On the Rocks Read online

  Copyright (C) 2019 Kandi Steiner

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written consent of the author except where permitted by law.

  The characters and events depicted in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Kandi Steiner

  Edited by Elaine York/Allusion Graphics, LLC/ Publishing & Book Formatting, www.allusiongraphics.com

  Cover Photography by Perrywinkle Photography

  Cover Design by Kandi Steiner

  Formatting by Elaine York/Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting, www.allusiongraphics.com

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  The Wrong Game - Prologue

  The Wrong Game - Chapter One

  More from Kandi Steiner

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  To those who love whiskey and sunshine,

  long summer days and front porch sittin’,

  dips in the river and never taking life too seriously –

  this one’s for you.

  Noah

  When you hear the word Tennessee, what do you think of?

  Maybe your first thought is country music. Maybe you can even see those bright lights of Nashville, hear the different bands as their sounds pour out of the bars and mingle in a symphony in the streets. Maybe you think of Elvis, of Graceland, of Dollywood and countless other musical landmarks. Maybe you feel the prestige of the Grand Ole Opry, or the wonder of the Country Music Hall of Fame. Maybe you feel the history radiating off Beale Street in Memphis.

  Or maybe you think of the Great Smoky Mountains, of fresh air and hiking, of majestic sights and long weekends in cabins. Maybe you can close your eyes and see the tips of those mountains capped in white, can hear the call of the Tennessee Warbler, can smell the fresh pine and oak.

  Maybe, when you think of Tennessee, all of this and more comes to mind.

  But for me, it only conjured up one, two-syllable word.

  Whiskey.

  I saw the amber liquid gold every time I closed my eyes. I smelled its oaky finish with each breath I took. My taste buds were trained at a young age to detect every slight note within the bottle, and my heart was trained to love whiskey long before it ever learned how to love a woman.

  Tennessee whiskey was a part of me. It was in my blood. I was born and raised on it, and at twenty-eight, it was no surprise to me that I was now part of the team that bred and raised the most famous Tennessee whiskey in the world.

  It was always in the cards for me. And it was all I ever wanted.

  At least, that’s what I thought.

  Until the day Ruby Grace came back into town.

  My ears were plugged with bright, neon orange sponges, but I could still hear Chris Stapleton’s raspy voice crooning behind the loud clamor of machines. I wiped sweat from my brow as I clamped the metal ring down on another whiskey barrel, sending it on down the line before beginning on the next one. Summer was just weeks away, and the distillery swelled with the Tennessee heat.

  Being a barrel raiser at the Scooter Whiskey Distillery was a privilege. There were only four of us, a close-knit team, and we were paid well for doing a job they hadn’t figured out how to train machines to do yet. Each barrel was hand-crafted, and I raised hundreds of them every single day. Our barrels were part of what made our whiskey so recognizable, part of what made our process so unique, and part of what made Scooter a household name.

  My grandfather had started as a barrel raiser, too, when he was just fourteen years old. He’d been the one to set the standard, to hammer down the process and make it what it is today. It was how the founder, Robert J. Scooter, first noticed him. It was the beginning of their friendship, of their partnership, of their legacy.

  But that legacy had been cut short for my grandfather, for my family. Even if I had moved away from this town, from the distillery that was as much a blessing to my family as it was a curse, I’d never forget that.

  “Hey, Noah,” Marty called over the sharp cutting of another barrel top. Sparks flew up around his protective goggles, his eyes on me instead of the wood, but his hands moved in a steady, knowledgeable rhythm. “Heard you made the walk of shame into work this morning.”

  The rest of the crew snickered, a few cat calls and whistles ringing out as I suppressed a grin.

  “What’s it to ya?”

  Marty shrugged, running a hand over his burly beard. It was thick and dark, the tips peppered with gray just like his long hair that framed his large face. “I’m just saying, maybe you could at least shower next time. It’s smelled like sex since five a.m.”

  “That’s what that is?” PJ asked, pausing to adjust his real glasses underneath the protective ones. His face screwed up, thick black frames rising on his crinkled nose as he shook his head. “I thought they were serving us fish sticks again in the cafeteria.”

  That earned a guffaw from the guys, and I slugged our youngest crew member on the arm. At twenty-one, PJ was the rookie, the young buck, and he was the smallest of us by far, too. His arms weren’t toned from raising barrels day in and day out for years, though his hands were finally starting to callous under his work gloves.

  “Nah, that’s just your mama’s panties, PJ. She gave them to me as a souvenir. Here,” I said, right hand diving into my pocket. I pulled out my handkerchief, flinging it up under his nose before he could pull away. “Get a better whiff.”

  “Fuck you, Noah.” He shoved me away with a grimace as the guys burst into another fit of laughter.

  I shook the handkerchief over his head again before tucking it away, hands moving for more staves of wood to build the next barrel. It took anywhere from thirty-one to thirty-three planks of wood to bring one to life, and I had it down to a science — mixing and matching the sizes, the width, until the perfect barrel was built. I hadn’t had a barrel with a leak in more than seven years, since I first started making them when I was twenty-one. It only took me six months to get my process down, and by my twenty-second birthday, I was the fastest raiser on our team, even though I was the youngest at the time.

  Mom always said Dad would have been proud, but I’d never know for sure.

  “Seriously, though,” Marty continued. “That’s three times now you’ve creeped out of Daphne Swan’s house with the cocks waking up the sun behind you. Gotta be a record for you.”

  “He’ll be buying a ring soon,” the last member of our team piped in. Eli was just a few years older than me, and he knew better than anyone that I didn’t do relationships. But that was where his knowledge of me ended, because just like everyone else, he assumed it was because I was a playboy.

  They all assumed I’d be single until the end of time, jumping from bed to bed, not caring whose heart was broken in the process.

  But I wanted to settle down, to give a girl the Becker name and have a few kids to chase after — maybe more than anyone else in Stratford. Only, unlike all my friends, I wouldn’t just do it wit
h the first girl who baked me a pie. There were plenty of beautiful girls in our small town, but I was looking for more, for a love like the one my mom and dad had.

  Anyone who knew my parents knew I would likely be looking for a while.

  “Daphne and I are friends,” I explained, stacking up the next barrel. “And we have an understanding. She wants to be held at night, and I want to be ridden like a rodeo bull.” I shrugged. “Think of it as modern-day bartering.”

  “I need a friend like that,” PJ murmured, and we all laughed just as the shop door swung open.

  “Tour coming through,” our manager, Gus, called. He kept his eyes on the papers he was shuffling through as his feet carried him toward his office. “Noah, come see me after they’re gone.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, and while the guys all made ominous oooh’s at my expense, I wasn’t nervous. Gus had nothing but respect for me, just as I had for him, and I knew maybe too confidently that I wasn’t in trouble. He had a job that needed handling, and I was always his go-to.

  The door swung open again, and the teasing died instantly, all of us focusing on the task at hand as my brother led a group of tourists inside.

  “Alright, remember now, this is another area where no pictures are allowed. Please put your phones away until we venture back outside. Since we’re one of the last breweries that still makes its own barrels, we don’t want our secrets getting out. We know at least half of you were sent from Kentucky down here to spy on us.”

  The group laughed softly, all of their eyes wide as they filtered in to get a better look at us. Marty hated tours, and I could already hear his grunts of disapproval, like the group was sent with the sole purpose of ruining his day. But me? I loved them, not only because it meant Scooter Whiskey was still a household name, and therefore — job security — but also because it meant a chance to rag on my little brother.

  I had three brothers — Logan, Michael, and Jordan.

  Jordan was the oldest — my senior by four years. Mom and Dad had adopted him before I was born, and though he might not have looked like the rest of the Becker clan, he was one of us, through and through.

  Michael was the youngest of us at just seventeen, only one summer standing between him and his senior year of high school.

  And Logan, who just walked through the door with the tour, was the second youngest. He was two years younger than me, which meant he was my favorite to pick on.

  He was my first little brother, after all.

  Once the entire group was inside, Logan gestured to us with a wide smile.

  “These are the fine gentleman known as our barrel raisers. You might remember learning about them from the video earlier. As it mentioned, each of our barrels is crafted by hand, by just four upstanding gentlemen — Marty, Eli, Noah, and PJ.”

  We all waved as Logan introduced us, and I chanced a smirk in the direction of the hottest girl in the tour. She was older, maybe mid-thirties, and looked like someone’s mom. But her tits were as perky as I imagined they were on her twenty-first birthday, and she was looking at me like a hot piece of bread after a month of being on a no-carb diet.

  She returned my smile as she twirled a strand of her bright blonde hair around her finger, whispering something to the group of girls she was with before they all giggled.

  Logan continued on, talking about how the four of us as a team made more than five-hundred barrels every single day before sending them down the line for charring and toasting. He explained how Scooter Whiskey is actually clear when it’s first put into our barrels, and it’s the oak and charring process that brings out the amber color and sweet flavor they’re accustomed to today.

  Even though my hands worked along on autopilot, I watched my brother with a balloon of pride swelling in my chest. His hair was a sandy walnut brown, just like mine, though his curled over the edges of his ball cap and mine was cut short in a fade. He stood a few inches taller than me, which always irked me growing up, and he was lean from years of playing baseball where I was stout from years of football before I became a barrel raiser.

  If you grew up as a boy in Stratford, you played at least one sport. That’s just all there was to it.

  Though we had our differences, anyone who stood in the same room with us could point us out as brothers. Logan was like my best friend, but he was also like my own son. At least, that’s how I’d seen it after Dad died.

  Just like there were only a handful of barrel raisers, the same was true for tour guides. They were the face of our distillery, and on top of being paid well for their knowledge and charisma, they were also tipped highly by the tourists passing through town. It was one of the most sought-after jobs, and Logan had landed it at eighteen — after Dad died, which meant he didn’t get any help getting the position.

  He got the job because he was the best at it, and so I was proud of him, the same way I knew our dad would have been.

  It was no surprise to our family when he landed it, given his rapt attention to detail. He’d been that way since we were kids — nothing in his room was ever out of place, he ate his food in a specific order, and he always did his homework as soon as he was out of school, exactly as it was supposed to be done, and then did his chores before he even considered playing outside.

  For Logan to be comfortable, everything needed to be in order.

  The poor guy had almost made it through his entire spiel when I kicked the barrel I was working on and dropped the metal ring to the floor, creating a loud commotion.

  “Ah! My finger!”

  I gripped my right middle finger hard, grimacing in pain as the rest of the crew flew to my side. The tourists gasped in horror, watching helplessly as I grunted and cursed, applying pressure.

  “What happened?”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Oh God, if there’s blood, I’ll pass out.”

  I had to strain against the urge to laugh at that last one, which I was almost positive came from the hot mom with the great rack.

  Logan sprinted over, his face pale as he shoved PJ out of the way to get to me.

  “Shit, Noah. What’d you do? Are you okay?” He thwacked PJ’s shoulder. “Go get Gus!”

  “Wait!” I called, still grimacing as I held up my hand. It was in a tight fist, and with everyone’s eyes fixed on it, I slowly rolled my fingers of my free hand beside it like I was coaxing open a Jack in the Box, and I flipped my little brother off with a shit-eating grin.

  The guys all laughed as my brother let out a frustrated sigh, rolling his eyes before grabbing my neck in a chokehold. I shoved him off me, stealing his hat and tossing it on my own head backward as I raced toward his tour group.

  “Sorry about the scare, folks,” I said, playing off the charm of the drawl I was given naturally from being born and raised in Stratford. “Couldn’t pass up the opportunity to give my little brother here a hard time.”

  There were still some looks of confusion aimed our way, but slowly, they all smiled as relief washed over them.

  “So, you’re okay?” I heard a soft voice ask. “You’re not hurt?”

  It was the mom, and I leaned against one of the machines on one arm as I crooked a smile at her.

  “Only by the fact that I’ve gone my whole life without knowing you, sweetheart.”

  Her friends all giggled, one of them wearing a BRIDE TO BE button that I hadn’t noticed before. The mom was still blushing as Logan ripped his hat from my head, shoving me back toward the barrel I’d abandoned.

  “Alright, Casanova. Leave my group alone.”

  “Just making their tour of Scooter Whiskey Distillery one they’ll never forget, little bro,” I chided, winking once more at the mom before I got back to work.

  Logan was already continuing on with the next part of his tour as he walked the group out, and I held the mom’s eyes the entire way until she was out the door.

  I imagined I’d find her at the only bar in town later tonight.

  Marty griped at me for being stupid
, as PJ and Eli gave me subtle high fives. They were all used to my pranks, especially at my brothers’ expense. When you grow up in the same town, with the same people, all working at the same place and doing the same damn job, you learn to make the most of what little fun you can slip into the everyday routine.

  “Noah.”

  Gus’s voice sobered me, and I dropped my cocky smirk, straightening at his call.

  “My office. Now.”

  He hadn’t even risen from his chair, but I knew he’d heard the commotion from the prank. My confidence in being untouchable as a Scooter employee slipped a little as I peeled off my work gloves and made my way to his office.

  “Shut the door behind you,” he said without looking up.

  My ears rang a little at the sudden quietness, and I let the door latch shut before taking a seat in one of the two chairs across from him.

  Gus eyed me over the papers he was still running over his hands, one brow arching before he sighed and dropped the papers to his desk. “First of all, even though I appreciate you bringing some laughter into this place, don’t play around when it comes to job safety, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I know Logan is your brother, and I don’t mind the occasional prank. But slicing a finger off is no laughing matter. Our founder is proof of that.”

  The story of our founder passing away from a minor finger injury was one we always told to the tours that passed through. Here was this healthy man, older but not suffering from any illnesses, and in the end, it was his pride that got him. He’d cut his middle finger right where it connected at the base of his hand, but rather than telling someone, he just wrapped it up and went about his normal routine.

  Infection took his life well before it was time.

  “I understand, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  “Good.” He kicked back in his chair, running a hand over his bald head as his eyes fell to the paper again. “We’ve got a potential buyer here who wants one of our single-barrels. But, the situation is a little precarious.”

  “How so?”

  It wasn’t strange for Gus to ask me to show one of our rare barrels to potential buyers, mostly older gentleman with too much money to know what to do with it anymore. Each barrel sold for upwards of fifteen-thousand dollars, most of that money going to good ol’ Uncle Sam.