Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(97)

“Misty Lynn, that’s enough,” Shelby said coolly. She had a drink in each hand.

“Oh, I’m just gettin’ started,” Misty Lynn sneered. “I’m just gonna keep tellin’ the truth that everyone else around here is too scared to say. That Gibson always looks like he’s five seconds away from murderin’ someone. Or that Scarlett’s gonna wind up with a drinkin’ problem just like her daddy.”

“Misty Lynn,” Gibson said. His voice snapped out like the crack of a whip. “Hear me. We will never be together again. I regret every moment of my time with you when I was too young and too dumb to recognize that you were just a user.”

She stumbled back like he’d struck her. “You don’t mean that, Gibson Bodine.”

“You don’t even know what it’s like have real feelings for someone,” Gibson said, his face twisting into a mask of frustration. “You string that poor bastard Rhett Ginsler along just to discard him when you get bored. That’s not sexy. That’s not attractive. That’s fucking sad. You’re fucking sad. I tolerate you because you’re a Bootlegger. Because we grew up together. But you will never be anything more to me.”

“Well, fuck you then,” she shrieked. “Fuck all of you, dumb fucking losers!”

The music picked back up, and so did the conversations of all the witnesses. It wasn’t the craziest thing Bootleg had seen at a wedding. Not by a long shot.

Misty Lynn turned and stumbled out of the yard. Shelby sent me an apologetic look and set the drinks down on an empty table. She headed in the direction Misty Lynn fled.

Maybe a good psychological talking to would help. I doubted it. But Shelby didn’t like to see anyone in pain. Not even a man-eating monster like Misty Lynn.

I checked the front of the house first to make sure that Bowie and Cassidy were actually gone and didn’t accidentally run down a drunken Misty Lynn on their way home.

I saw my mother in an embrace with Jimmy Bob under the oak tree. Sheriff Tucker and Nadine were wandering up the walkway arm-in-arm. No newlyweds, no Misty Lynn.

I ducked around between the garage and the house again, not really wanting to be the one to break the news to the parents that Misty Lynn had just caused an epic scene.

“Dinner and a show,” Jameson said, appearing next to me. Like a good brother, he handed me a beer.

“Gibs okay?” I asked.

“Seems to be. He’s used to her freak-outs by now.”

I scanned the backyard for Shelby. I spotted her clutch on a table and the two drinks she’d left on another one.

“You lookin’ for someone in particular?” Jameson drawled.

“Shelby,” I said. “We’re ah, kind of an official thing. Like permanently.”

He clapped me on the back. “About damn time.”

“Aren’t men supposed to avoid commitment?” I joked.

“Only the stupid ones. ’Round here, we all know there’s nothing better than pairing off with someone who’s willing to put up with your shit for the rest of your life. So you’re stickin’ around?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. Shelby, too. And my mom’s thinking she just might take up residency, too.”

“No, shit?” Jameson looked downright thrilled.

“Yep. She’s in talks with Clarabell about managing Moonshine.”

“Your mama?” Gibson approached from behind and joined the conversation.

“Yeah. Hey, have you seen Shelby?” I asked him.

“Not since she took off after Misty Lynn to soothe the she-beast,” Gibs quipped.

I felt something. A little frisson of nerves skating through my gut.

“I’m gonna try to find her. I don’t like her wandering around in the dark after what happened when she was on the bike.”

Gibson frowned. “Call her.”

“I’m probably overreacting.”

“Call her,” he insisted.

I pulled out my phone, dialed.

“What’s going on? You don’t think Misty Lynn would take a swing at her, do you?” Jameson asked.

I heard Shelby’s ringtone and felt a fleeting second of hope before I realized it was coming from her clutch.

Gibson stepped off the deck and picked up the clutch. Opened it. He froze, then lifted his steely gaze to me. “Jonah.”

I knew from the tone it wasn’t good. I was off the deck, snatching the paper out of his hand before I could even formulate a question.

It was a sketch. Charcoal lines of a woman who looked a hell of a lot like Shelby. A naked woman. Scrawled across the bottom were the words “See you soon.”

I started for the front yard, Gibson on my heels. Jameson on his. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?” Jameson asked good-naturedly.

That’s when we heard the scream.

Misty Lynn holding a hand to her head, blood seeping through her fingers and turning her peroxide-blonde hair pink, stumbled into the backyard. “Call the cops, y’all. He took Shelby!”

Sheriff Tucker, Nadine, and my mother burst out of the back door of the house as pandemonium broke out in the backyard.

“What’s the trouble?” the sheriff demanded.

But I was sprinting for the street.





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