Page 4 of Filthy Twisted Devil

“You ready for a taste?” Leonard, my master distiller, pours the tiny glass vial he extracted from the barrel into a tasting glass.

“Sure,” I say, trying to sound casual when I’m practically vibrating with excitement.

I mean, I’ve only been waiting seven years for this.

Making good whiskey takes time, and the longer a company is in business, the better liquor it tends to create. I made a lot of good choices when I founded Twisted Devil. I’m not a god—I can’t fast-forward time in our aging warehouses. In the nine years since the company has officially existed, I’ve released plenty of whiskey batches that I’m proud of, but this?

It’s my masterpiece.

I ordered the small cherrywood-cask barrels when I was twenty, and I chose the best grains on the market to make the malt. I knew the combination would bring a completely different taste to the whiskey market, something softer and more elegant than Twisted Devil’s usual fare. It’ll be a blend—I suspect the cherry flavor will be too acidic to stand on its own without a mixture of sweeter batches.

Leonard smiles as he passes me my glass. “Well, go ahead. Let’s see if it’s everything you hoped for.”

I ignore his old-man sarcasm and bring the glass to my nose. Undiluted, fresh-from-the-barrel whiskey always has a more extreme scent, but my mind instantly categorizes the tasting notes. Almonds, raisins, a sticky sweetness like a maraschino cherry. The scent is stronger than I expected, which is a pleasant surprise. We’ll be able to stretch it across more bottles without diluting the taste.

I flash Leonard a grin. “You’re going to be very happy.”

His expression doesn’t shift. Leonard has been in the whiskey business for longer than I’ve been alive, and it takes a lot to impress him. I poached him away from Heaven Hill a few years back, and there’s nobody I’d rather have tasting my product than him.

Leonard pours himself a glass. Once he takes a sip, he pulls a stubby pencil out of his shirt pocket and writes down a few illegible names. In my head, I fist bump. I can practically see his mind overflowing with how we’re going to mix this, enhance it, perfect it.

“You’re happy,” I tell Leonard.

He grunts in response. He takes another sip and writes down more lines. “It’ll do.”

Oh, it’ll more than do. I try not to get ahead of myself, but I can already see the whiskey on the shelf, the labels printed with the artwork I commissioned from Maura Keller, a painter and my good friend James’s wife. Shades of sand, cork, and cherry, blending together, giving the drinker a preview of the tastes inside.

For years, I thought the cherrywood whiskey would be the end of a journey, but I think now it’s the beginning of one—a whole line of whiskeys, inspired by and integrated with original art. If this whiskey does well, it could be the beginning of a new age for Twisted Devil.

Considering Leonard’s taking a third sip of the sample—unheard of for him—I like my odds.

“Admit it.” I elbow him. “It’s amazing.”

He grunts again. “Let’s see how she mixes. Still, it’s promising. You’re in a jazzy mood. Good morning?”

My smile droops slightly, because my morning was anything but good. There was a new barista at my usual coffeeshop this morning. She was pretty enough, with big brown eyes and dark hair, but any appeal vanished when she opened her mouth.

“You’re Luke Windsor, aren’t you? Who roped you into coming here?” She winked, just in case I missed her reference.

I didn’t.

It’s been months since an article about my kinkier sexual preferences went viral. Even though the writer—my sister, in an act of betrayal we’re still getting over—retracted the article, the internet has a long memory. Now, I get strangers making jokes with me about rope and spanking and sex toys.

I laughed at the barista’s joke. What’s the alternative, just stare at her and make it weird?

Even if the jab stays with me for hours after.

Leonard shoves his piece of paper over to me. “I need you to tag these to get pulled out of storage. Then I’ll start mixing.”

I stare down at his chicken scratch. “You expect me to read this?”

“Yup.” He pats me on the back. “I’d go down to the storeroom myself, but my knees aren’t what they used to be.”

I sigh. It’s true that over the years, I’ve gotten better at deciphering Leonard’s writing. He refuses to learn how to type or use a phone, which he gets away with because he’s the best goddamn master distiller in the country. It’s also true that our storeroom is too big for him to run around it, tagging different barrels. That means I have work to do.

Twisted Devil is lucky enough to have a massive warehouse that functions as a storeroom for our barrels in the city. If we get any bigger, I’ll have to look into building or leasing some more storerooms out of town. For now, though, we’re a one-stop-shop.

The storeroom is marvelously cool, as always. Surrounded by tightly packed barrels stacked in rows, sound gets absorbed by the wood. The buzz of the city outside vanishes, and I get to feel alone for a minute. I inhale the smells of wooden barrels and the slightly yeasty smell of whiskey fermenting.