Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
MAISIE
The message stares back at me like it’s a ticking bomb and I’m utterly unequipped to defuse it.
LochNLoad
I need to step up at work, bring in more customers, maybe even poach some from the competition down the road.
I read it once, twice, three times. With each reread, it hits me a little harder, like someone squeezing my chest tighter and tighter until it’s hard to breathe. “The competition down the road” can only mean one thing: the Pheasant. The snug and the Pheasant are the only two drinking establishments in Bannock itself. Sure, there’s the Glen Garve Resort a few miles out with its posh cocktail bar, and the distillery nearby with its tiny tasting room, but here in town? It’s just us and them.
Which means... Jamie is planning to steal customers from the Pheasant? From me and Da?
My thoughts trip over each other. Is telling him who I am really such a great idea when he’s just announced he has plans to sabotage my business? Maybe I should try to find out more first.
SassyLassie
That’s a shame you won’t have as much time for gaming, but that’s interesting about your work. How are you planning to bring in new customers?
There. Casual. Breezy. Totally not fishing for information or anything like that.
LochNLoad
LOL. I only got given the ultimatum a few minutes ago. Give me time to think this over. Also, we don’t normally share personal details like that, remember? Just our secret kinks.
SassyLassie
Right. Of course.
LochNLoad
So... the bombshell? The revelation? The news that’s so big it’s going to change everything? What is it?
Oh God. Right. That.
I chew on my bottom lip so hard it’s a miracle I don’t bite clean through it. Shit. He’s got me there. I did say I had something to tell him—and now he expects me to deliver.
SassyLassie
Oh... never mind. It wasn’t important after all.
LochNLoad
What? But you said it was very important. You were literally worried about how I was going to react.
Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap.
SassyLassie
I was just being dramatic. You know me! It honestly wasn’t such a big deal, really.
LochNLoad
???
My conscience shrieks at me: Maisie! Tell him who you are. Be honest!
But then another voice chimes in, the practical one that sounds suspiciously like Da: You’ve just found out he wants to take customers away from us, Maisie! Are you sure telling him is wise right now?
Before I can decide which voice is right, a loud crash echoes up from downstairs. What the hell was that?
SassyLassie
Sorry, something’s come up IRL. Got to go!
I don’t wait for his response before logging off and slamming my laptop shut so fast it nearly takes my fingers with it. Swearing under my breath, I rush downstairs and into the pub.
A battered cardboard case lies on its side near the bar, whisky pooling out from its soggy bottom like liquid gold bleeding onto the scuffed wooden floor. My nose smarts at the heady mix of sweet malt and oak.
On either side of the dropped case stand Da and Kyle from the distillery. Da’s face is redder than the tie he wears every December, while Kyle looks equal parts baffled and exasperated, clutching his delivery clipboard like it’s a shield against Da’s wrath.
“You said you had it!” Kyle insists.
“Och, don’t blame this on me, Kyle. You’re the one who let go too soon!” Da’s hands tremble slightly but his voice is firm.
Kyle blinks at him. “With all due respect, Bryce?—”
“Are you really going to pin this on me?” Da interrupts. “I’m clumsy, am I? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No,” Kyle replies carefully, looking like he wishes he were literally anywhere else.
I step forward before this can escalate any further. “Right, what’s going on here?”
Both men turn to me. Kyle’s expression brightens like I’ve just handed him a get-out-of-jail-free card, while Da scowls like I’ve suggested pairing a single malt with Irn-Bru.
“Well . . .” Kyle gestures to the mess on the floor. “The crate, er . . . slipped.”
“Because you let go too soon,” Da says. “My daughter and I will not be signing for a box of broken whisky bottles.”
Bloody hell. Between being called a Smurf, discovering Jamie might be planning to steal customers from us, and now this mess, I think it’s clear the universe is out to get me today.
“Da.” I look him squarely in the eye and soften my voice. “Why don’t you go sit down for five minutes? Let me handle this.”
“There’s nothing to handle,” he huffs. “We’re not signing for whisky we can’t sell, and that’s final.”
I try to summon the same patience I use when handling drunken pub-goers. “Please, Da,” I say, my tone even gentler now.
His jaw tightens as if preparing for battle, but then he looks at me properly, and something in my expression must get through because he finally relents.
“Fine,” he mutters. With one last tortured glance at the whisky puddle on the floor—likely as costly as a whole month of grocery shopping—he stalks off to the office.
“Sorry about that,” I tell Kyle once we’re alone. “I’ll sign for the bottles.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m sure we can work something out, Maisie.”
“It’s fine.” I hold out a hand for the clipboard, attempting a casual smile, though it feels about as secure as a barstool that’s missing a leg. The distillery is an important supplier and we need to maintain good relations with them. Besides, although Da would rather swallow glass than admit it, I reckon the rheumatoid arthritis may have played a role in this. It’s not fair to expect the distillery to cover the breakage.
“Look,” Kyle says, “here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll charge you for the broken crate at cost price, and when you order a replacement, I’ll give you that at cost price too. All right?”
I’m not too proud to turn down this offer. “Thanks, Kyle.” It’s still a costly blunder, but that does take the sting out of it a wee bit.
We sort out the paperwork then Kyle makes to leave. “Oh, by the way, you should have got an email about it, but we’re doing a tasting event for clients at the distillery soon. You or your da should come along.”
“Aye, sounds good. One of us will be there.” In my head I’m already debating whether it’d be riskier to send Da or leave him here unsupervised. Neither option seems great.
Once Kyle’s gone, I haul the dripping, soggy crate to the bin then grab the mop and bucket from the supply cupboard. The scent of wasted whisky clings to everything.
I’m halfway through mopping up when Da reappears, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight.
“I’ll take over,” he says gruffly.
“It’s fine, Da.” I wring out the mop and keep on wiping the floor. “I’ve got it.”
“I’m not over the hill yet, you know.”
I pause mid-swipe and look up at him. “I never said you were.”
He gives me a curt nod then steps behind the bar and pretends to rearrange the glasses, even though I know full well they’re already perfectly aligned. His silence speaks volumes—it always does. Da’s not one for big declarations or emotional outbursts. He communicates with his hands, his actions, and, in moments like this, his stubborn refusal to meet my eye.
As I pour the bucket into the sink, it’s hard not to think of the money going quite literally down the drain. I think, in future, it’d be better if I handled deliveries, but that conversation will have to wait until another day. He’s just told me he’s “not over the hill yet”—I’m not about to bring up anything that he might consider as implying otherwise.
My mind wanders back to Jamie—LochNLoad—and our unfinished conversation. The thought of him trying to poach our customers on top of everything else... it’s too much. Don’t get me wrong, I want to tell him who I am but... maybe it’d be smarter not to rush things? I mean, if I can use our online friendship to figure out what he has planned, then... that just makes sense, doesn’t it? It’d be better to be prepared for what might be coming. I’m only looking out for me and my da.
I will tell him soon. Just... not quite yet.