the female bonding over a naughty book, or the extra sex they were having with the men in their lives. Maybe it was a bit of both.
Regardless, I needed to get back to Gibson’s. The throbbing between my legs had only grown, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the scene in that book. The things he’d done to her. I wasn’t sure half of them were possible, but I was going to make Gibson a very happy man tonight while we gave a few of them a try.
31
GIBSON
A bunch of trucks were parked around the perimeter of the softball field, bathing it in light. Necessary for a night game when your field didn’t have fancy lighting. It did mean there were about a dozen places where the light blinded the players if they glanced in the wrong direction. But they’d also be guzzling moonshine in between innings, so a few blind spots weren’t going to make much difference.
The school buses were already lined up, waiting to take people—players and spectators alike—home after the game. Here in Bootleg, we took our drinking seriously, but we weren’t stupid. Cars and trucks stayed parked at the field overnight, and by the end of Wasted Wednesday—when everyone tried to recover from the town-wide hangover—the now-sober townsfolk would wander back to get their vehicles and drive them home.
The moonshine concession stands were doing big business and the bleachers were full of Bootleg residents. They scarfed down hot dogs and baskets of greasy fries, and just about everyone of age had a cup of moonshine in their hand.
Except me, of course. I didn’t drink.
Mostly that was because of my dad. He drank, so I didn’t. Although it wasn’t as simple as a stubborn attempt to turn myself in the opposite direction of everything he’d ever done. I worked with my hands, much like he had. He’d been more handyman than craftsman, but there was a similarity to our trades. That hadn’t swayed me from my profession. I sang and played guitar. I’d gotten that from him, too.
I didn’t drink because it felt like too big a risk to take. I’d had alcohol before. I’d been everything from tipsy to shit-faced, out-cold, drunk off my ass. The problem was, I liked it too much. It was a guaranteed escape. Felt good to check out and stumble around without a care in the world, my head swimming in liquor. I knew what I’d find at the end of that road, and I’d made a conscious choice to take a different one.
We were playing the Gableton Miners tonight. Their shirts featured a cartoon man covered in coal dust, holding a shovel like a baseball bat. They wore headlamps over their caps, adding to the light show on the field.
Opal warmed up with a few practice swings while Buck and Nash stretched their shoulders. Bowie looked right at home with a mitt dangling from his hand. Baseball had always been his game. The guy was good, even when he was three sheets to the wind in the seventh.
Jameson was nearby, being all kissyface with Leah Mae. I thought about barking at him to get his head in the game—it’s what I usually did—but kept my mouth shut. It was weird, but I didn’t mind seeing my brother loving on his girl so much these days.
Scarlett walked toward the dugout, a half-empty mason jar of moonshine in her hand, her long ponytail sticking out the back of her Cock Spurs hat. Someone in the stands shouted her name, and she raised her moonshine in greeting, a big-ass smile on her face.
I took a deep breath, a sense of resignation stealing over me. I wanted to have this conversation with her like I wanted a kick to the teeth. But it needed to happen. And although my sister could hold her alcohol like nobody’s business, it’d be better if she was completely sober. That was probably her first drink, so now was the time.
I flexed my busted hand, feeling the scabs pull. I hadn’t broken anything when I’d punched the beam, but I’d bloodied my knuckles a bit. With a sigh, I walked over to stand beside her—faced the field, rather than looking at her straight on. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” she said. “Where’s Maya?”
Her question poked at the big knot of feelings in my chest. Not because there was anything wrong with Callie. She was over by the concession stands with Cash. But it was an in-my-face reminder of who Scarlett really was.