Colt shook his head no. It was the truth too.
“Drugs? Drink? Are you healthy?”
“I can’t afford to buy the stuff I like to drink.” Colt waved one hand in a circle. “Never did drugs, and there was a free clinic I was tested at every six months. So, yeah, healthy.”
She held out her hand. “Audrey Hollan. I’m the director of operations. Basically everyone other than Mr. Kensington answers to me.”
Colt smiled. “Colton Hale. Colt.” He shook her hand. “I bet Mr. Kensington has to do what you say too.”
Audrey laughed and stood straight again. “Here’s the deal. You’re on time. You do your job, and if I find out you lied to me about anything, or if I get wind of the fact you’re living in a homeless camp, you’re gone. No second chances.” She turned, pulled a pad across the desk, and wrote an address on it. “You can rent a room at this place. It’s about a mile from here and probably your only choice. Come with me.”
Colt trailed after her to the door marked Janitorial. Audrey put a hand on Colt’s shoulder when they stopped at a desk. “Billy, this is Colt. He’d like to sweep floors for us.” She turned to Colt. “Mr. Krems heads up plant operations.”
Colt nodded politely but sensed that with this man keeping his mouth shut was the best course of action.
Billy wasn’t what Colt imagined as someone who was responsible for keeping the buildings and grounds running smoothly. He wore jeans, cowboy boots, a button-down shirt with the first few buttons opened, and a sports jacket. He swept his gaze up and down Colt, critical and appraising. A line of framed diplomas, awards, and certificates adorned the wall behind the desk. He noticed the name William Krems on several. “Report here at seven sharp tomorrow morning.” His accent was a thick Southern drawl.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, both of you.” Colt hurried from the offices before either of them thought to ask how he’d found out about the job opening or why he was in a restricted area.
As he walked to the small motel Audrey had given him the address for, he pulled his bus ticket from his pocket and gave it a brief examination before stuffing it back. If this didn’t work out, he could still get to Charlotte.
“YOU want me to agree to what?” Mal asked.
“Mr. Kensington, Malone, we, along with the board of directors, think it’s best the public has a face to put with Kensington Distillery and Still House. People like having that personal connection.” Jeffery Grice stood and paced between the conference table and the wall. He was a slight man with graying brown hair, sharp, pointed features, and wide-set green eyes. Grice was the sort of plain man who’d blend into a crowd. “It’s good for business.”
“How is getting some stranger to represent Kensington Distillery good for business? My business is doing very well. People like to drink.” Mal waved at a chair. “Will you sit down?”
“Mal,” Audrey said. “We have two choices, really. Either you do this yourself, which we all know is impossible for you to devote the time necessary to being spokesperson and continue as master distiller, or we hire someone to do it for you. The young, fresh face of a man who enjoys the public eye.” She shrugged. “The fact is there aren’t enough hours every day for you to do both, and honestly, I think someone who wasn’t born to generations of money would be a better choice.”
Mal looked from Jeffery to Audrey. “I’m thirty-six, not old and decrepit.”
Audrey glanced down at a clipboard in her hand and shrugged. “Okay, we’ll get some of these interviews and public appearances scheduled for you, then.”
“I… you’ll… there’ll be…?” Mal couldn’t even begin to express his horror. His few forays into public life had ended in such hurt and disaster for him he tried blocking those events out. Never mind the fact he’d been very young, and no one had ever taught the shy boy he was how to deal with being in the public eye. Maybe it was something one was unable to learn; maybe it was an innate skill. Mal had no idea, other than he didn’t have that ability and wasn’t sure he wanted it.
Audrey rolled her eyes and patted Mal’s shoulder. “Don’t swallow your tongue. I was simply making my point. Jeffery, for God’s sake, sit down.”
Jeffery grumbled something about pushy women, but he sat in a chair. “The fact remains, Mr. Kensington, this company needs a face people can relate to.”
Mal rested his chin in his palm and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He should have learned by now arguing with Audrey was useless. “Do we have a plan? Would we hire a model, an actor?” He opened his eyes and studied Audrey.
“It depends. What I’d like to do is create a recognizable public figure. Someone to give interviews and attend events where our whiskey and moonshine are served. Your family has always supported education, and many of those institutions would like someone to stand up and give a speech occasionally.” Audrey sat opposite Mal and put her hand over his free one. “Mal, you’re a sweet, smart, wonderful man, an astute businessman, and a genius when it comes to whiskey mash. When was the last time you gave a speech? Do you remember your last interview?”
Mal nodded. “You can say it—my only interview. That woman chewed me up and spit me out. I don’t even think she had to try very hard either.”
“And it was a simple interview about a donation your parents made to a school,” Audrey added.
“Don’t remind me,” Mal grumbled. He straightened in his chair and put his other hand over hers. Audrey was smart and competent in everything she did. He trusted her. “Where do we find this person?”
“I’ll get our publicist to work on that. We’ll set up interviews—” Audrey smirked. “—auditions, if you prefer, and we should have men to consider in a few weeks.”
“Okay, good.” Mal sighed.
“Eh, don’t look so sullen, Mr. Kensington. Maybe you’ll like whoever we hire,” Jeffery chimed in. “Which would be preferable since you’ll likely be spending some time together.”
Mal raised his eyebrows, but before he could ask why, Audrey spoke up. “Who better to teach someone the nitty-gritty ins and outs of this place?”
Mal looked between them. “I’ll be happy if I don’t scare off whoever becomes our public face.”
Chapter Two
COLT pulled his cap on, ducked his head into the wind, and flipped up his jacket collar. He rolled his pant legs up and hoped his shoes and socks remained dry in his backpack. The last thing he wanted today was soggy feet. The canvas shoes he wore to walk to work wouldn’t dry out for a week.
Heat and humidity for almost the whole month he’d been here and today it had to rain. Not rain, but a deluge, a downpour of biblical proportions. Colt had barely reached the road before he was drenched to his skin. Low, dark clouds hung in the sky, making his walk to work gloomy. By next week he’d have enough money saved to buy a used bicycle, which would make his commute much easier. Today was the first day he’d be working in the tasting room—albeit as stock help—and along with that slight promotion came a small raise.
Colt was so absorbed in mental calculations—figuring out how much of a raise he’d have working one shift in the tasting room—it took him a few seconds to realize a car was inching along beside him. He looked around. There were woods not far from the roadside; maybe he could make a dash for cover there. It was possible he’d be able to get to the distillery and safety.
“Earth to Colt,” a familiar voice called. “What world is your head lost in?”
“I… um…. Morning, Ms. Hollan.”
Audrey put the car in park and heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “Do you want a ride?”
“I’ll get your car all wet. I’m soaked.”
“Hmm, well, it’s getting all wet anyway since I’ve had the window down.” She dipped her head at the passenger door and rolled up the window.
Colt hurried to the other side of the car and got in as quickly as possible. Before he closed the door, he shook his backpack and cap off as well as he could. It didn’t matter. He still dripped all over the floor.
Audrey put the car in gear, and Colt barely heard the engine purr as it moved forward. He didn’t know much about cars, but this one was expensive.
She glanced at him, smiled, and said, “Don’t worry about the seats. They’re leather and will wipe right off. You know, rain on your wedding day is supposed to be good luck. Maybe the same will hold true for your new position in the tasting room.”
“I only have one shift there, but the manager said she’d call on me if she needs a fill-in when someone is sick or something,” Colt said. He looked down at his soggy feet for a few seconds. “But you probably already knew that.”
Audrey gave him a small nod. “You’ll do very well.”
Colt chuckled. “Right now, I’ll settle for dry.”
“Billy tells me you’re the hardest worker he’s had in a long while.” Audrey’s tone changed to what Colt thought of as her Miss Manager voice. “I’ve seen how you take notes when you work around the tour groups. We don’t want to lose you, so if you feel you’d like to apply for higher positions that require more skill, you’ll be eligible after six months employed here.”
“Most of those require a degree,” Colt said softly.
Audrey nodded. “I’ve seen you reading the board. So have Billy and some of the other managers. Don’t be intimidated by that. Come talk to one of us. There are many things about making whiskey you can’t learn in a classroom. Ambition being one of them. A smart young man like you would have no trouble getting a degree.” She pulled the car into her parking space and turned it off, then twisted in her seat to face him. “We’d hate for a good employee to look elsewhere because he’s become bored with his work. I don’t expect you’ll be sweeping floors forever. I gave you a chance. I’m simply asking you return the favor and talk to me when you’re ready to do more than sweep and haul cases of whiskey around.”
Colt grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t remind her that getting a degree cost money, something she likely didn’t have to worry about.
Thanks to getting a ride into work, Colt was able to get dried off and change his shoes and socks. His uniform for the tasting room wasn’t the pair of coveralls he normally wore. Today he was clad in black trousers and a white polo shirt.
The tasting room was more like an upscale bar and restaurant that could accommodate quite a few people, the type of place Colt rarely saw from the inside. He was a bit giddy over the fact that he was getting paid to be in such a beautiful room regularly. Ogling the place whenever he had the chance never seemed to get old.
There was also a private party room, and in the few weeks Colt had worked at Kensington’s, at least two weddings and a graduation party had taken place there. He was surprised it wasn’t simply tourists taking advantage of the tasting room called Kensington’s Place. Local businesspeople brought guests for professional meetings, others came for various small celebrations, and it was especially popular for birthdays. Part of the allure of Kensington’s Place was the whiskey and moonshine. Most of the area was dry, but Colt learned early on that distilleries and other select businesses in the county were given special licenses to serve alcohol. Colt’s stint as server didn’t involve actual serving. He was more of a busboy and stock clerk, but it would give him time to learn the menu and what beverages were paired with what food. Every night he took copies of menus of both food and spirits home to study.
ON Saturday of the second week after Colt started working in Kensington’s Place, the tasting room manager stopped him as he was about to leave for the day.
“Oh, Colt, I’m glad you’re still here.” Her name was Cindy Jordan, and he’d heard she’d been at Kensington’s Distillery and Still House for almost two decades. Most of the upper management seemed to have been there for many years. “One of the bartenders called in sick, so I’ve had to transfer some of the others around to cover things. Saturdays are very busy. Would you be able to stay a few more hours?”
Colt nodded. “Sure. But I didn’t bring my other clothes.”
“It’s all right. We have some extra shirts, and the customers won’t care as long as they get their food and liquor.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “Go tell the kitchen staff I said to feed you, and be ready in an hour. You’re a lifesaver!”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Colt said and laughed. Food from Kensington’s Place kitchen was reward enough. He’d get overtime too, so it was a win no matter how he looked at it.
It was unusually busy that night, and Colt ran his feet off. Between hauling supplies from the storeroom to the bar and clearing tables, he caught bits and pieces of conversation. There were a number of twentysomething young men Colt hadn’t seen there before, and at first he thought it was some sort of bachelor party, but he realized after a few hours these men didn’t know one another. Yet they all seemed to be there for the same reason. Colt managed to pick up enough details to figure out what was going on.
“No one knows him. I don’t even know what the owner of this place looks like,” one young man with blue eyes and blond hair said.
“I heard he’s disfigured. That’s why no one ever sees him,” said another guy, this one with swarthy skin and dark eyes and hair.
“He’s probably some sort of agoraphobic, and that’s why his people are looking for a spokesman for the company.” A third guy sipped from a mason jar of apple-spice moonshine.
As the evening wore on and the crowd thinned out, Colt pieced together what was about to happen. The more everyone drank, the chattier they became, something Colt counted upon. Malone Kensington, or people who worked for him, were going to hire someone to handle public appearances, commercials, and other events. Someone young, hip, and trendy.
Colt might have lived on the streets for the last decade, but before that he’d lived in a nice upper-middle-class neighborhood. One where people bought a new car every few years, had manicured lawns, and went to church on Sundays. His parents had a nice house, expensive vehicles, and lovely clothes they wore to church. None of which they bought with a paycheck. He wasn’t sure how they did it, and they’d never gone to prison or even been on trial that he knew of, but they conned their way through life. His mother had taught him the key to anything in life was knowledge. His father taught him ways to memorize information quickly and adapt to any situation. What they hadn’t done was accept him as gay.
There was no reason Colt couldn’t use those skills learned in childhood to succeed honestly as an adult.
The interviews were Monday. If Colt wanted a shot at being chosen to represent Kensington’s Distillery and Still House, he had some research to do, and very little time to do it in.
Monday morning dawned with yet more rain, but not as heavy as it sometimes was. It was more of a drizzle. Colt wasn’t scheduled to work that day, but lounging around wasn’t in the plan.
It was fate.
Colt was a big believer in fate.
Armed with a stack of papers, he ran most of the way to the distillery. Once there, he headed to the employee break room and dried off before making his way to the offices. Through Audrey’s office was a staircase to the second level and, among other things, the conference rooms. A line of young men was beginning to form outside the door to Audrey’s office. They were reading from sheets of paper, tablets, and phones.
A man, older in comparison to this crowd—maybe late thirties—with dirty-blond hair and blue eyes stood to the side of the door. His hands were folded together in front of him while he stood calmly watching the assembling crowd.
Colt rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. A few deep breaths and he was ready. Time to go to work.
He went to the end of the line and stepped close to the three men there. “I heard Kensington’s a real ass, and he’ll expect whoever does this to be at his beck and call twenty-four-seven.”
One guy shrugged. “Money’s good.”
“Not really. That’s 60K for the entire time, and you have to stay at least five years. Not sixty grand a year.” Colt rocked back and
forth on his heels and flicked at the papers he held. “It was in the fine print that was on the website the first few days. It’s not there now, but I printed it off.” He showed them his printout with the sentence about payment highlighted. Then he leaned closer. “And I heard you don’t get paid until the gig is over.” Colt nodded to the offices. “Heard a few of them talking earlier.”
He patted the closest man’s shoulder and moved away. “Do you suppose there is a bathroom around here?”
Colt wandered along the line, pretending to search out a bathroom. When the three men he’d been talking to left, he returned to the back of the line. “What do you guys think of the abstinence clause?”
“What abstinence clause?” the man ahead of Colt asked. He felt a rush of satisfaction when others in line shifted so they could hear what Colt was saying. “Apparently old man Kensington is some sort of religious nut, and whoever is the public face of his company has to agree to not have sex with anyone outside of marriage. Oh, and of course Kensington would have to approve any marriage. Gotta look good for the company, you know.”
The older man near the head of the line was obviously listening in. He arched an eyebrow, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and stared at his shoes. Colt wondered who he was and why he was here, then took a minute to study him further. Shoulder muscles bulged under his suit jacket, his waist was trim, and he had the stance of someone with confidence.
Bodyguard. It was the first word that came to mind. If he wasn’t, Colt reasoned, he was some sort of security. Just because Colt had never seen him around before meant nothing. It was logical to think Mr. Kensington would be attending the auditions, so some of his personal staff would be here too.
The line cleared of four more applicants. Liking the eccentric billionaire angle, Colt decided to use it in another capacity. “So how serious do you think they are about the fasting and the medical leeches for some kind of bleeding every month?”
Whiskey and Moonshine Page 2