Page 59

“I need a minute,” I tell Jill, the other bartender. Before she can answer, I disappear into the back office.

Holding my breath, I swipe open my phone. Only it’s not Melly. It’s Belle.

The cops are asking about you, Lady.

Fuck. My skin prickles with dread. I breathe out, my fingers flying over my keypad.

What do you mean?

Eyes fixated on the screen, I watch the text bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear.

They’re looking into your past. Your time spent with Sammy.

Oh god. A wave of disbelief crests over me, and tears flood the backs of my eyes. That seals it. I can’t ever go back to Vegas. Panic rises, and I grip the phone tighter. I’m all alone. Like always. Doomed to have nothing and no one.

I fire back an agitated text.

Holy fuck, Belle. What do I do?

I’ll handle it. Just tell me where in Montana you are.

I chew my lip, debating. Doubting that little voice in my head. I have to trust someone. And I trust Belle. If she can help me, maybe, just maybe, I can go back to my life. I can see Melly again.

Tempest.

That’s my girl.

My pulse quickens and I clench my fingers around my phone. Then I shut it off and pocket it in my jean shorts.

Rattled, I return to my post. Jill, shaking two cocktails at once, gives me a withering glance.

“We’re swamped, Delilah.” She splashes out whiskey into the tulip-shaped glasses. “Get those tasters going.”

“Sorry.” I blink away tears. “I got you.”

Without looking, I grab the nearest bottle of whiskey, but I stop short of pouring it at the deep boom of a voice. “That’s the wrong bottle.”

Surprised, I glance over my shoulder to find Cole glaring at me.

On edge from Belle’s text message, I snap at him. “It is not.”

He looks at me dryly for a long beat. “You gonna argue with me or listen?”

“You don’t work here.” I give him my fiercest scowl. “I do.” After working in a club for three years, it’s easy to read people. And the wave of fury coming off this cowboy is obvious.

“Wrong.” Cole prowls toward me. “Darlin’, this is a five-hundred-dollar bottle of reserve whiskey. Ninety-four points. Gold medal winner. You think I’m gonna let you pour tasters for some frat boys who don’t know the difference between this and their Coors Lights, you’re out of your mind.”

He grabs the base of the bottle, and I grab the neck. For five seconds, we play a stubborn game of tug of war, then my hold slips and the bottle smashes onto the ground.

Shit.

Flecks of broken glass cut my bare shins. I gasp and jump back, but not before I see the deep copper label. My shoulders drop. Cole was right. It was the wrong bottle.

Hot tears fill my eyes. My chest tightens in that familiar way it’s been doing since that night in the Penthouse.

I stare down, horrified, fascinated, and watch the whiskey slowly spread across the cement floor.

Sammy. Blood. Whiskey.