other one,” she said, handing it to Justin and sprinting down the aisle to get one from the next row.

  But when she returned, she noticed a barrel of whiskey leaking fuel onto the other barrels. It was time to get out.

  “Come on,” Justin said, waving Allie around him with a crutch while still spraying the fire.

  She’d stepped through the doorway toward the fresh, cool air, then rushed back inside, calling over her shoulder, “You go. I’ve got to get Dave’s watch.”

  Chapter Seven

  Dave’s watch. Justin had forgotten it while he was kissing Allie.

  The world slowed down and sped up simultaneously.

  Allie’s scream yanked Justin into the smoke behind her, his injured leg a barely perceptible obstacle.

  Even with the liquor spinning through his head, he realized he was about to be responsible for her death now, too. “Dammit, Dave, I promised you. I will take care of her.”

  He limped into the smoke, shouting, “Allie! Allie, goddammit!” His heart was the only thing he could hear.
His heart and the flames. And then…

  “Here!”

  Appearing through the thickening smoke, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. An Irish Valkyrie. The flames that had engulfed a few barrels were reflected in her eyes, and her already-burnished hair glowed. She grinned, holding that fucking watch in the air.

  He wanted to throttle her. “You gotta get out of here,” he tried to yell, but it sounded like a whisper in the heat and smoke.

  “I couldn’t let you lose that watch,” she said, then her eyes widened. “Look out!”

  He grabbed her arm and turned with her, shoving her toward the door, but wasn’t able to completely avoid the wooden beam that crashed down onto his torso.

  “Justin!” She was back, tugging at him.

  “Get the fuck out, Allie!”

  “Not without you!”

  One look at her face told him she wasn’t leaving.

  For fuck’s sake. No way was he going to run into Dave at the pearly gates carrying Allie and try to explain this. He heaved and shoved at the beam, and when he was free, he stood and pulled her against him.

  Together, they limped through the smoke and out into the fresh, clean air.

  He didn’t realize how badly he’d been banged up until he couldn’t catch his breath. “Get away from here, Allie. We’re out. Go on to the truck.”

  “Where are your crutches?”

  “I don’t know.” He didn’t tell her that the throbbing agony in his leg was second to his crushing inability to breathe.

  “Okay, I’ll be right back.” She left him long enough to pull the golf cart closer.

  She was on her phone, calling it in, before she got to him, then helped him onto the seat. He managed to grunt loudly only once when she put her arm around his waist to support him.

  “The fire department should be here soon,” she assured him as she drove them back toward her truck.

  “Damn,” Justin panted. When the golf cart stopped next to her truck, he pulled up his shirt.

  “Whoa.”

  His chest was red where the beam had landed on him, the edges of the board clearly visible.