Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
JACE
Sasha gazes around the Dead Good Brewery taproom in awe. The old converted barn with its vaulted ceiling, whirling industrial fans, and lights twinkling from the rafters makes it appear even loftier. The crowd is lively as she marvels, “This is for beer?”
“It’s a brew fest today. A competition.” I pull chairs out for her and Vivian. They settle around a wooden table. “It’s not normally this busy.”
“The fuck you say?” A heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder. “We’re always busy.”
Leave it to Wilder to clock us in a heartbeat. He winks, twiddling his fingers at Vivian. “How’s my little buttercup?”
“Shut up.” She smiles daggers at him.
“Thirsty,” Grant booms. He’s here without Delphine, which means I have to babysit his boisterous ass.
Wilder signals for a server, who promptly appears. “Give ’em a round on me,” he orders.
This is his family’s brewery. Wilder and his cousins, Bishop and Remi, run it. To outsiders, it sits on a former cattle ranch hidden in the Lowcountry of Georgia.
Nowadays, they use the grain for an artisanal, farm-to-table beverage experience. They’re award-winning brewers.
But to the few in the know, The Lawless Ranch has a tragic history of outlaws and loss no one dares to speak about. The cousins use the brewery to hide their vigilante vocations. Next to Bishop and Remi, Wilder is one of the best contract killers.
Grant and I take our seats across the table from the women as Grant huffs at him, “A round, my ass. We’ll take a keg.”
Sasha leans over to Vivian. “What is keg?”
“Too much beer and a headache,” Vivian mutters.
Sasha thinks we’re here to get her out from under our mom’s protective thumb. It’s half true.
We’re also here to explore a plan, per Axel’s demand. He’s working on the legal nightmare of citizenship for Sasha, but since she was born into the Russian underground with no documentation and trafficked here, it’s not easy.
“Would the little lady prefer vodka?” Wilder tips his baseball cap toward Sasha like he’s a cowboy. “Or I got some shine I’ve been brewing.”
Sasha tilts her head, her sable hair held back with an ivory fabric headband, her big aqua eyes blinking, curious. “Shine?”
Grant snarls at Wilder. “Give my sister moonshine, and I’ll drown you in it.”
“What is moonshine?” Sasha whispers to Vivian again.
The two have become close. I think Vivian understands what it’s like to be vulnerable and exposed, so she’s quite protective of Sasha.
“It’s an illegal liquor and death in a cup,” she answers Sasha before glaring at Wilder. “Was going after my best friend not good enough for you? Now you want to go after my sister? If so, think again, fucker. I’ll shoot your balls off with my rifle and won’t miss.”
I lean back in my chair, letting my future queen reign.
With every passing day, this badass side of Vivian emerges. It was always there. I’d catch glimpses when she was pissed, usually at tangled charging cords, which was cute. But now she uses it to defend herself and Sasha.
Sure, Sasha isn’t her sister-in-law yet, but she will be.
I’m going to marry the hell out of Vivian Tate. I already have her ring. Just need the right moment.
“Darlin’,” Wilder twirls the toothpick in his mouth, “I didn’t go after your bestie. She came after me.” He smirks. “Ain’t my fault I’m hotter than blue blazes.”
Vivian rolls her pretty eyes so hard that they may get stuck like that. Objectively, Wilder is twisted eye candy.
“Yeah, well…” I jut my chin. “Best run before she shoots you. And get us a round and send my dealer over. I need to score.”
Wilder saunters away, and minutes later, a round of pints and Bishop appear. His server sets our brimming glasses down before Bishop plops a black cooler bag in front of me. “This is the last you get until you prove you’re good for this shit.”
Sasha darts her eyes between us, worried that I’m scoring drugs and Bishop’s my dealer.
Close.
He’s my secret supplier of Kodachrome film. They don’t make it anymore.
Vivian shrugs. “I keep telling him to enter your competition, but he won’t listen.”
Not true. I listen to every word she does and doesn’t say, but every time this topic comes up, I get that rare insecurity.
With Vivian, I’ll share everything, even my photography. With everyone else? Hell no. The last thing I need is shit from Grant about how I like to take pictures of babies. Watch: he’ll start leaving diapers on my stool every day.
“Well, if you don’t enter.” Bishop shoves his hands into his tattered jean pockets. “That’s the last of it. I’ll save my stash for a shutterbug who ain’t shy.”
Seems Bishop’s father and his uncles were amateur photographers. When they were killed, they left a lot of priceless gear behind, and in their honor, the brewery hosts an annual photography competition.
“Fine by me.” I shake the bag containing six rolls of rare film. “These are for Vivian anyway. She’s the pro.”
“Don’t put this on me.” Vivian smiles with frothy lips from her pilsner. “You just helped me shoot The Mercier spa campaign, and once I stroke you a check for your shots, you’ll officially be a professional photographer.”
Stroking checks is not what I’ll remember from our afternoon at the spa. It’s stroking my hard dick over Nash’s for her that I’ll never forget.
Vivian passed the queen’s test. It felt like she truly belonged. She trusted us as much as we trusted her.
Nash doesn’t share that side of himself with anyone but me and Vale. Hell, we didn’t even know it existed until Vale’s initiation.
Not that we do it all the time. Not that I need to now that I finally have Vivian. But from here on, there are no secrets, no shame, nothing shared that she won’t be a part of.
Vivian’s ready to be initiated and wants to do it before she’s supposed to start her period. All the queens have planned around it. Not that the kings don’t proudly earn our red wings. I’m dying to taste Vivian that week. I want everything with her.
Though…
I won’t be mad if her period doesn’t come.
I think I’ll fall to my knees in gratitude if she makes me a father.
But I get it.
It’s for a woman to decide when she’s ready, and it’s a lot of pressure on her. Vale’s right. Men have it easy. Women bear the weight of the world; it’s not fair that they suffer the burdens too.
Not my woman. Six kids or six kittens: I’m all in. I’ll be a STAD, as Wren calls them: a stay-at-home dad and stud.
I used to love taking care of Loch when he was a baby.
Nick and I were too close in age, but I was old enough to feed Loch, carry him, and change his diaper.
I was such a proud older brother until Loch shot a golden stream into my face while I was changing him. After that, Sire took over diaper duty.
“When’s the next competition so Jace can enter?” Vivian asks Bishop so sweetly, I can’t get mad at her belief in me.
Bishop tsks. “Just missed it. It’s February twentieth: Ansel Adams’s birthday.”
Vivian bounces her brows at me. “That gives you almost a year to shoot something amazing.”
“Shoot is gun, right?” Poor Sasha. English is confusing as shit.
Grant stretches in his chair, answering her, “You can shoot pool, or a gun, or a camera, or your big mouth, like Wilder.” A round of raucous cheers suddenly echoes across the barn, making him ask, “Who’s winning the competition?”
Bishop rolls his jade eyes, about to answer as two ladies in micro jean shorts and babydoll tops approach, one cooing, “Heeeyyy, Bishop. We really liked your Pussycat Pilsner. When you win, the three of us should celebrate.”
She drags her fingertip over his broad shoulders as they sashay by, clearly trying to grab more than his attention.
Admittedly, Bishop Lawless is catnip.
But she doesn’t capture his focus. Bishop curls his lip, answering Grant, “Don’t know who’s won yet. It’s a steep competition this year.”
I lean back, glancing around him, and burst out laughing at the blonde I recognize, smirking proudly behind her custom cans at the judges’ table. “Oh, is it stiff because Luna Labella’s in the competition?”
Luna is my mom’s prized mixologist at Elysium. She’s a true artist and apparently, an amateur brewmaster.
At the mention of her, if I could color a man livid, Bishop would be a fucking rainbow of riled up over Luna.
He clenches his molars, seething, “She’s not winning again.”
An hour later… Luna wins.
Drinking her winning IPA out of her trophy cup, she blows kisses and middle fingers at Bishop, who’s furiously ignoring her from behind the bar.
Leaving our table, we stand at the bar to enjoy the celebration. Vivian sets her camera bag on a stool and starts taking shots of the smiling crowd, of us sipping beer, of the hand-hewn rafters above.
I grin, loving how her eye never rests.
Sasha’s sharking at a pool table. She gets wagers going with three men and purposefully loses the first game. Then, she starts giggling, using her innocent accent to get them to double their bets for the next game before she’s winning and milking those dumb fuckers for hundreds.
It’s sweet how Sasha smiles, waving at Vivian like her co-conspirator. Vivian waves back and takes a picture as Sasha puts her delicate nose down and banks another shocking shot.
The men shuffle, uneasy.
“Maybe I should…” Grant pushes off the bar, about to intervene, but I palm his chest.
“She’s fine,” I insist. “We can’t treat her like a porcelain doll forever. Not when she’s working hard to put her pieces back together. Let her have some fun. We’ll watch her.”
Vivian secures her camera in her bag and wraps her arms around my waist, nuzzling my chest with her whisper, “You’re a good man and brother, Jace Ryan.”
“Why, thank you, Smokeshow.” I grin down at her. “Let me take you into the hot side of the brewhouse, and I’ll show you how bad I can be too.”