26. Tristan
T he day I’m supposed to call Danny Deschamps, I wake up and pull Evie’s warm, sleeping body to mine. I breathe in the honeyed, floral scent of her hair as I curve myself around her, letting myself feel how essential moments like this are. How grounded they make me feel.
These past few days have been one long blur of meetings with our men as we ironed out the details of our next move. How we proceed with the Deschamps could be the difference between life and death, so hunkering down to figure it out was very necessary. That meant barely seeing Evie, except in passing. Thank God Mom’s been here. Otherwise, my girl would’ve been on her own at a time when she needed me the most. I know she understands, though, and even if she didn’t, I would’ve played it the exact same way. Time is of the essence. I gotta figure this shit out, because I can’t love on Evie if I’m dead.
Right now, though? I just want to get as close to her as possible.
She moans sleepily as I roll her toward me, assaulting her throat with kisses. “Morning,” she says with a husky chuckle, hooking her leg over my hip.
“Good morning, Evie Knievel,” I whisper, running my hand over the smooth curve of her naked hip as her t-shirt rides up. “You’re so soft. ”
“Mm,” she hums, tightening her leg so that she brings our bodies even closer. “You’re so hard.”
As always, she’s naked from the waist down, tempting me to spread my hand over her ass cheek and give it a good squeeze. I roll on top of her, pushing her shirt up more, wishing I could see but it’s too early, and still dark, and I’m too impatient to turn on the light. I can feel her, though, the soft plane of her stomach and the dip of her belly button. The velvety skin that leads to the slick warmth between her legs.
I pull my pants off while bracing myself above her, tossing them into oblivion. “I miss you.”
“Me too,” she says with a sigh, her hands finding my face in the dark. “You’ve felt so far away.”
“I know.” I run my hands up over her hips, and she lifts her arms so I can peel off her t-shirt. “I need you.”
“You have me.”
I slide down her body, giving one of her nipples a long, luscious suck before switching to the other. I love this almost as much as she does, her reactions to my mouth getting me so hard I’m practically fucking the mattress. I take turns with her tits, licking and nibbling until she’s panting and begging beneath me.
“Tristan,” she whines when I drift to her throat, but she shuts up once my hand is between her legs. She’s already wet from all that nipple play, and soon she’s soaked, her hoarse, quiet cries filling the room as I play with her pussy.
I bring my mouth back to her nipple, sucking it as I finger her until she’s shaking and bucking against my hand, her voice muffled like she’s screaming into a pillow. Which she probably is—she’s paranoid my parents are going to hear us from their room down the hall. We kiss for a minute as I nudge at her hot, slippery pussy, and then, unable to hold back, I thrust into her. Her grip on my shoulders tightens, and she gasps into my mouth.
Burying my face in her neck, I pull out nearly all the way before filling her again, slow and deep like we have all the time in the world. “I love you,” I whisper, and I mean it. I’ve never said it before. Not to her, not to any girl. Because while I’ve loved other girls, it was never like this, satisfying and complete. “What have you done to me, Evie? ”
“I love you, too,” she whispers, her lip trembling against mine. “I have always loved you.”
Her openness sends a shudder down my spine. When I consider the course of events that brought us to this place, it’s scary how close I was to missing out on a woman who loved me like this. I reach over to click on my lamp and then, gazing into her eyes, I slide back into her. I bring my mouth to hers again, filling her over and over as she clings to me, the taste of her tears salting our kisses. “No expiration date. Stay with me, okay? Just stay with me.”
My phone vibrates then starts dancing across the nightstand—someone’s calling, but I ignore it and pick up the pace.
She strokes her hands down my back, pulling me deeper as she starts pulsing around me. “I will,” she says, her voice hitching.
Her bliss triggers my own, jet fuel to what’s been a slow build of pleasure. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” Evie cries, coming apart again.
My orgasm roars through my body, pushing me faster and harder until I’m spilling into her with everything I’ve got. It feels like it goes on forever, and when I finally come down, I’m so spent I could happily go back to sleep right here, inside of her. “That was … that was intense.” Panting, I roll to her side so that I don’t crush her with my weight, but she comes with me.
“I love you,” she says, tears running freely down her cheeks now. “I don’t want you to go anywhere today. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Nothing’s gonna happen to me,” I say, wiping her face with the back of my fingers. “We’ve got an airtight plan.”
My phone starts up again, its angry buzzing getting my attention. Shit. Something’s up . I glance at it, distracted, caught between answering and staying in this moment with Evie.
“Tristan,” she says tentatively. “I have to tell you something.”
I lay my head on her pillow, trying to fight off the post-orgasmic sleepiness threatening to take me down. “What’s up?”
A sharp knock at the bedroom door wakes me right up again. “Tristan,” calls Alex. “You up?”
“Yeah, hold on a minute,” I call, returning my attention to Evie. “Talk to me. ”
My phone vibrates with a text. Her eyes dart to it, then back to me. She licks her lips nervously, and I just know something’s wrong.
“I can’t lose you,” she says in this determined voice, like she’s ready to argue. “Not when I just got you.”
The phone starts up again. “Fuck!” I snap, leaning over and yanking it off the nightstand. If this is Danny fucking Deschamps, I swear to God— “Hello?”
“Tristan, it’s Vance.” Vance and Jett had the overnight shift, keeping an eye on Mama Avanelle’s. We have guys all over the city, keeping watch. “Something’s up—this place closed real early last night, and no one’s showed up yet today.” I glance at the clock; it’s 6:15. The restaurant opens at 8:00 a.m. for breakfast, but employees usually start arriving around 6:00 a.m.
My phone vibrates. I hold it away from my ear to see a text from Sully.
Call me.
He and Andy had a stakeout in Danny Deschamps’ neighborhood last night.
Alex knocks again. “Sorry to interrupt, but this is important, Tristan!”
“I’m coming,” I yell irritably, my good sex vibes now obliterated by everybody’s neediness. “I gotta go, Vance,” I say into the phone. “But thanks for letting me know. Stay where you are until I call back.” I stare at my wife, who looks paler than usual, and pull out of her with a wince. She almost looks … guilty? How did we go from bliss to this? “Hold that thought,” I tell her as Alex knocks again.
Jumping out of bed, I clean myself off, jam on a pair of sweatpants, and yank open the door, where Alex and Malachi are whispering furiously. Dad, obviously having heard the commotion, comes out of his room the same time I do. “What’s going on?” I ask. “Is this about Mama Avanelle’s? ‘Cause Vance just called.”
Alex shakes his head. “I don’t know but listen, Danny Deschamps is dead.”
I freeze. “He’s what ?”
“He’s dead, him and one of his top guys,” he says, eyes wide. “ They’re saying he was poisoned. Cole’s in the hospital too, but they think he might pull through.”
Stunned, I lean against the wall. It’s not surprising that a guy like Danny had other enemies, but still—the timing is nuts. “We know for sure?”
He nods, holding up his phone. “Lucky’s been trying to call you.”
“Shit,” I mutter, looking at my missed calls. Sure enough, there’s one from my brother from three minutes ago—probably when Evie was trying to tell me whatever it is she had to say. I text Lucky back, letting him know I’ll call in a minute, and look at Alex. “Do we know how he was poisoned?”
He shrugs, shaking his head. “That’s all we know.”
“Well, this changes things,” Dad says with a frown. “Sounds like your meetup is on hold. Indefinitely.”
“This is fucking crazy,” I say, roughing my hands through my hair. “Okay, we need to call an emergency meeting. I gotta call Lucky, and …”
“Get dressed,” Dad says, already dialing. “I’ll call Lucky.”
“Sounds good.” I clap Alex on the shoulder. “Can you call the guys? Tell ‘em to be downstairs in twenty.”
Back in the room, Evie’s already dressed in leggings and one of my hoodies. “Are Danny and Cole dead?” she asks cautiously.
“Danny is,” I say, pulling on a t-shirt. “Not Cole. He doesn’t sound like he’s doing so hot, though.”
“You’re sure?” she asks. “How did y’all find out?”
“We have a mole on the inside,” I explain. “One of Deschamps’ guys feeds info to a local cop who communicates with our cop in Boston. He called Lucky this morning, as soon as he found out.”
“That sounds … circuitous.”
“It’s a delicate situation. Better to keep some distance.” I eye her suspiciously. “You don’t seem too surprised, Evie. Do you know something that I don’t?”
“They killed my dad, and they were gonna kill you and I couldn’t let that happen.” Her voice shakes, but she seems eerily calm otherwise. “I was sick of feeling like prey, like they could attack at any second and take away everything that mattered to me.”
I yank her into my arms, forcing her to look at me. “What are you saying? ”
“I—I poisoned them,” she says with a shudder, clutching my shirt.
“How the fuck did you do that?” I ask, bewildered but impressed.
“Water hemlock,” she says breathlessly. “It grows behind the house, along the stream. It doesn’t go fully dormant in the cold. Aunt Myrtle told me never to pick it, because it’s toxic. So toxic that even touching it can be dangerous. I wore gloves.”
She’s rambling now, almost manic. I’ve never seen her like this. My phone is still going off every couple of seconds with texts, so I put it face down, sit on the edge of the bed, and pull Evie down beside me. “Go on.”
“I found the whiskey from the silent distillery,” she confesses. “It’s in a cellar beneath the orangery—it’s been there forever.”
“Wait, what?” I stare at her in shock. “It’s real? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just found it.” She leaps up and rushes over to the stack of papers on her nightstand, plucking one from the top. “Remember the coordinates? I looked up every set and they were all locations related to the distillery except for one. Those coordinates were here , Tristan. This house. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What could possibly be here that would be related to the distillery?”
She paces back and forth, sweeping her hair into a knot at the base of her neck. “And then I started thinking about the orangery and all the crates I saw in the cellar when I was a kid. Crates full of bottles. They were still there. After all this time.”
“And they’re special editions?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She nods, holding her hands to her cheeks like she’s trying to cool her face off. “I texted Cole and told him I had a proposal. I said I’d give them up to half of the collection if they promised to leave us alone.”
“And he agreed?”
“Not at first. He was pretty suspicious, obviously, so I agreed to meet him and give him a sample bottle to take to his dad.”
I stare at her, connecting the dots as she paces. “And you poisoned the bottle.”
“Yes,” she whispers, coming to a stop.
“With hemlock ?”
Another halting nod .
“That’s some medieval shit,” I say dryly. “Remind me never to mess with you.”
“Hemlock far predates the Middle Ages,” she says. “Are you angry with me? For going behind your back?”
“I’m angry you met with Cole by yourself, Evie, yeah. He could’ve …” I stop, closing my eyes and trying to shake off the awful possibilities. “Done something to you. He could’ve hurt you or taken you. But I’m not angry with you for trying to protect me. How could I be?” The hugeness of it wells up, blurring my eyes with tears. I stand up, wrapping my arms around her. “Fuck, Evie. See how the queen protects her king?”
“Yeah.” She lets out a small sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I didn’t do a very good job, though, if Cole’s still alive.”
“You did an incredible job, because there were two, and now there’s just one.” I chuff softly, resting my cheek on her head. “We were planning on taking ‘em out eventually. We just hadn’t gotten that far yet. I was going to meet with Danny today, accept his terms. Sign over the warehouse, set up a payment schedule. And then, later on, after we’d been paying for months and he’d lowered his guard, we’d strike. You just moved things along.”
“I can’t lose you,” she says quietly, drained. “I don’t think I’d recover. I’ve lost enough.”
“You won’t lose me.” I lean down, kissing her gently. “I really love you, you know that?”
“I love you, too.” Her arms tighten around me.
“Come on, let’s go downstairs. We need to discuss next steps,” I say, pulling her toward the door. “Needless to say, you’re a part of this now.”
Even though I trust everyone that has flown down here from Boston over the past couple of months, we keep Evie’s part in Danny Deschamps’ death a secret except for a select few. My parents; Finn, Alex, Malachi and Timmy, obviously, because they’re my inner circle. And Lucky, of course. As far as everyone else knows, and until the news goes public, Danny was offed by somebody else.
“There’s a saying,” Mom says, the morning we hear about Danny. “ A woman in love is fierce and powerful, capable of anything .”
“Fierce and powerful,” Dad echoes, arms crossed as he watches Evie stir her coffee. “Never underestimate what we’ll do for the people we love.”
We prepare for the worst, but that day turns to night, and then a week passes without a word from the Deschamps camp. Still, I keep scouts out all over Savannah, watching their family home as well as Mama Avanelle’s, which remains shuttered with a “temporarily closed” sign on the main door. We keep an eye on every location we’ve seen Cole frequent, even the house in the Starland District, where I saw him with Maribelle. The distillery, the warehouse on West Julian, and Randall’s house in town are all guarded, just in case someone with ill-intentions shows up.
But no one ever does, not even when Danny’s death makes the front page of the morning paper.
Randall’s funeral is held a few days later, on a cold, sunny November morning. The service is held at the Cathedral Basilica of St. John the Baptist, where generations of Doyles have been baptized, confirmed, married and laid to rest. Randall, for all of his faults, was a well-known man in Savannah, and his Requiem Mass is well attended. He certainly left an indelible mark on the city that he so dearly loved. Maribelle, her husband Dylan, and their daughter Blythe, sit beside Evie and me in the front row. Evie is tearfully stoic, but Maribelle simply falls apart.
We bury their father at Bonaventure Cemetery, in the family plot, where a neverending line of well-meaning friends and associates offer their condolences to the Doyle girls. I’ve just begun to see the light at the end of the tunnel when Evie sucks in a sharp breath, her nails digging into my arm.
“What is it?” I murmur, taking her hand.
“Danny Deschamps’ grandmother is here,” she says quietly. “Ms. Avanelle. She’s coming up the line with some of his brothers.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I make eye contact with Dad, who’s standing nearby. He whispers something to Mom then walks casually over and leans in, his hand on my shoulder. “Everything okay?”
“Avanelle Deschamps is here with some of Danny’s brothers,” I say in a low voice. “She’s the matriarch of their family. Evie recognizes them.”
“All right.” He nods and steps away, already texting. My heartbeat accelerates. I examine the crowd, picking up Alex, Malachi, Vance, and Timmy. Our guys are in position all over the cemetery, from the parking lot to the burial site, because we knew that coming out together like this in public could make us an easy target.
Finn slips between Evie and Maribelle’s husband, Dylan, who glances at him with faint confusion before turning to the stately couple coming up the receiving line. I smile politely at each person as they pass, but my eyes are on the elderly woman in the black dress and shawl. Her white hair floats around her weathered, tanned face like cotton candy, and despite her cane, she seems solid. She says something to Maribelle, who gives her a tearful hug, making me wonder how close they actually are. Then she makes her way down to us, her milky blue eyes sweeping over Finn and me before locking onto Evie.
“Evelyn Doyle,” she says slowly, her low, gravelly voice wrapping around each syllable with distinction. Leaning on her cane, she lets go of her grandson and takes Evie’s hand in hers. “Did you know that our families share a long, long history? There has been animosity, but there has been love as well.”
“Yes, Mrs. Deschamps,” Evie says, trembling beside me. I wonder if Avanelle can feel it, too.
“Then you know that it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she continues, gently shaking Evie’s hand in emphasis. “If my boys had listened to me?—”
One of Cole’s uncles clears his throat. “Mèmè.”
“Things would have been different,” Avanelle finishes, ignoring him. “And you, young lady. You should have married one of your own. Someone who understood your history.”
“I’m sorry?” Evie croaks, taken aback.
“Mèmè, it’s time to go,” the uncle says more firmly.
“All right, all right.” Avanelle sighs, pursing her lips. “I knew your daddy his whole life, Evelyn, and I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Evie swallows visibly. “I am sorry for yours, as well.”
Avanelle stares at her shrewdly, not letting go of her hand. Finn’s eyes meet mine over the top of Evie’s head. I move closer to her, even though I’m practically on top of her. One of the men with Avanelle stares back at me, his eyes as dark and cold as bottomless pits. Does he know my wife killed his brother? And that if she hadn’t, I would have?
As if the connection’s been severed, Avanelle abruptly releases Evie’s hand. Without another word, she takes a step back and allows her grandsons to lead her away.
“You okay?" I ask, leaning down so that only she can hear me.
She shakes her head slowly, her gaze finally tearing away from the retreating figure to meet mine. “I think she knows.”
It seems Avanelle showed up at Randall’s funeral to make a point, and if she meant to intimidate Evie, as well, it worked. Needless to say, we do not attend Danny Deschamps’ funeral. Despite Avanelle’s creepy platitudes about how close the two families once were, that isn’t the case now. Blood has been shed on both sides. Both sides know the other is responsible, even if we’re all dancing around it.
The days turn into weeks. Nearly a month after the funerals, both Randall and Danny’s murder investigations have plateaued, though the city continues buzzing with gossip and speculation, rumors swirling about organized crime and local gangs left unchecked. Provocative news articles are released in the local newspapers, and several members of Savannah society end up online and on TV, decrying both the crime wave and the loss of men like these . Men who came from some of the city’s oldest, most established families, who were a part of its very fabric.
What a fucking joke. If people knew that these paragons of society were intimately linked to the very organized crime they’re squawking about, they wouldn’t be so ready to build statues in their honor. Or maybe they do know, and they’re just keeping up appearances.
Anyway, the authorities claim the investigations have stalled due to “so few leads,” code for “the people responsible are being protected,” but Evie has a peace about it. After all, justice has already been served.
Cole is finally released from the hospital, where he spent weeks hooked up to a ventilator and IVs to prevent dehydration. Our source says he’s convalescing at home, taking anti-seizure meds and resting. They say he also suffers from retrograde amnesia, an interesting and convenient—for us—side effect of water hemlock poisoning. Whether he ever gets his memory back or not is up to the fate. Can’t say I feel too bad about any of it. In fact, I wish he was dead and I’m pretty sure Evie does, too.
With the distillery running smoothly and Deschamps leadership in limbo for the time being, life settles into an uneasy peace. My parents fly back to Boston with their crew, and then so does nearly everyone else. We’re back to the originals, my inner circle: Finn, Malachi and Timmy.
Evie and I visit the distillery occasionally, but it’s mostly just to check in with Scott. Things are stable now, with management and accounting all doing their jobs, so we’re not needed the way we once were. We spend this new glut of time fixing up the house and hosting dinners with Evie’s friends. We attend classes at Phoenix Rising and work out in the garage, where I’m teaching her to box on the punching bag. I like to lure her into “open mat” time in the bedroom, too, because that sparring usually leads to other stuff.
Evie and I spend Thanksgiving at Opal’s mama’s house. We bring whiskey and wine in lieu of a dish because no one cooks like the Sinclaire women. Timmy falls for Cousin Vianna—both the girl and her sweet potato pie—and is swiftly rejected when her girlfriend shows up. But then the three of them disappear to smoke after dinner and Tommy returns with hickies all over his neck.
“She gave me her number,” he announces on the way home. “They both did.”
Meanwhile, Evie and Maribelle are working with their lawyers to navigate the probate process, which, thanks to Evie, is as straightforward as it can get without a will. She doesn’t want anything, whereas Maribelle wants it all. “It’s what I deserve,” she said once, when I accompanied Evie to the first strained meeting. Dylan had been there too, working on his tablet the entire time. “Seeing that you two have the distillery.”
I wanted to tell her she could take what she deserved and shove it, but she’s Evie’s family and all of that was family shit, so I kept my mouth shut and didn’t attend any more meetings after that. They’re all but done now, wrapping up the final details. The estate’s been inventoried—what’s left of it, seeing as Randall had taken to selling the more expensive antiques to settle some of his debts—and the remaining debts and taxes have been paid off.
“I’m so glad all of this is almost over. I’m ready for the estranged- from-my-sister part,” Evie says one afternoon, pouring herself a tumbler of sweet tea. She and Timmy have just gotten back from another probate meeting in town. “Want some?” she asks him, holding up the glass pitcher.
“Yeah, with extra lemons,” Timmy says, scooting in across from me at the kitchen table with his weed rolling accoutrements.
She grins. “I’ve taught you well, Timothy.”
I look up from my laptop, where I’ve been drafting proposals for my parents concerning the direction we think Doyle Whiskey should take. For starters, we need to do market research to find the best way to handle the Golden Stag. I still can’t believe those special editions were right beneath our noses the whole time, and that they would’ve stayed buried had the coordinates not jogged Evie’s memory. They’re nearly ninety years old, miraculously preserved by sound bottling and the cellar’s darkness and natural temperature control.
But also, Evie has lots of ideas for experimental and botanically-infused whiskies. She’d shelved them because her father had never shown interest, but I like the thought of expanding Doyle Whiskey’s offerings. Along with the extremely aged Golden Stag, we’ll appeal to a whole new audience.
“Maribelle still being a pain in the ass?” I guess, stretching the kinks I’ve gotten from being hunched over.
“Of course, she is.” She huffs, setting Timmy’s glass down in front of him. “Is it horrible that I liked her better when she was grieving? She was certainly more agreeable.”
“What did she do now?”
Evie leans against the counter, sipping her sweet tea. “Would you believe she had the gall to accuse you of Daddy’s death?”
“What?” I screw up my face, leaning back in my chair. Timmy raises his eyebrows, nodding. “What the fuck is she on?”
“It was after the meeting. She followed me and Timmy to the car and started bitching that there was barely any money left and how she’s going to have to liquidate the family heirlooms,” she says. “I told her I was sorry about that, and she said ‘yeah, you should be, seeing that y’all are the reason Daddy’s dead.’ I told her she was crazy, and she said that if the Deschamps had been allowed to take over the distillery as previously planned, then they could have settled Daddy’s debts before somebody offed him.”
I link my hands behind my head, as disturbed as I am amused. “She really has no idea, does she?”
“Well.” Evie shoots a sheepish look at Timmy, who shakes his head and sighs. “I told her that the only way that would’ve happened is if I’d married Cole, and she said ‘he’d never do that’ and I said ‘you don’t know Cole very well’ and she said ‘I know him better than you think!’ So, I said ‘if you knew him so well, you’d know that he’s been after me for years and that his daddy killed our daddy’ and Tristan, she just about went purple. She said I’d lost my mind, and I told her she’d lost hers?—”
“And then I had to get between them because I didn’t want Evie slapping a pregnant lady,” Timmy says. “Even though she deserved it.”
“I told her I knew she’d been fucking Cole, and I asked her straight up if the baby was his.” Evie’s breathing hard now, all fired up.
“And that’s when Maribelle tried to slap Evie, but I shoved Evie into the car and told Maribelle that if she came near her again, I’d call the cops,” Timmy says with a snort. I’m not sure if he’s more amused at the almost-catfight or the thought of calling the cops.
Snickering at the ridiculousness of it all, I nod my chin at Evie. “Well, what’d she say?”
“She said,” she says, brows furrowed. “That is was none of my fucking business and that I should have a little more respect for someone who just lost their father and is barely clinging to life themselves.”
“Sounds like a yes to me,” I say.
“Yep,” agrees Timmy.
“She’s messy,” I lament, shaking my head. “You can’t make this stuff up.”
“I don’t think she ever considered that the Deschamps might be behind Daddy’s murder, though,” Evie says, sitting at the table. “I could see it in her eyes today—she was mad as hell, but she was freaked out, too.”
“Does she really not know what kind of guy Cole is? What he’s capable of?” I ask skeptically. “Maribelle’s not stupid.”
“No, but I think she actually loves him,” she says with a shudder .
“So why did she marry someone else?” I ask. “If she loves him and they’ve been messing around since high school?”
“Optics, probably. The Deschamps are well known around here, but Dylan Spencer’s family is the crème de la crème,” she replies. “Or maybe it’s simpler. Maybe Cole didn’t want to get married.”
“Probably a little of both.” I shut my laptop as Timmy finishes rolling his baseball bat of a joint. “Cole has always been obsessed with you . Marrying your sister would’ve eliminated any chance he had of getting you back.”
“But fucking Maribelle and then knocking her up wouldn’t?” Evie looks like she just drank spoiled milk.
I shrug. “I didn’t say it made sense.”
“He probably liked the idea of having you both,” Timmy says, tucking the joint behind his ear and rising from the table. “Let’s smoke.”