Page 40 of Gin and Bear It

I rake a hand over my face. It’s a regular fucking job. I had one, briefly—a barista for a little while before we started making money off gigs. Bartending would have made me more money, but I wasn’t going to do anything related to the family business. Maybe if I’d done that, I’d feel a shred more confident.

I turn my car off and throw myself out of it before I ruminate any more. I’m a half hour late.

I walk inside—it’s also the same as I remember, besides the sign. A receptionist who is vaguely familiar looks me up and down, then picks up the phone without saying a word. I wait, my eyebrow creeping up as she says a few hushed words.

“Mr. Stryker will be here to get you shortly,” she says, pursing her lips like she’s tasting something sour.

“There are a lot of Mr. Strykers,” I say, unable to resist. “Including me.”

She gives me the look I expected, like she’s over my shit already. “You know which one. Please, have a seat.”

She gestures toward the seating area, but I don’t sit down. Instead, I wander toward the portrait wall that has a mini history of Stryker Liquors. The first portrait is of my great grandfather, who started the business—John David the first. He looks like a bootlegger from a movie.

My grandfather looks more buttoned up, but you can’t hide crazy eyes like his.

My dad’s portrait is next. He looks annoyed to be there, but then again, he usually looks like that. The portrait must be at least ten or fifteen years old, based on the amount of salt in his salt-and-pepper beard. Now he’s all gray.

JD’s portrait is last. He looks dead serious, as always, his beard dark and well-kept. All of us take after our parents in roughly equal parts, but seeing JD’s photo next to Dad’s shows how similar they look. Dad’s always been pleased about that. His perfect successor.

A knot of annoyance takes up space in my chest, as it often does when confronted with the family company’s legacy. I shove it down, even though it’s in my face at this point. I can’t ignore it, even if I want to.

I’m the spare parts.

“Ash,” JD says from behind me. I turn and see him and his dog Bubba standing at the end of the hall.

JD looks less than pleased to see me—unsurprisingly—but Bubba is doing his excited tippy-tap dance that he does before he rushes you. At least someone is happy to see me. He’s the mascot of our family’s bourbon brand, Big Bubba Bourbon, and he might be the friendliest dog on earth. I’m glad he is, because he makes JD somewhat bearable to be around.

“Hey, Bubba,” I say, putting a hand down. He takes that as an invitation and trots over to me, his whole butt swinging back and forth.

“You’re late,” JD says, stepping closer. I’m not a small man by any means, but JD has always been taller and broader than me.

“I know. I texted. I’ve had a morning.” I pat Bubba’s back half like bongos. It’s the closest I’ve gotten to playing an actual instrument in a while.

“Haven’t we all had one?” He tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Did your morning consist of a cat crashing through the ceiling?” I stand up straight and Bubba looks at me over his shoulder, looking betrayed.

“No. Come with me.” He turns and starts down the hall again. No questions about a cat crashing through the ceiling?

The office felt huge when I was a kid, like it went on forever, but it’s much smaller to me now. We pass by a few cubicles, which Bubba weaves between for a few pets before rejoining us, and the kitchen.

“No seafood boils?” I blurt, looking at one of the signs next to the kitchen entrance. The other says not to feed Bubba people food, even if he gives you the saddest face a dog could make. “Does that really need to be a rule?”

“Rules are often written in blood.”

“A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“You’ve never been faced with a full seafood boil at eight in the morning.” He stops in front of the last door of the hall and Bubba nudges it open with his head.

It’s Dad’s old office. Despite JD being a cold asshole, he’s warmed the place up with a few things. A small cluster of cacti sit in a dish on his desk, and Bubba has a huge bed with a few stuffed toys in it in a sunny spot. Picture frames line the built-in shelves, some with art and several more with pictures of his fiancé, Katrina.

He sits behind his desk and nods for me to sit across from him. This chair is smaller than his and makes me feel even smaller than I already do.

I fucking hate feeling at his mercy. But there’s no way to convince myself that I’m not.

Bubba sits between my feet and rests his chin on my knee. I massage his ears the way he likes so I have something to do with my hands.

JD jiggles his computer mouse.