11. Tristan
W hen Lucky said he’d secured the mother lode of information concerning Randall Doyle’s messy finances and questionable business dealings, I wasn’t expecting a fifty-page email. Maybe I should’ve been. As the head of Saoirse, my brother now has access to some pretty crazy connections. Guys who know how to get info on anybody, anytime. After his own shit was hacked by the local Bratva a while back, he made sure to acquire a couple of guys with that exact skillset to do the same for us.
I’m reading about Randall’s penchant for paying off government officials to overlook the distillery’s environmental sins and Maribelle Doyle-Spencer’s suspected use of a shell company when I get a text from Timmy. He’s on Evie detail, unbeknownst to Evie.
She’s still at the restaurant.
I think she’s drunk lo l
Sighing, I rub my eyes and sit back in my chair.
You’re going to have to go get her
Bring her back
He responds with a thumbs-up emoji.
I’m not sure what to make of Evie today. She won’t respond to my calls or texts, as usual, but according to Timmy she left work about an hour after she got there and went straight to some café in town. She sat herself down at the window bar and proceed to drink cocktails for the next three hours, interrupted only when a “preppy baddie” stopped by. Timmy said it looked like they were arguing, and then she left.
I asked if the woman resembled Evie at all, and he said that yeah, actually, she did. Maribelle, probably. What did she want with Evie? From what I’ve gathered, there’s no love lost between them. Not surprising, considering how volatile their relationship was back in the day. Reading through Lucky’s email, though, I’m starting to realize that the elder Doyle girl is a lot more than a pretty face. She’s worked for the distillery for years, ever since she came home from college, and she seems to know its ins and outs better than anybody. Maybe even better than her own dad.
So, why did she allow him to bungle their finances so badly? Sounds like she might be dipping her toes into the money laundering game (something I don’t exactly frown upon, seeing that my own family has rocked that shit for decades), so why is Doyle Whiskey in the precarious situation it’s in now?
Because frankly, it’s even more of a mess than I realized. Randall Doyle has been making bad deals and frittering away business funds for years . He has a gambling problem, for one thing, betting on everything from horseraces to ball games, so he’s wasted untold amounts of money there. But he’s also lost money with risky business ventures that didn’t pan out.
Like the time a small investment firm interested in curating an “ eclectic collection of American liquors” approached Randall, offering to inject capital into the distillery if he allowed one of his best sellers to be included. Not only did he never see that money, but the firm went belly-up soon after. Or the time he thought building another distillery—in South Florida—was a good idea. But investing in new facilities without thorough market research can result in overproduction, which is exactly what happened with Doyle. The new distillery ended up draining capital without bringing in enough revenue to cover costs.
By the time Timmy’s car pulls up, my eyes are crossed from scanning the computer screen for so long. Shutting the laptop, I stand and stretch, wondering if we’re eating in or out tonight. I mean, there is a ton of food in the fridge.
Evie trudges through the door, kicking off her shoes. I glance past her sullen face and smudged eyeliner to Timmy, who just raises his eyebrows and shrugs.
“You okay, Evie Knievel?” I ask carefully.
“Do I look okay?” she grumbles, tossing her purse aside and flopping face-first onto the couch. “I had a shit day.”
I glance at the clock. “Yeah, you’re home pretty early.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you get fired,” she says. “No, not fired. Forced to go on vacation. Indefinitely.”
A car rumbles past. I glance out the window to the sandy street, watching the neighbor’s red junker struggle by. “Why?”
“Because Daddy called my boss and told him I was having a mental health crisis, though I doubt he used such politically correct terms.” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “So stupid! I could kill him.”
“It is pretty fucking ridiculous,” I agree. Evie doesn’t need a job anymore, but I know how much she values her independence. She might’ve been living on her dad’s property up until last night, but I have no doubt she could’ve gotten another place if she wanted. Now, though, she’s lost both. “He’s punishing you. Probably trying to show you he’s in control, too.”
Evie rolls onto her side, tucking her legs in. “But what does that accomplish? Am I supposed to be like, ‘oh, you know what? You’re right, I’ll divorce Tristan and marry Cole and ruin my life just so you can continue fucking over your family and your business and everything tied to your name!’ Ugh . ”
“Yeah, he’s nuts.” Chuckling, I pull my phone from my pants. Time to figure out dinner. “So, there’s this seafood place?—”
“Why was Timmy magically outside Callista’s today?” she interrupts, squinting suspiciously at me.
“Because he’s been keeping an eye on you in case there’s trouble.” I sit on the coffee table across from her. “Kind of like today, although this wasn’t the kind of trouble I was thinking about.”
“You have your friend following me around?” she asks, confused. “Maybe you need to be careful, but I’ll be all right. I grew up here and everybody knows me.”
“We’ve talked about this, Evie. Things will be volatile until the distillery takeover is complete. And maybe after.” Resting my elbows on my knees, I lean forward. “You’re my wife.”
Her eyes widen, and she blinks rapidly. “I—I know that.”
“Then you also know that puts you in a precarious position. There are people who won’t like that you chose me over them.” I search her eyes, needing her to understand, but she drops her gaze. “But I take care of what’s mine.”
Evie sucks in a sharp breath, her face blooming into another one of her famous blushes.
I sit back, satisfied I’ve made my point. “Now, about dinner?—"
“Tristan.” She groans, covering her face. “Can you not think about your stomach for five minutes? You are always hungry!”
“Do you know what my daily calorie expenditure is, woman?” I pound my chest for emphasis. “I run four miles every day, and I’ve been working out at Phoenix Rising. This body doesn’t keep itself.” Also, I tend to be ravenous on the days I don’t take my meds.
“Must be nice. I haven’t been to jiu jitsu in days.” She yawns, closing her eyes. “Guess I’ll have plenty of time to go now, though.”
“Are you in the mood for seafood? There’s a place down by the waterfront I was thinking about,” I murmur, back to my phone’s restaurant list.
“I’m in the mood to lie here,” she says dryly.
“That’s what you get for day drinking, Evelyn,” I taunt.
“Whatever. Don’t we have a whole kitchen full of food?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “Want me to make chili?”
One eye pops open. “You know how to make chili? ”
“Hell yeah, I do. Salad and garlic bread, too, baby,” I say, standing. “You’ve never had better, I promise.”
“Sounds good. Wake me up when it’s ready.” She rolls over to face the back of the couch, but not before I catch yet another blush. Why’s it so easy to mess with her? You’d swear she was a virginal debutante.
And why does it appeal to my baser nature?
A text lights up my phone, glowing in the near darkness of my bedroom.
It’s late, and I’ve been reading up on the Deschamps family, courtesy of a file Lucky sent earlier, for hours.
Picking up my phone, I see several pictures, also from Lucky. Curious, I click one. It’s grainy and hard to see, but it’s a picture of two people, a guy and a girl, outside what looks to be the distillery’s secondary warehouse on West Saint Julian Street. The next shows them in a car together, and in the third, they’re kissing.
Frowning in concentration, I enlarge the image, trying to identify the couple. The guy’s wearing a hoodie, so I can’t see his face, but after a moment I realize the girl is Maribelle Doyle-Spencer. Well, well, well . I don’t know who the guy is, but I doubt it’s her husband.
Another text comes through from Lucky.
Did you know this?
Nope.
You might want to trail her, see if her movements lead to anything.
Sounds good.
Sent you another email. Check it out.
Giving him a thumbs up, I navigate back to my inbox and open a new message from Lucky titled “Silent Distillery. ”
Found something interesting. In the ‘40s, the Doyles had two distilleries—the one in Savannah and a smaller, older one in Cork. Older one closed down (lack of management?) and was left abandoned for years (look up “silent distilleries”). When the family went to sell it, they found leftover product and shipped it to Savannah. If all of this is true, and that whiskey is still around/in good condition, it would be in high demand. As in legendary. People go apeshit for this stuff, so it would sell for a mint.
I’m thinking either Randall knows about it and has already sold off the leftover stock or he knows about it and is sitting on it for some reason. Or, and this is unlikely since it belonged to his father, he doesn’t know about it at all.
Pax’s still doing some digging, but if this stuff exists, it’s a game changer.
I sit back, shutting the laptop. Maribelle is cheating on her husband and also there might be mythical whiskey from a secret distillery in Ireland. Taking over Doyle’s is proving to be way more intriguing and dramatic than I expected.
“Go away.” Evie swats at me from her cocoon of blankets. She’s covered up to her eyes, but the shape of her curves rise like luscious hills and valleys. I admire them for a minute, kinda wishing she’d reconsider that no-sex rule, before resuming my wake-up call.
“What happened to being an early riser?” I demand, tugging her sheets down just enough to see her face.
She glares up at me, her morning hair a wild nest of red. “That was when I was employed.”
“Jobs are boring.” I pet Poppy, who leaves Evie’s side to arch into my hand. Such a cutie. “Anyway, I think you’ll feel better if you come for a run with me.”
“No thanks.” She pulls the comforter up over her head, ending the conversation.
I’d love to mess with her some more, but I have a busy day, so I head to the beach for my morning run. Then it’s back to the house for a session with my punching bag in the garage. Clean up, quick breakfast. By quarter to nine the laptop is on the table, ready for my call, and I’m making coffee. I can’t survive without it, although I almost always mix regular with decaf because caffeine plays off my meds and too much of it makes me uncomfortably jittery. And I’m already kind of jittery, full of nervous, pent-up energy despite my run. For one thing, it’s fucking noisy around here. Malachi’s TV blares from the other room while a prop plane flies by overhead—in circles, apparently, so maybe it’s advertising. As if that wasn’t enough, someone on our street’s doing yard work, too, alternating between a lawn mower and a weed whacker. It was quiet the day the realtor showed me this place, but now I wish that I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Like in the ring, about to fight.
I’m sliding into reminiscing about the good old days when, ever punctual, Dad dials in at nine on the dot. I connect the video call, smiling a little when I see Lucky sitting beside him. Looks like they’re in Dad’s office. Lucky smirks at me through the digital divide.
“’Sup, Boston?” I ask, giving a cheesy salute.
“’Sup, Savannah ? Look at that beard,” he razzes, taking a sip of his own coffee. “And that tan. You working hard or hardly working?”
Chuckling, I run my hand over my beard which is, admittedly, a little longer than usual. Lucky raises his eyebrows, and I just know he’s dying to hear how the Evie situation is going. We haven’t talked much about the “wedding” since it went down, as I refuse to discuss it.
Because there’s nothing to discuss. I saved Evie, and I locked in our chances of getting the distillery. End of story.
Turning my attention to my father, I offer a grin. “Hey, Dad. How’re you feeling?”
“Like a million bucks.” He winks, shuffling a stack of papers on his desk. “Found some new mountain biking trails out by Breakheart Reservation, so that’s been fun. I’ve been trying to get your mom to go with me but she’d rather I did yoga with her.”
I shake my head, snorting at the thought. “I bet.” I don’t blame her, though. Dad completed another round of specialized treatments for a heart condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy not too long ago, so we’re all a little hyper-vigilant when it comes to his health.
"So, how’re we looking for today’s negotiations with Doyle?" he asks, gaze sharpening as he gets down to business. “You got the documents I FedExed you, right? ”
The wooden chair I’m in creaks under my weight as I sit back. “Yeah, I have ‘em here.”
“Did you get a chance to look them over?” he asks.
I nod, glancing at the slim stack. It’s a legal contract, detailing the particulars of every loan Dad made to Randall Doyle. In reality, each of those deals was made verbally, sealed with a handshake and a shot of whiskey. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so we had Dad’s lawyer draw up something tangible that we could bring to court if need be.
Nothing like a fake contract representing a real agreement threatening a lawsuit to light a fire underneath a guy’s ass.
“Hopefully you’ll be able to make progress today, though, and we won’t have to use it,” Lucky says.
“Yeah, but it’s good to have,” I say with a shrug. “Doyle needs to realize that this is happening one way or another.”
“I know I’ve said it before, but keep your eyes open, okay?” Lucky warns. “You know how slippery he is, and I don’t know … I feel like he’s still trying to outsmart us.” He looks meaningfully at me, tapping his phone.
My own phone vibrates, and I glance down to see a text from him.
Like trying to marry Evie off.
He was trying to freeze us out.
I clench my jaw tight at the reminder. I’m not sure if it’s the thought of Doyle trying to get one over on my family and me or if it’s because he was so quick to discard Evie, but that whole situation makes me rage. “Trust me, I know,” I reply tersely. “I’ll have Finn and Malachi with me in case he doesn’t understand who has the upper hand.”
“Smart.” Dad nods in approval. “But remember, diplomacy is just as crucial as strength in this situation. Getting physical is a last resort—threaten him with that contract if you need to. I’d like to claim the distillery without unnecessary bloodshed.”
“Don’t worry, I'll keep a level head and aim for minimal conflict,” I say dryly, and Dad snorts, giving me a look.
But Lucky’s as serious as always. “At the end of the day, it’s by any means necessary, though, okay? ”
“Whatever it takes,” Dad agrees. “Now, let’s get Kenny on the line. I want to look over the contract he’s been working on.”
Doyle Whiskey’s main headquarters is located on an old estate on the outskirts of town. It’s been around since the late 1800s, and as I approach, there’s a sudden stone in my stomach. Evie might not care about whiskey, but I know she cares about this place … her family’s legacy, the traditions that’ve been upheld for generations. I know how I’d feel if someone tried to roll in and take Kelly Logistics from our family, and it’s not even half as old as this place. The difference being, Dad would never have put us in a situation like that.
As I drive down the oak-shaded road leading to the distillery, I'm welcomed by the sweet perfume of maturing whiskey hanging in the cool, morning air. The main building is reminiscent of a grand plantation, with its sprawling layout, white columns, and a wraparound porch.
Swinging into the parking lot, I find a spot up front and gather my briefcase, checking one more time that I have everything I need. Finn and Malachi pull up beside me a moment later. A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s almost ten, so Randall’s here by now. He’ll have done his morning rounds and should be back in his office.
Despite the weathered paint and creaking floorboards, the building is well-maintained. I can only imagine the hard work and dedication necessary for the upkeep of a place like this. Wooden barrels flank the walls, each housing whiskey maturing to its prime, and the air is laden with scents reminiscent of charred oak, peaches, and caramel.
A perky blonde receptionist sits just inside the foyer, looking up at me with a warm smile.
“Good morning,” she says. “How may I help you?”
“Good morning,” I reply, giving her a smile of my own. “We’re here to speak with Mr. Doyle. He should be expecting us.” This last part is not technically true, of course, but it should be. Randall should expect me, today and every day he tries to avoid the inevitable.
“Oh!” She frowns prettily at her desk, shuffling through an agenda and clicking quickly at her computer. “What’s your name? ”
“Tristan Kelly.”
“One moment, please.” Picking up the phone on her desk, she makes a call, murmuring into the receiver. Seconds later, she hangs up. “Mr. Doyle will be out in just a moment.”
It doesn’t even take him a minute to come striding down the wide corridor behind the receptionist’s desk. “Tristan,” he says cordially, glancing briefly at Finn and Malachi. “What are you doing here?”
“You know why I’m here,” I reply pleasantly, nodding toward the corridor. “But let’s discuss it in your office.”
“No,” he says testily. His receptionist keeps her expression tactfully blank as she shuffles a stack of papers on her desk. “I’m busy, so if you can’t just tell me here and now, then I suggest you leave and make a proper appointment.”
Nodding, I retrieve the contract from my briefcase and step forward to hand it to him. He takes it, scowling as he scans the contents of the first page. “What is this?”
When he finally looks up at me, I sweep my hand toward the corridor once more. “Shall we?”
Exhaling in resignation, he turns, gesturing for us to follow. His office, which is at the very end of the corridor, is pretty ritzy. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and antiques, and oil paintings of ancestors and Southern history hang alongside framed awards and accolades. A massive cherrywood desk commands the center of the room with a brass nameplate declaring his title as “President and CEO.”
Behind all that, a large bay window offers a sweeping view of the distillery grounds, a constant reminder of the legacy his family built and the responsibility he carries to steward it. But he’s not doing a very good job of that, is he? Doyle Whiskey might once have been a paragon of refinement, opulence and wealth, but it’s hanging by a thread these days.
Doyle tosses the paperwork onto his desk and points at it. “Now what in fresh hell is this? Your father knows damn well there was never any contract.”
“But you did make an agreement to pay back the money he lent you within a five-year period. It has now been eight. You’ve dodged all attempts we’ve made to collect, even to work something out amicably. My father was a friend, Doyle, but you’ve treated him like shit,” I snap, tired of the bullshit. “Consider this contract, this very real contract, a warning to how far we will go if you do not cede ownership by the end of the week.”
“End of the week?” he sputters.
“Upon which you’ll have until November first to vacate the premises,” I add.
He stares at me, finally laughing. “Are you kidding me, boy?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Reaching into my briefcase again, I procure the contract that Kenny drafted outlining the specifics of the distillery’s change in ownership. He and I reviewed it with Dad and Lucky earlier on today’s video call, ensuring it captured all of our desired terms.
“I’ll leave this here with you so you can look it over,” I say. “I expect it to be signed by the time I come back on Friday. If it’s not, then we’ll proceed with legal action.”
Another bluff. Because if continued harassment and now the threat of a lawsuit aren’t enough to motivate Randall Doyle, it won’t be cops and lawyers he’ll have to worry about. It’ll be me.
And I won’t be civil.