“Noah.”
Gus’s voice sobered me, and I dropped my cocky smirk, straightening at his call.
“My office. Now.”
He hadn’t even risen from his chair, but I knew he’d heard the commotion from the prank. My confidence in being untouchable as a Scooter employee slipped a little as I peeled off my work gloves and made my way to his office.
“Shut the door behind you,” he said without looking up.
My ears rang a little at the sudden quietness, and I let the door latch shut before taking a seat in one of the two chairs across from him.
Gus eyed me over the papers he was still running over his hands, one brow arching before he sighed and dropped the papers to his desk. “First of all, even though I appreciate you bringing some laughter into this place, don’t play around when it comes to job safety, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know Logan is your brother, and I don’t mind the occasional prank. But slicing a finger off is no laughing matter. Our founder is proof of that.”
The story of our founder passing away from a minor finger injury was one we always told to the tours that passed through. Here was this healthy man, older but not suffering from any illnesses, and in the end, it was his pride that got him. He’d cut his middle finger right where it connected at the base of his hand, but rather than telling someone, he just wrapped it up and went about his normal routine.
Infection took his life well before it was time.
“I understand, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“Good.” He kicked back in his chair, running a hand over his bald head as his eyes fell to the paper again. “We’ve got a potential buyer here who wants one of our single-barrels. But, the situation is a little precarious.”
“How so?”
It wasn’t strange for Gus to ask me to show one of our rare barrels to potential buyers, mostly older gentleman with too much money to know what to do with it anymore. Each barrel sold for upwards of fifteen-thousand dollars, most of that money going to good ol’ Uncle Sam.
“Well, the buyer is only nineteen.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious.” Gus thumped a hand on the stack of papers he’d been staring at. “She’s a Barnett.”
I whistled. “Ah. So, we can’t say no.”
“We can’t say no.”
“But we also can’t let it get out, especially since Briar County is just looking for a reason to shut us down again.”
“You catch on fast.”
I nodded, scratching at the scruff on my jaw. The Barnett’s were one of the most influential families in the town, right next to the Scooters and, at one time, the Beckers. The Barnetts had a long line of mayors in their family line, and if they wanted a single-barrel of Scooter Whiskey, there was no saying no — regardless of the age.
“When’s this girl coming in?”
“She’s here now, actually. Which is why I called you in. I need you to show her the barrel, but keep it low key. Don’t do our normal tasting, just to be safe. Show her the room, give her the fluffy breakdown of what her money’s getting her, and get her out of here.”
“Are her parents going to pick up the barrel at the ceremony?”
Every year, we hosted a big ceremony — better described as a backwoods party — to announce the different barrels, their distinct notes and flavors, and their new owners. We also cracked open one of the single-barrels for the town to indulge in. It was the only barrel not sold to the highest bidder.
“Apparently, her fiancé is. He’s twenty-four, so he’s legal.”
“Why can’t he be the one to check it out, then?”
Gus pinched his brow. “I don’t know, the girl wants to give it to him as a wedding gift, I guess. She’s waiting, by the way, and I just want this taken care of. Can you handle it?”
“I’m on it.”
Without another word, Gus dismissed me, more than happy to let me do his dirty work.
I slipped into our one and only bathroom in our little share of the distillery, washing my hands and face the best I could with short notice. Not that it mattered. The kind of people who could afford to spend what I’d pay for a good car on a barrel of whiskey didn’t give a shit what I looked like when I told them about it. They only cared about the liquid gold inside.
So, I dried my face and hands, rehearsing the words I’d said to hundreds of rich men and women before this one as Gus’ sentiment rang true in my own mind.
“Let’s get this over with.”
Noah
Anytime I had to go to the welcome center, I always garnered more than a few curious looks.
There were several small groups of tourists milling about the welcome center, taking pictures with our founder’s statue and reading about the transition of our bottles throughout the years as they waited for their tour slot. As I made my way through, heads turned, brows arching as they took in my appearance. It made sense, seeing as how I was always dirty, and a little smelly. My mom would argue that the reason they stopped to stare was because I was “handsome enough to make a church choir stutter in unison.”
She said I got that from my dad, too.
I still said it was the whole smelly thing.
I smiled at a pair of older women near the ticket desk who weren’t the least bit ashamed as they ogled me. Their husbands, on the other hand, glared at me like I was a bug that
