by Burke, Dez
“But that would have spoiled the surprise,” he says with a straight face.
Is he screwing with me?
I study his face closely to see if he is joking and can’t tell. He would make an excellent poker player. My gut tells me that he set this whole thing up to aggravate me. What I can’t figure out is why would he do that? He’s the one that asked me out on a date, not the other way around.
I know it isn’t my imagination that he led me to believe that we would be going to see actual moonshiners. Not a sweet old lady who makes apple cider vinegar and convinces herself there’s alcohol in it.
I hope to God she doesn’t expect me to drink it at some point during the visit. When she offers it to me, I’ll either say alcohol is against my religion or that I’m diabetic. Neither of which is true.
Finally we huff and puff our way to the top of a hill and she points to two little apple trees on the other side with her walking stick. A herd of black and white cows are standing underneath the limbs. Apples are scattered all over the ground.
She waves a wrinkled hand at the trees. “There’s my orchard,” she says with a proud smile. “Isn’t it nice? Take out your pencil and paper so I can tell you all about how I take care of the trees. We can go sit on the ground in the shade while you take notes.”
“Sit with the cows?” I ask.
The white shorts I’m wearing won’t be white much longer.
“Oh, the cows won’t hurt you,” she says. “The worst they might do is stomp on your toes. The black flies hanging around on them can be bad sometimes. They bite.”
I hear a sound behind me that sounds suspiciously like a snicker. I whirl around to glare at Sam, who smiles at me.
“Here, take my hand, Lila,” he says. “I’ll help you walk down the hill.”
Yeah, he’ll help me alright. Right down into a cow patty.
I ignore his outstretched hand.
“That’s Sam for you,” his aunt says. “Always being a true Southern gentleman. His mama, who was my sister Melissa, always tried to teach the boys good manners. Isn’t that right, Sam?”
“Yes ma’am,” he answers politely.
Now there’s a story I don’t believe for a minute.
I wonder if good old Aunt Leona knows that all three Mason boys are criminals. Nothing more than common outlaws with pretty faces who are currently under investigation by the ATF and state government agencies.
Of course she doesn’t. Why would she?
When we reach the trees, Sam points to a clear spot on the ground for me to sit. He plops down beside me, leans back against the tree trunk, and stretches his long legs out in front of him. After picking up a half-rotten apple, he casually rubs it with his shirt and tries to hand it to me.
“Want an apple?” he asks. “I wiped it off.”
Do I want to die from e-coli?
“No thank you,” I say politely. “I’m not hungry.”
He grins, and without taking his eyes from mine, takes a big bite out of it. Juice drips down the side of his mouth until he casually wipes it off with the back of his hand.
Jesus Christ.
With his eating habits, I wondered if he would live to see forty. Now I’m having doubts he’ll make it to next week.
Aunt Leona is busy picking up apples off the ground and stuffing them into her apron pockets.
“Do you pick the apples from the trees for your brandy or take the ones from the ground?” I ask.
She laughs as if it’s a stupid question. “Whichever ones look the best, honey. I wash them, so they’re fine.” She points to the notebook I’ve taken out of my purse. “Be sure to write down that I wash them all very well.”
I click my pen and write down ‘she washes the apples.’
This is stupid as hell.
Black flies are swarming all around us, and I can’t decide if I want to slash my wrists with the sharp knife I always keep in my purse or stab Sam to death with my pen.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, he winks at me and reaches over to squeeze my thigh.
Definitely stab him first.
***
Two hours later and Aunt Leona is still talking about apple brandy. At least now we’re back at the house and out of that godforsaken apple orchard. We’ve gone over the entire process from beginning to end three dozen times. I’ve written down pages upon pages of notes to the point my hand is cramping.
“Are you sure you understand everything?” she asks. “It seems like I’m forgetting to tell you an important step. I would hate for someone to try to follow my recipe and get poisoned.”
Yes. God forbid.
The whole time we’re talking, Sam just sits there as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Smiling, eating pound cake, and teasing his aunt constantly. From the way she’s doting on Sam, she obviously loves him a great deal. Her heart will be broken when she finds out what kind of man he really is, not to mention his two brothers.
It makes me sad for her and mad at them. She is such a sweet old lady, and I hate to think what it will do to her when they’re arrested. These are the kind of thoughts I can’t dwell on. Otherwise it will mess with my head.
I close my notepad and click my pen.
“I believe I’ve gotten all the information I need,” I say. “If I have any questions, I can always call you later.”
I can’t take this charade anymore and am beginning to feel bad for deceiving her.
Sometimes I hate my job.
Especially when innocent people get hurt and I always end up feeling like it’s my fault.
“Well, hang on a minute. You can’t go yet.” She walks over to the cabinet and pulls out a Mason jar filled with a light amber liquid. “Sam, fetch us some hot toddy glasses,” she says, pointing to a cabinet above the refrigerator.
While he reaches for three little shot glasses, she opens the lid on the jar and sniffs. Her eyes immediately water and she pats at them with the corner of her apron.
“Whew!” she says. “Smells strong. Don’t worry. You’re going to like this, Lila. And I won’t let you leave without trying it.”
I feel like banging my head on the Formica kitchen table.
Okay, fine.
At this point I’m willing to drink gasoline for this to be over and done with.
Sam places the shot glasses on the table and she carefully fills each one to the rim. After handing me mine, she gives one to Sam and picks up her glass.
“Here’s to new friends,” she says, holding her glass high.
Sam catches my eye and lifts his glass. His eyes are twinkling in mischief again. He knows this is going to be bad, and he’s not doing one damn thing to stop it.
When the devil came down to Georgia looking for a soul to steal, he found one person.
Sam Mason.
And he never left.
“To new friends,” he repeats.
“Cheers,” I say.
I tilt the entire contents of the shot glass into my mouth and swallow.
I’m on fire.
Gasoline would have gone down smoother. My throat and lungs are burning in agony. I start coughing and choking.
“Don’t stand there like an idiot, Sam,” Aunt Leona says. “Hurry and get her a glass of water.”
She pounds me hard on the back like I’m choking on a piece of steak while I try to catch my breath. What she’s doing isn’t helping one bit.
“Here, drink this,” Sam says. He hands me a glass of water and I try to take a sip in between coughs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should’ve warned you. Hooch is stronger than regular liquor. That’s why we call it hard liquor.”
I nod and drink more water.
Aunt Leona picks up her shot glass, downs it all in a quick swallow, and smacks her lips. “A little bit stronger than last year’s batch,” she says. “Maybe I shouldn’t have let it ferment as long. You want to write that down? Not to leave it in the jug too long?”
I hold up my hand and shake my head.
“It’s getting late,” Sam says. “I should take Lila home.” He knocks his glass back without blinking then slides a casual arm around my waist. “Are you going to be okay? Should we wait a few more minutes before heading out?”
“I’m okay,” I say. “We should probably go. We’ve taken up far too much of Aunt Leona’s time.” I reach out and touch her arm. “Thank you. You’ve been a big help.”
“I hope to see you again,” she says, still patting me on the back. “Visit me anytime. And be sure to send me a copy of the magazine article when it comes out.”
“I will,” I lie.
I hate this.
Chapter Seven
Lila
The loud roar of a motorcycle muffler wakes me up. I reach over groggily, switch on the bedside lamp, and look at the clock.
1 a.m.
Who is up at this time of the night? I’m an early morning person, so this is way past my bedtime.
Surely not Sam?
He dropped me off at my front door three hours ago. I can’t imagine why he would come back. Especially since we had such an amazing fun time at Aunt Leona’s.
Not.
I couldn’t wait for that little excursion to end.
The motorcycle pulls up in front of the house and the engine cuts off.
Would Sam really come over this late without calling? Yeah, he would.
I tug on a long t-shirt that hangs halfway down my thighs and slip on a pair of panties. Sam doesn’t need to know that I sleep in the nude.
He’s already knocking at the front door before I reach the kitchen.
“Lila,” he whispers loudly. “Are you awake? Lila!”
Why is he whispering?
The nearest house is a half-mile away and he obviously doesn’t mind waking me. I open the door and see him leaning against the porch railing. I notice he has a firm grip on the wooden post next to him. He smiles at me as if there isn’t anything unusual about showing up at a woman’s house uninvited in the middle of the night.
“Hey,” he says. “Were you asleep?”
“I was.”
He looks disappointed.
“Oh...I saw your bedroom light on when I pulled up so I thought you might be still awake. That’s why I knocked on the door.”
“I’m awake because I heard your motorcycle roaring down the road. The sound could wake the dead.”
“I didn’t think about that,” he says sheepishly. “Sorry. Okay, I’ll be on my way then. You go on back to sleep.”
He turns to walk back down the porch steps and sways slightly.
“Wait! Sam, are you drunk?”
He glances back at me over his shoulder and laughs.
“No...I’m not drunk. What would make you think that?”
Of course not.
I’ve never known a single man to admit when they were drunk.
“Let me rephrase my question then. How much have you had to drink tonight?”
He opens his blue eyes wide and gives me his best puppy dog, innocent look. I wonder how many times he’s used that expression on other women. Or cops.
“Only a couple of beers,” he answers. “Not much.”
“Ah...the standard answer. Two beers.”
“I’m fine,” he says with a wave. “I’ll call you.”
He walks down the porch steps to his motorcycle, reaches for his helmet, and fumbles it onto the ground.
Great.
“You had better come inside,” I say. “You can’t drive in this condition.”
“Sure I can,” he argues. “I’m an excellent driver.”
Now he’s slurring his words, though I notice he’s taking great care to enunciate each word as clearly as he can. He sounds like he’s getting more intoxicated by the minute. In my mind, I picture him guzzling down a quart of whiskey then hopping on his bike before the alcohol had time to seep through his system.
“Right now you’re a drunk driver who has no business being on the road.”
I walk outside in my bare feet and hold out my hand.
“Give me your keys.”
He chuckles and jerks the keys high out of my reach.
“I’m not giving a woman the keys to my bike,” he says.
Now he’s about to piss me off.
“Did you really just say that? Do you want me to knock you on your ass? Give me the damn keys!”
“You’re a feisty little kitten, aren’t you?” he says.
“Kitten? Keep it up buddy, and I’ll show you what it feels like to be shredded by a tiger.”
I grab for the keys and he jumps back again. It’s all I can do to refrain from kicking his legs out from under him and taking the keys like I know I can. Throwing him to the ground might be a little suspicious since he’s bigger and much stronger, so I have to control myself. Few women my size can throw a big man off their feet in three seconds. With all the self-defense and takedown training I’ve had, it will be easy. One way or another, he’s not going back on the road.
“Cut it out, Sam. I’m not playing with you.”
Chuckling, he steps back again and staggers against the side of the bike. I grab the handlebars to keep them both from falling over.
“Oh my God! Will you please stop it?”
I haven’t dealt with an intoxicated person in a long time. I’ve forgotten how frustrating it can be to reason with them.
“Are you still sticking to your ‘not drunk’ story?” I ask. “Because you’re not very convincing. You can barely stand up without swaying.”
He squeezes two fingers almost together.
“Maybe a teensy, weensy bit drunk,” he admits.
“Well, that’s a start on the road to recovery,” I say. “Where were you tonight anyway?”
“The clubhouse.”
“And your biker friends let you leave in this shape?”
“No,” he says. “I was the last one there. Except for the Sweet Butts.”
Oh yes. The infamous Sweet Butts.
I know all about the group of women who hang around the Steel Infidels clubhouse. Most, if not all of them, are willing to do anything the bikers want to keep their position within the club. Sex, blowjobs, nothing is off limits. The women are passed around among the members and shared like club property. It disgusts me to think about it. It also ticks me off that they let Sam drive when he’s clearly wasted. He could hurt someone.
“Why didn’t you stay there with them until you sobered up?”
“I wanted to see you,” he says simply. “And you weren’t there, so I had to come here.” He points to the house then reaches out unsteadily to gently touch the side of my face.
I look up at his bloodshot eyes and let out a long sigh. Looks like I’ve got a drunk for the night whether I want him or not. On the bright side, this might be a golden opportunity for me to pry some information out of him about the Steel Infidel’s business dealings.
I decide to switch tactics since strong-arming him clearly isn’t working. Taking his hand in mine, I tug him away from the bike. Thankfully he moves with me this time instead of jerking away.
“Let’s go inside where we can talk. If you came all this way to see me, you can’t just leave. Come on.”
To my relief, he allows me to lead him up the steps to the front porch. I open the door and he suddenly stops. Turning around, he tries to pull me back down the stairs.
“You want to go skinny-dipping?” he asks, waving a hand toward the black lake behind the house. “It’s hot out here.”
This man is driving me batshit crazy.
“Oh, there’s a great idea if I’ve ever heard one. Let’s think about this. It's pitch dark, the lake has drop-offs, and you’re wasted. You would drown and take me under with you. So the answer is no, we’re not going skinny-dipping. Are you out of your mind? The house has air-conditioning, so you’ll survive.”
Certain he was going to keep giving me a hard time, I put my hand on his back and practically shove him insi
de the house. Slamming the door behind us, I lock the deadbolt to keep him from running right back out again.
After sitting him down in a chair at the kitchen table, I reach for a bottle of aspirin in the cabinet.
“You’re going to have a massive hangover tomorrow.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t get them.”
“Lucky you. So I’m guessing you do this often?”
He doesn’t answer me.
I shake out two aspirin anyway and pour him a glass of water.
“Here,” I say, handing them to him. “Swallow these and drink the whole glass. Maybe the water will dilute the gallons of alcohol flooding your bloodstream.”
Surprisingly, he does exactly what I tell him to do without arguing. When I turn to walk away, he grabs my hand and tugs me down onto his lap. I try to push against his arms and instead of turning me loose, he tightens his grip.
“Do you like sitting in my lap?” he mumbles into my hair.
I hide a smile because encouraging him is the last thing I want to do.
“I don’t know, because I’ve never sat in your lap before.”
“Are you sure?” he asks doubtfully.
“Pretty sure I would remember it.”
“Maybe I dreamed it then,” he says. “Because I like it.”
His hand strokes my calf then slides up my bare thigh to rest on my ass. I try to ignore the heat coming off his skin through the thin shirt or how good his muscular arms feel wrapped around my back.
Yeah, I like sitting on his lap. Too much.
Sam leans closer and nuzzles my neck.
“You smell sweet. Like shampoo. And your skin is so soft.”
He slides his fingers under the side rim of my panties and caresses my hip.
Oh mercy!
This is good and not good.
It’s hard enough trying to resist cocky, devilish Sam. Fending off drunk, sweet Sam with warm, roving hands is even worse. Maybe it’s my imagination, but his hands feel like they’re everywhere at the same time.
I wrap my hand around his wrist to stop him before he goes any further.
“Okay, buddy. Keep your hands above the waist.”
He chuckles into my neck and immediately slides his hand up my shirt to cup my braless breast. My nipple responds instantly to his touch, hardening into a thick bud.