Whiskey Moon

No mask. No facade. No shame. No filter.

She was real.

What I wouldn’t give for a chance to be real again with her—if only for a night.

21

Blaire

* * *

I’m halfway through a script my agent sent me when a number with a local area code flashes across my screen.

I tap the green button and lift the phone to my ear, instantly picking up the sound of blaring music and people talking over one another.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Blaire,” a man says.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Cash,” he shouts above the noise. “You still coming tonight?”

The clock on my dresser reads seven-thirty. Earlier this week, he invited me to come out Friday night, but I never told him I would.

“Um, no,” I say. “I’m staying in … how’d you get my number?”

“Ivy Forsythe,” he says. Of course. “You should come out.”

Dad’s been home from the hospital since this morning, and since he’s a fall risk, Odette and I have been trading off on keeping an eye on him. She has evening and bedtime duty, but I’d feel awful leaving her just to go out drinking.

“You need to come and get your man. He’s acting like a damn fool,” Cash says.

“What?”

“Wyatt. I’ve never seen him this plastered before. He’s falling all over the place … and he keeps asking for you.”

My heart trots and my mouth runs dry. They say a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts, but I refuse to get tangled in Wyatt’s confusing web all over again.

“He’s a big boy,” I say. “He’ll sober up and come to his senses before closing time. And if you’re the one overserving him, I’d say he’s your issue.”

“Can’t you just … come down here and talk to him?”

I chuff. “What, like you want me to comfort him?”

He can’t be serious.

“What could I possibly say?” I ask.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Cash says before the phone muffles. “At least help me get him into my office so he can stop making a fool of himself. The last time he got like this, he started a fight with a couple of guys outside and the whole two against one thing didn’t go well for him.”

I clench my stomach at the thought of two leathery jackasses double-teaming Wyatt, even if he was being a drunken idiot.

“Please, Blaire,” he says. “Don’t do it for him, do it as a personal favor to me. I’m the only one pouring drinks tonight and I can’t keep an eye on him the entire time.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I exhale into the phone. “Fine. I’ll help you get a handle on him, then I’m coming straight home.”

I end the call, zip myself into a pair of yesterday’s jeans, throw on a wrinkled t-shirt, and head to the bathroom to freshen up and toss my hair into a messy bun.

Ten minutes later, I’m busting into Petty Cash like a woman on a mission. My gaze narrows on the handsome blue-eyed boy at the end of the bar, the one hunched over a tumbler filled with brown liquor.

For some reason, I’d imagined a bull in a china shop sort of scenario. The way Cash talked, Wyatt was out of control, causing trouble, and carrying on.

The Wyatt a few yards ahead of me is calm, mellow, and minding his own.

I can’t believe I fell for that …

Sliding into the seat next to Wyatt, I flag his brother down. “Make me something strong and give it to me on the house.”

It takes a second for Wyatt to realize it’s me sitting beside him. Maybe it’s because I look like I literally rolled out of bed, maybe it’s because he actually is two sheets to the wind, or maybe it’s a little bit of both.

Either way, I catch the look he gives his younger brother and it isn’t pretty.

Cash mixes me a drink, and I prop my head on the top of my hand, elbow resting on the bar.

“Your brother hasn’t changed a lick,” I say.

“Tell me about it.” He runs his fingers around the rim of his glass, but he doesn’t touch it.

“How many of those have you had?” I ask.

“One,” he says. “He poured this one a while ago, but I haven’t touched it.”

“He told me you were hammered, making a fool of yourself, and he wanted me to help corral you into his office so you could sober up.”

Cash delivers my drink with a shit-eating grin before heading off to help the next patron.

I take a sip of the sweet cocktail and shiver when it zaps my tongue with a sharp little kick. He probably squeezed an entire lime into this glass. If he’s not careful, I’ll give his bar number to the spammers just like I did with my old art professor … it’ll be ringing off the hook all night.

“He certainly has a way of influencing people,” Wyatt says.