We drove up the hill to where the bar was perched on a bluff. I’d told him about the bootlegging history of the town, and how the Lookout was where they kept watch while moonshine and hooch were smuggled across the lake into Maryland. He’d seemed bored, then questioned whether the story was true.
I got out and smoothed down my shirt. Glanced at my boots. They were cute, I didn’t care what Kelvin said. He put a hand on the small of my back and led me to the entrance.
Music spilled out into the evening air when Kelvin opened the door. I stepped inside, feeling a little burst of excitement. I’d never been in the Lookout before. The last time I’d been in Bootleg Springs, I’d been too young.
It was everything you’d imagine a small-town West Virginia bar to be—only better. Neon beer signs. Peanut shells on the floor. Gibson Bodine and two other people played music from a tiny stage. Dancers occupied the dance floor in front of them. There were tables of people, more playing pool, and all the denim and cowboy boots you could ever want.
I loved it.
Kelvin seemed less impressed. He glanced around with a grimace, almost like he was afraid to touch anything.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s not stand by the door.”
He leaned close so I could hear him over the music. “This is what you want to do tonight?”
“Yes. You haven’t done anything except work. Let’s have a drink. Live a little.”
“I’ve lived a little in plenty of places,” he said. “Milan, Paris, London, New York. I don’t think I need to add the backwoods of West Virginia to the list.”
“You’re impossible.”
I looked around, wondering if Jameson was here, but I didn’t see him. I did see Scarlett, at a table with two other women—Cassidy and June Tucker. Scarlett smiled and waved, so I went over to their table.
“Leah Mae,” Cassidy said with a smile. “Scarlett was telling us you were in town. Nice to see you again.”
I introduced everyone to Kelvin. Thankfully, he was polite, despite the fact that he kept looking around with that half-horrified expression on his face.
“Is it true that you had an illicit affair with Brock Winston?” June asked. “Or was that a fabrication designed by the producers to create conflict for the sake of better ratings?”
“Oh, Juney,” Scarlett said.
“It’s okay,” I said. “The show was definitely edited for better ratings.”
“I find it fascinating that the average person believes reality shows are real in any way,” June said.
I wasn’t supposed to admit to the amount of coaching I’d received while filming. I’d been instructed to maintain that everything on the show was completely authentic. I didn’t want to lie to anyone, so I stuck with my standard non-answer. “Filming the show was an interesting experience.”
“Are you contractually obligated to give vague responses?” June asked.
I laughed, and Cassidy cut in. “Well, if she was, then we’ll just leave it be.”
“Well, then,” Scarlett said. “How’d you get on with Mona Lisa McNugget there, Kevin?”
“It’s Kelvin,” he said. “And someone should cook that chicken for dinner.”
Scarlett and Cassidy both gasped.
“Deputy Tucker, I think he just threatened the life of our beloved Mona Lisa McNugget,” Scarlett said. “Surely that’s an offense worthy of an arrest.”
“Mona Lisa McNugget is a fine little hen,” Cassidy said, crossing her arms. “If I were you, I’d be careful about making idle threats against our town chicken.”
I covered my mouth to keep from laughing. June ignored all of us.
“I don’t… what?” Kelvin asked.
“Maybe we should get a drink,” I said, patting his arm.
“I’ll go.” He walked away, shaking his head.
The bar was busy; it would take him a while to get service. Cassidy pushed one of the extra stools out for me and I took a seat.
“I love your shirt,” Cassidy said. “That’s adorable. Where’d you get it?”
“Oh, I made it,” I said. “Well, not from scratch. It used to be a dress, but I modified it.”