The Convenient Wife

Taking a small step back, I hold my glass in both hands and smile. “Yes, can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a nice strong bourbon, do you have any suggestions?”

“You’ve come to the right place,” I start to say, before I’m distracted by my assistant, Yale, who is waving a red folder and giving me a panicked look. “Gina,” I call out. She’s at my side before I have time to blink, like a puppy who saw I was holding a piece of meat. “Lay out a few samples of Honey Number Seven, Tall Blur, and Venice.”

Gina eagerly agrees, knowing any sale that she makes will result in a fat commission. Putting on her award winning smile, she wraps her arm around his and snuggles up closer than you should to a stranger.

Looking at his left hand, she notes he’s not wearing a ring, and nuzzles herself in a little deeper. Twisting the man on his feet, Gina glances at me over her shoulder, a small twinkle in her eyes and sexy smirk on her lips.

She wants to fuck me, I can see it. Her tongue runs slightly over her pouty bottom lip and she bites it gently, before looking away and engaging with the customer again.

There’s no point in her trying that shit with me.

One: she works for my father.

Two: she works for me.

And three: relationships are pointless.

I’m married to the distillery, to the fucking whiskey I help create. Some of the barrels are as old as I am, made the day I was born.

My father almost missed my birth because he was tweaking that batch and wanted to seal them shut before I arrived. He made it with two minutes to spare. Just enough time for my mother to give him an earful of shit before pushing me out.

Taking a second, I watch Gina and the man briefly, and I’m laughing inside because I can see the boner the customer is already getting as she rubs the side of her tits on his outer arm, and her fingers are softly touching his bicep.

She just sold four bottles before cracking open a single one.

Taking a sip from my glass, I hold it in my mouth for a moment, allowing the scent to keep seeping up into my sinuses and down the back of my throat. As I swallow, that smoothness turns into a smoky honey flavor that warms my gut.

I’m not sure, but I think I groan out loud as I swallow. But fuck, that’s what happens when the whiskey is made right. If you don’t moan like you just got off, you’re not drinking the good shit.

The oak barrels are charred dark, giving the liquor the smooth flavor I love, and we don’t bottle anything until it hits at least five years in a barrel, not a day less.

From the corner of my eyes I can see Valerie start to move, wiping down the bar with a blue towel. She’s moving with a little more enthusiasm than usual, which can mean only one thing; my father’s here.

Vincent Sheckler, owner of Sheckler distillery, the man behind the entire operation, has the frown lines, and worry lines, to prove he’s been around for years. My father wears those lines on his face like an accessory.

With bushy black brows and a slick shaved head, the small patch of facial hair on his chin really stands out with its peppered white and black hairs. He’s wearing a deep navy suit with a bright white tie. Running his hand over his head, he quickly glances around, making sure everything is running smoothly. Adjusting his cuffs as he walks, his heels click against the wood and his eyes narrow on me.

With heavy strides, I put on a smile and meet my father in the center of the room. “Dad, what brings you here? You don’t usually show up until the middle of the month. You’re a week early.”

“Well, it’s good to surprise people once in a while, you know? Let them know I’m not dead.” Chuckling, he waves at the girls, giving them a smile. “Ladies, don’t forget to show that nice man our flavor of the month, give him a sample of Blackberry In December.” The girls both nod, and Valerie goes to the shelf to grab the bottle.

“Is this what you came for? To push the new flavor?”

“No, that’s not why I’m here. But hey, never pass on the chance to show someone something new.” Waving his hand, he braids his fingers behind his back and starts to move. “Walk with me, Bolt.”

Walking through the room, my father moves slowly, as if we were in a park on a leisurely stroll. His eyes dance around the walls, his finger swipes the occasional edge of trim here and there, checking for dust as he talks.