Suddenly there’s a hand around my wrist, Jude’s fingers sinking deep into my flesh. I manage to suppress a gasp, but that does nothing to minimize the pain.
“The bar’s off-limits,” Jude says.
“You’re not my father.”
“Neither is Wayne.” Jude’s eyes are the color of tar. “That hasn’t stopped you from calling him ‘Dad.’”
I take a step back from him, but even that doesn’t dislodge the grip on my wrist. I toss my hair like he’s annoying me instead of scaring me. I know he’s strong, but it’s as if my wrist has been caught in a vice, not someone’s fingers. “It’s been a shitty day, okay?”
Jude watches me as if internalizing my words, and then slowly releases my hand. My skin throbs where his fingers were until I wrap my other hand around it.
“Shitty days are all we get around here these days. Better get used to it.”
“Jude, stop,” I call out.
I’ve never really felt the need to drink while other people were around. Maybe because I was always trying to be inconspicuous about it. The first time I tried alcohol was when one of Mom’s boyfriends bought her a bottle of cream liqueur. She said it wasn’t her style and packed it away in one of the kitchen cabinets.
I thought about that bottle for almost two weeks before I snuck it out and took a sip. It tasted so good, I took a few more swallows and then hid it away again.
Mom never noticed.
Not even when I was swaying and laughing and talking to myself. That buzz was incredible. I’d never felt so pretty and special and loved before. It didn’t even matter that Mom was with a new boyfriend already, and barely remembered to make me a sandwich before she left to go out with him. That bottle of liqueur was all the love I needed.
That’s how it’s always been…until now.
But right now I’d rather have a drink with Jude than get pissed on my own.
He pauses, glances at me over his shoulder.
“You want to have a drink, with me?” That tiny pause tells a whole damn story.
“Sure. Why not?”
I turn to pour him a glass of wine, but he takes the glass away.
“Not that shit.”
I roll my eyes and let out a lingering sigh. Then I tip my glass against my lips, intent on downing the whole thing. Jude takes it from me before a drop touches my mouth. It goes down the sink.
“Are you fucking serious right now?”
“As sin,” he says woodenly as he hunts through the liquor cabinet. “If you’re going to drink, do it properly.”
I press my eyelids closed, my eyeballs rolling against my fingertips. “Do you control freaks get holidays off, at least?”
When he faces me again, there’s the faintest suggestion of a smile on his mouth. Then again, it could just be the light in the room. I glance away, scanning the pool area. It’s gloomy out there like a cloud has moved over the sun. Something cool bumps against the back of my hand. I peer down at a tumbler with an inch of amber liquid inside.
I put the glass down in a rush as soon as its scent hits. “Brandy?”
“Cognac to be exact.”
After the bottle of cream liqueur was finished, I would steal any other booze Mom left lying around for too long. Alcohol might have been her first love, but she quickly moved onto harder shit. And while she was incapacitated—which soon became more often than not—I’d clean the house as an excuse to collect any booze her boyfriends had happened to leave behind. I never really liked beer. It was too bitter, and it made me burp. But Mom started dating guys with money, and they loved wine. Soon, I loved it too. I liked the taste of red, but I had to drink white during the day so my tongue wouldn’t turn purple.
Ever since I’d decided to raid the pool house bar, I’d been yearning for that first sip of merlot. The sting on my tongue, then the tastes that come out when you swill it around in your mouth for a second before swallowing.
This brandy smells harsh and bitter.
“One sip,” Jude says, lifting his glass and putting it to his lips as if I need a damn tutorial on how to imbibe alcoholic beverages. Every cell in my body is telling me to stop, but I don’t want Jude to think I’m…
What? Afraid?
Gotta try everything once.
Who told me that? Probably one of Mom’s boyfriends? Maybe even Mom.
I shake away the thought and bring my glass to my lips, watching Jude over the brim. His gaze shifts, eyes locked to my mouth as I take a sip. I should have felt uncomfortable with how long his gaze lingered on my lips, but instead, I just wanted to make sure he saw that I’d actually had a drink.
It coats my tongue like oil, the sharp bite of alcohol making me pull in a breath laced with fire. It’s sweeter than whiskey and tastes almost fruitier. But I gag at the aftertaste and hastily put the glass down. “Yuck.”
Jude smirks. “It’s cognac. You’re supposed to sip it, not down it.”
He takes the glass from me and pours it into his tumbler. Then he turns around again and reaches for a bottle of cream liqueur. “Guess this is more your style, then.”
My body goes tight. Out of all the bottles, what made him choose that one?
This is dangerous. I know how to handle myself when I’m drinking wine or whiskey…but this?
He gets a new glass from the cabinet and puts it down on the bar in front of me.
I shouldn’t let him pour.
Creamy liquid sloshes into the tumbler.
Don’t take it.
My hand moves of its own, closing around the glass. I bring it to my nose and inhale deeply.
“Shall we toast?”
“To what?” I ask in a thick voice.
“To family,” he says grimly, holding out his crystal tumbler.
“Family,” I murmur, clinking my glass against his.
Chapter 5
Jude
Harper’s glass is empty long before mine. A good cognac deserves to linger on the tongue, not act as mouthwash.
“Another?”
At my voice, she starts a little and comes back to the present with a soft sigh. Silently, she slides over her glass and I top her up. She’s perched on the barstool next to mine, staring out the French doors. She takes a sip and then glances at me with the glass still by her lips.
“I thought we were drinking together.”
“We are,” I say before coating my tongue with cognac.
“It’s evaporating faster than you can drink it,” she says, her eyebrows lifting. I give her a grudging smile. Booze really seems to loosen her up.
Harper takes a gulp from her glass and then narrows her eyes at me. “Let’s play Truth or Dare.”
I roll my eyes. “Not in a million—”
“Three rounds.” She holds up her hand, fingers spread.
“Not interested,” I say, reaching for my glass. She puts her hand over mine, pressing it to the wooden counter. When I look at her, she tilts her head a little.
“Chicken?”
“Games are for kids,” I say.
She shrugs. “Then, let’s pretend to be kids for a while.”
Her words hang heavy in the air, and for the first time in a long time, I drink in the sight of her. Her shiny dark hair. Her bright-blue eyes. Her perfect, heart-shaped face. She’s prettier than anyone has a right to be.