Huck glared at Rick.
"Fine," Huck said. "But if she can't hack it, she's fired. I don't have time to waste on some princess who probably has no idea what she's doing. Have you ever even worked in a bar before, Belle?"
Princess? Oh hell no.
"You sure have made a lot of assumptions," I said. "No, I haven't worked in a bar before. Princesses don't work, right? If I'm such a princess, do you think I'd be here? How about you just give me a damn chance to pour your cheap whiskey and watered down, shitty beer and see how I do? Before you start talking about things that you have no fucking clue about."
Huck and Rick both looked at me, shocked.
"Well," Rick said. "I think it's very clear that Belle has the attitude down that's needed to work here. She doesn't take shit from anyone." He laughed. "Even you, Huck."
Huck was still staring at me. He took off his sunglasses as if he wanted to get a better look at me. The intensity of his gaze again made me want to fidget, but I held my ground.
I'd spent the last year taking enough bullshit from a man. I wouldn't continue to let someone else treat me like crap. Especially Huck Calloway.
"Okay, Belle," Huck said. "Tomorrow night you'll be here at six-thirty sharp. We'll see how you do. I have my own predictions. Let's see if you can prove me wrong."
And with that, he turned away from me and walked out the door. It jingled behind him and the room was silent.
Who was this guy? I guess I'd find out, soon enough.
4
Here's a fun fact: I kind of am a princess. At least as much of one as you can be in America.
My father was known as a bourbon king. I grew up surrounded by the smell of it and the discussion of it. If there was one thing I knew anything about, it was whiskey.
Delford Distillery is one of the top, high end bourbon makers in the world. It's been a business run by my family since bourbon was allegedly invented by a Baptist preacher named Elijah Craig back in the late 1700s. Delford is synonymous with bourbon. Which the uneducated like to call whiskey. But while every bourbon is whiskey, not every whiskey is bourbon.
It was basically the first rule in life I ever knew. Bourbon is its own wonderful invention. As American as anything else that exists on the spectrum of American things. Like jazz or baseball. You can't even call it bourbon unless it's been barreled in the U.S. Its definition is its geography.
Much like me.
As much as I wanted to be away from the Delford name, I knew parts of it would never leave me. And the business of bourbon was one of those things. It was buried deep in my DNA. I couldn't have dismissed it, even if I'd wanted to.
I couldn't help but think of that as I drove down the road from my new rental house on the Calloway's land to The Side Pocket for my first night of training with Huck. As much as I wanted to escape who I was and where I'd come from, it would always be a part of me. No matter what I did.
When I pulled into the parking lot it was mostly empty except for a blue Ford truck that I knew was Rick's and a Chevy pick-up that I assumed was probably Huck's. It was a later year model and it was a burgundy red.
It suited him perfectly. Red. Hot.
I shook my head. I needed to stop thinking about him like that. The man was looking for any reason to sack me tonight. I had to keep my head in the game … And not on his ass.
When I walked in I could see Rick leaning across the bar and talking to Huck, who was sitting on a stool. Hayes was next to him with some other tall hunk … Maybe this was Hunt?
These Calloway boys had some amazing genetics. All three were gorgeous specimens of men.
"Hey, y'all," I said, giving a small wave. I was immediately nervous. What had I gotten myself into?
Rick, Hayes, and Hunt had huge smiles on their faces as they greeted me. Huck didn't even bother to turn around.
Wow. This was going to be a great night.
"Nice to see you, Belle," Hayes said, a playful grin on his face. "Whitmer must have really charmed you, huh?"
"Totally," I said. "I couldn't stand the thought of leaving."
The guy who I assumed was Hunt held out his hand. I shook it and noted how large it was and how his handshake was firm and assertive. He had the same eyes as Huck but they were softer. They didn't hold as much resentment in them.
"I'm Hunt," he said. "The oldest of the Calloway hellions. It's nice to meet you. We don't have too many new women come to this town."
"No?" I asked, sitting on the barstool next to him. I glanced over at Huck, who still hadn't acknowledged me. He was sipping on his beer and staring at the liquor bottles on the bar shelves.
"Nope," Hunt replied. "Just a bunch of men who come here to work in the mountains in the summer. Someone once told me the ratio of women to men here is like one woman for every five guys or something like that."
"I see," I said. "Well. Lucky me I guess. Or not. I just came here to get away."
"Well," Hayes said. "You wouldn't be the first to do that."
"What's there to escape?" Hunt asked.
My stomach turned. That wasn't part of the deal. I wasn't revealing anything about myself to them. The less they knew, the better. And the easier for me to leave when the time was right.
"Don't you boys have stock to take care of in the back?" Rick interrupted. I sensed he knew my discomfort and I gave him a grateful smile.
"Yeah," Hayes said. "We do. Good to see you again, Belle. Good luck tonight with this grumpy asshole." He shoved Huck's shoulder as he said it. "Let us know if he gives you any trouble."
Huck gripped his beer bottle tight, but didn't respond.
Hayes and Hunt's voices faded as they walked through the swinging doors behind the bar that led toward what I assumed were stock rooms and a break room.
And now it was just me, Huck, and Rick. And Huck still hadn't said a word to me.
"Huck here is going to show you how to work the register," Rick said. "I've got the night off. Fortunately, Wednesdays are pretty tame. It's Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays that are a real bitch." Rick threw the towel he'd been using to wipe bottles at Huck. "Dammit, Huck. What's your problem? Get out of your damn funk and get your head in this. Belle needs your help and if she fails because you were too busy pouting, I'll kick your ass myself. Belle, come on around the end of the bar, through that door."
Huck sighed and put his beer bottle down on the bar. It was like it was painful to be around me. I just didn't understand it. At all.
It really pissed me off.
"Okay," Huck said. "Your first test, to see if you know what the hell you're doing." Rick walked over to the other side of the bar so that he sat next to Huck, leaving me alone behind the bar. "Belle, I want you to pour me a shot of the best whiskey we have on the shelf. And then I want you to pour me a shot of the worst."
I gulped. Of all the tests he had to throw at me. Shit.
Rick interjected. "Huck, what the hell does that even matter? We pour what people tell us to pour. Stop being a dick."
Huck was staring at me now. He ignored Rick's insult. (I was starting to think insults got thrown around a lot in this family)
"It's not a pass or fail," Huck said. "I'm just trying to find out what Belle does or doesn't know. I can't train her without knowing what level we're starting at."
He was smirking at me.
Oh how I wanted to wipe the smirk off that stupidly sexy face of his. Huck Calloway was clearly someone who thought he knew everything- who thought he could pigeonhole me. I could see that what Huck lacked was respect.
Well, he was about to find out who he was messing with. It was time to shut him up.
I turned to take a quick inventory of the shelves. I could feel their eyes on me as I scanned the amber colored bottles that filled up the top shelf.
"Maker's is one of my favorites," I said, picking up a handle of it, its signature red wax seal unopened on the square-shaped bottle. "They age it six years in the county I grew up in, and it's a small batch bourbon, which means that its produced in small quantities of approximately 1,000 gallons or less, from a mash bill of around 200 bushels of grain. At least, that's what they claim."
Rick and Huck stared at me, saying nothing. I continued.
"But in my humble opinion, Maker's isn't the best bourbon out there. They do hold the rare distinction of spelling whisky without the ‘e', which is very Scottish of them, of course. Almost all American whiskey adds the ‘e'. George Dickel is an exception, but it's whisky and not bourbon. Plus, it's made in Tennessee, so it hardly counts in my eyes, being from Kentucky. Now, Old Forrester spells it without the ‘e' too, and they're a great bourbon, but again … I wouldn't say it's the best."