Even though my hands worked along on autopilot, I watched my brother with a balloon of pride swelling in my chest. His hair was a sandy walnut brown, just like mine, though his curled over the edges of his ball cap and mine was cut short in a fade. He stood a few inches taller than me, which always irked me growing up, and he was lean from years of playing baseball where I was stout from years of football before I became a barrel raiser.
If you grew up as a boy in Stratford, you played at least one sport. That’s just all there was to it.
Though we had our differences, anyone who stood in the same room with us could point us out as brothers. Logan was like my best friend, but he was also like my own son. At least, that’s how I’d seen it after Dad died.
Just like there were only a handful of barrel raisers, the same was true for tour guides. They were the face of our distillery, and on top of being paid well for their knowledge and charisma, they were also tipped highly by the tourists passing through town. It was one of the most sought-after jobs, and Logan had landed it at eighteen — after Dad died, which meant he didn’t get any help getting the position.
He got the job because he was the best at it, and so I was proud of him, the same way I knew our dad would have been.
It was no surprise to our family when he landed it, given his rapt attention to detail. He’d been that way since we were kids — nothing in his room was ever out of place, he ate his food in a specific order, and he always did his homework as soon as he was out of school, exactly as it was supposed to be done, and then did his chores before he even considered playing outside.
For Logan to be comfortable, everything needed to be in order.
The poor guy had almost made it through his entire spiel when I kicked the barrel I was working on and dropped the metal ring to the floor, creating a loud commotion.
“Ah! My finger!”
I gripped my right middle finger hard, grimacing in pain as the rest of the crew flew to my side. The tourists gasped in horror, watching helplessly as I grunted and cursed, applying pressure.
“What happened?”
“Is he okay?”
“Oh God, if there’s blood, I’ll pass out.”
I had to strain against the urge to laugh at that last one, which I was almost positive came from the hot mom with the great rack.
Logan sprinted over, his face pale as he shoved PJ out of the way to get to me.
“Shit, Noah. What’d you do? Are you okay?” He thwacked PJ’s shoulder. “Go get Gus!”
“Wait!” I called, still grimacing as I held up my hand. It was in a tight fist, and with everyone’s eyes fixed on it, I slowly rolled my fingers of my free hand beside it like I was coaxing open a Jack in the Box, and I flipped my little brother off with a shit-eating grin.
The guys all laughed as my brother let out a frustrated sigh, rolling his eyes before grabbing my neck in a chokehold. I shoved him off me, stealing his hat and tossing it on my own head backward as I raced toward his tour group.
“Sorry about the scare, folks,” I said, playing off the charm of the drawl I was given naturally from being born and raised in Stratford. “Couldn’t pass up the opportunity to give my little brother here a hard time.”
There were still some looks of confusion aimed our way, but slowly, they all smiled as relief washed over them.
“So, you’re okay?” I heard a soft voice ask. “You’re not hurt?”
It was the mom, and I leaned against one of the machines on one arm as I crooked a smile at her.
“Only by the fact that I’ve gone my whole life without knowing you, sweetheart.”
Her friends all giggled, one of them wearing a BRIDE TO BE button that I hadn’t noticed before. The mom was still blushing as Logan ripped his hat from my head, shoving me back toward the barrel I’d abandoned.
“Alright, Casanova. Leave my group alone.”
“Just making their tour of Scooter Whiskey Distillery one they’ll never forget, little bro,” I chided, winking once more at the mom before I got back to work.
Logan was already continuing on with the next part of his tour as he walked the group out, and I held the mom’s eyes the entire way until she was out the door.
I imagined I’d find her at the only bar in town later tonight.
Marty griped at me for being stupid, as PJ and Eli gave me subtle high fives. They were all used to my pranks, especially at my brothers’ expense. When you grow up in the same town, with the same people, all working at the same place and doing the same damn job, you learn to make the most of what little fun you can slip into the everyday routine.
“Noah.”
Gus’s voice sobered me, and I dropped my cocky smirk, straightening at his call.
“My office. Now.”
He hadn’t even risen from his chair, but I knew he’d heard the commotion from the prank. My confidence in being untouchable as a Scooter employee slipped a little as I peeled off my work gloves and made my way to his office.
“Shut the door behind you,” he said without looking up.
My ears rang a little at the sudden quietness, and I let the door latch shut before taking a seat in one of the two chairs across from him.
Gus eyed me over the papers he was still running over his hands, one brow arching before he sighed and dropped the papers to his desk. “First of all, even though I appreciate you bringing some laughter into this place, don’t play around when it comes to job safety, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know Logan is your brother, and I don’t mind the occasional prank. But slicing a finger off is no laughing matter. Our founder is proof of that.”
The story of our founder passing away from a minor finger injury was one we always told to the tours that passed through. Here was this healthy man, older but not suffering from any illnesses, and in the end, it was his pride that got him. He’d cut his middle finger right where it connected at the base of his hand, but rather than telling someone, he just wrapped it up and went about his normal routine.
Infection took his life well before it was time.
“I understand, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“Good.” He kicked back in his chair, running a hand over his bald head as his eyes fell to the paper again. “We’ve got a potential buyer here who wants one of our single-barrels. But, the situation is a little precarious.”
“How so?”
It wasn’t strange for Gus to ask me to show one of our rare barrels to potential buyers, mostly older gentleman with too much money to know what to do with it anymore. Each barrel sold for upwards of fifteen-thousand dollars, most of that money going to good ol’ Uncle Sam.
“Well, the buyer is only nineteen.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious.” Gus thumped a hand on the stack of papers he’d been staring at. “She’s a Barnett.”
I whistled. “Ah. So, we can’t say no.”
“We can’t say no.”
“But we also can’t let it get out, especially since Briar County is just looking for a reason to shut us down again.”
“You catch on fast.”
I nodded, scratching at the scruff on my jaw. The Barnett’s were one of the most influential families in the town, right next to the Scooters and, at one time, the Beckers. The Barnetts had a long line of mayors in their family line, and if they wanted a single-barrel of Scooter Whiskey, there was no saying no — regardless of the age.