Page 40 of Best Kind of Trouble
Code V and I are well acquainted. Drawback of the trade. When you make beer, you get used to watching people get wasted off it.
So I wasn’t fazed by seeing Briar puke. Or by pulling a half-rotted fish that looked like a zombie Billy the Bass out of the radiator. If anything, it was an upswing from sitting in front of my old boss while he twirled that fake ring around on his manicured finger—thinking he was looking impressive when he was really just advertising how much of a fool he’d been.
But when Briar walks back into Silver Star an hour later with my sister and Dottie, it’s obviousshecares about being sabotaged. She’s quiet and subdued. I don’t even get a laugh when I tell them about the zombie bass. Maybe it’s partly the smell—I propped the door open, but the brewery still smells like a Southern boil three days after the fact.
“Did they sabotage anything else?” she asks quietly, and something about the way she asks it, arms crossed defensively over her chest, makes me think of last night at the boxing gym.
Someone hurt her.
They fucked her over good, and she carries it with her.
The thought makes me curl my own hand into a fist.
But my sister’s watching me, and I know better than to ask questions that will lead to more questions. So I just shake my head. “No sign of that, but I should do testing on all of the in-progress beers tomorrow to make sure everything’s as it should be. There’s empty space for the pale ale, and the amber looks like it’s ready to be racked. That’ll make space for another new beer, but right now, most of the equipment is in use.”
“Maybe we need more equipment,” Briar says, tugging on a lock of her hair. That simple act is enough for me to remember what it felt like in my fist, the heavy, silky mass of it woven through my fingers.
Nope. Not thinking about that. Especially not while my sister’s studying me, her hand propped on her hip.
“What we need is for the beer to ferment faster,” I say. “But the monks couldn’t figure out how to hurry that shit up, and we’re not much further along all these years later.”
“Well…at least there’s space for the New Year’s beer and another new one,” Briar says quietly.
“I found everything I need in the storeroom.”
“So let’s do it.” She nods to her friends. “Sophie and Otis have to leave soon, but the rest of us will help.”
“Hannah can’t have anything to do with it,” I insist.
My sister pins me with a scathing look. She’s preparing a devastating rebuttal, I have no doubt. I glance out the window, temporarily distracted by a cluster of folks in heavy down coats heading down the sidewalk.
“You can’t,” I repeat, shifting my attention back to Hannah. “Frodo may have the brains of an inbred sheep, but even he’s gonna figure out something’s up if you’re seen over here.”
“Oh please, no one’s paying attention,” she scoffs.
As if her words invited them, the group that wasstrolling down the sidewalk literally walks into the unlocked brewery, ignoring the oversized CLOSED sign in the front window.
One of the new arrivals, a man with bushy brown hair and a pair of clunky, oversized glasses, says, “Ooh, is that fish and chips I smell? Is anyone else hungry?”
Otis grips his stomach and rushes toward the bathroom, but I’m not about to holdhishair.
“We’re closed,” I say.
“The door was wide open,” Glasses Guy says, like he can argue us into serving him and his friends. One of his pals grabs his arm to pull him back, but he doesn’t budge.
He might have a shitty sense of smell, but he’s brave. I’ll grant him that.
“Sorry, but the brewery’s not actually open. And we don’t serve food, unfortunately,” Briar adds. “Just beer and packaged snacks.”
“You might want to get on that,” a woman says.
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to add it to my list,” Briar says dryly. “Buchanan Brewery is a short walk from here.”
Then, no shit, she gives them directions.Detaileddirections.
Hannah leaves the brewery while they’re tied up, either because she realized I have a point or because it’s excruciating to listen. Glasses Guy doesn’t seem to know his right from his left, and Briar’s had to repeat herself at least five times.
A few minutes later, she follows them out, waving, and I trail out after her. I can’t help but ask, “Why didn’t you just kick them to the curb? They were rude. I could have scared them off.”
