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I imagine her sucking my cock.
I imagine her in my bed with her legs spread, her pink pussy hot.
I imagine playing with her, tasting her, getting her soft. Then fucking her hard, the kind of sex that makes you sweat.
I get dressed, feeling like the world’s biggest scumbag.
I’m heading to the kitchen when my phone vibrates in my hand. I know, without looking, who it is, and what she’s calling about.
“Milly,” I say, tugging my fingers across my eyes. “Kingsley already here?”
“Yep. An hour early, just like the son of a bitch he is. I’m watching his headlights down in the valley.”
I groan. “Meet you out front in five.”
“You don’t have to come. I’m only calling you because you asked me to. I can handle him on my own.”
“Course you can hold your own. But I wanna be there. I don’t like the way that man looks at you.”
“Cut the caveman crap. Also, you sound like hell.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Don’t worry. I just turned on the coffee pot.”
“Praise the good Lord above. I’ll be right over.”
I throw on a jacket. Hands shoved in my front pockets, I make my way to Milly’s house. Out of all of us, she has the fanciest one. I wish I could say it’s because I like to spoil her—I do—but she’s the one who built an uber-successful wedding-planning business from scratch. She’s among the world’s top planners, taking on only a handful of seven-figure weddings each year.
My sister’s waiting on her front porch, holding two steaming mugs in her hands.
From this vantage point, she looks just like Mama—curly blond hair, petite build—but don’t let their size fool you. They’re both tough as nails.
“Hey,” I say.
She holds out a cup. “Hey.”
The strong, velvety scent of coffee fills my head as I wrap my hands around my mug, the sudden warmth making my palms prickle. I settle my shoulder against the nearest column. We take our first sips in silence, eyes glued to the incredible view she has of the Great Smoky Mountains. The sun’s not up yet, but a gray-green glow breaks over the peaks on the horizon.
I straighten when headlights cut across Milly’s front yard. A second later, an enormous Ford pickup—new, white, emblazoned with an all-too-familiar emblem—pulls up in front of us, tires crunching on the fine pea gravel.
The truck’s diesel engine throbs as it idles, a sinister sound that cuts through the stillness like a knife. I hope it doesn’t wake any guests.
“What the fuck is this guy’s problem?” I murmur.
Milly just slowly shakes her head, sighing. “Besides the obvious? No clue.”
“This Hatfield and McCoy shit has gotta stop. At some point, Kingsley has to let the past go. Why do we need to pay for the sins of our asshole ancestors?”
“I already said it. Because y’all are cavemen. Daddy wasn’t exactly a saint toward the end. You remembered all the shit he said to Old Man Kingsley. Wasn’t in his right mind, of course, but how could Kingsley know that?”
In the recent past, I’ve made several efforts to smooth things over with Nate Kingsley. Redneck mafia shit is bad for business. And honestly, who has the time? But no matter how many olive branches I offer—money, words, deeds—the man still hates my guts.
I’ve tried to figure out why, but his kind of hate transcends old wounds. For a while, I thought he and his brothers were just bitter and maybe a little jealous, too. My dad, John Riley, was a star NFL linebacker, and all four of his sons would go on to play pro ball.
But the Kingsleys came into their own fame and fortune over the past couple of decades, turning what was once a bootleg operation into a full-fledged whiskey behemoth. What Pappy Van Winkle did for Kentucky bourbon, Nate Kingsley did for North Carolina corn mash whiskey.
Around here, that family has always been known as the whiskey kings. But now, that’s how they’re known all over the world. A bottle of their rarest stuff can go for upward of five grand.
So, yeah. I can’t imagine Nate’s jealous. We do what we can at Blue Mountain Farm to support his business. It’s why he’s here this morning—he’s dropping off a batch of his famous Appalachian Red Whiskey for that celebrity wedding Milly’s planning next month. The groom is apparently a whiskey fanatic, and his one request was to have a case of Appalachian Red on hand. The bride was all too happy to agree, as it clinched the deal on booking her top venue pick—our farm.
But even throwing thousands of dollars in his lap doesn’t make Nate hate us any less. As exhibited by the glare he shoots me as he climbs out of his truck
The tightness in my chest burns to anger. My mind begins to spin.
Name the emotion. Breathe through it.
