Page 41 of Gin and Bear It

“The terms of our inheritance state that you need to work for Stryker Liquors or one of its subsidiaries for at least one year,” he says, not taking his eyes off the screen. “I have no idea what your skill set is beyond music and selling shitty weed in the high school parking lot when you were a junior or senior. Is there anything you’re interested in trying? You never got back to me after I sent that email.”

I blink, my mind going blank. He knew about the terrible weed thing and didn’t snitch to our parents? Maybe Wes told him after I graduated.

“I’m not sure,” I admit.

“I figured.” He clicks around for a few moments. “I’m going to have you float between departments in month-long chunks. If you really take to one, you can just stay there or extend your time in it if you aren’t sure. I was thinking of starting you at the bar with Wes, then you can work in production, then in some of the departments around the office. Sound fair?”

“Yes?” The question creeps into my voice unintentionally.

It sounds…nice, honestly. Exactly what I need, because I have no idea what I’m doing or even what I’m best at.

“What’d you think was going to happen?” he asks, an eyebrow going up. “That I was going to deny you a job because you drive me insane sometimes?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Part of me thought that, yeah. But saying it out loud would make me feel like a teenager again, so I stay quiet.

“We aren’t children, Ash,” JD says. “This company matters to me and believe it or not, I don’t want you to crash and burn.”

I hold my tongue again, even though the slight condescension hits an old wound that he created.

Our whole existence has been a weird competition, or at least a conflict. He was always so smug and arrogant growing up, always reminding me of the rules and how I wasn’t following them. Some of them weren’t even rules—they were just things he didn’t like about me.

He didn’t like that I talked back to Dad (which was kind of a shitty thing for me to do, but Dad was being an asshole). He didn’t like that I was always writing (terrible) lyrics in my stacks of notebooks and practicing my instrument of the moment in our shared room, even though I played when he wasn’t there. The fighting eventually got so bad that I switched rooms with Waylon, so Wes and I shared a room.

It helped a little, even though Wes and I just started stirring up different problems. But having JD’s voice in the back of my head all the time, just as I was trying to do the things that brought hormonal, teenage me a shred of happiness, pissed me the fuck off.

JD has no problem with silence, so he doesn’t say anything. He just types something, then prints out papers. Bubba steps in his way as he grabs them from the printer and hands them to me.

“Fill out these forms. The employee handbook is last. Read it.” He places a pen down, too.

I scan the forms—it’s all basic stuff, including my salary. It’s not bad, to my surprise. More than enough to supplement the legal stuff and pay bills.

“Are my tattoos fine?” I ask, checking the table of contents in the employee handbook.

“What, you need to color them in every morning or something? Would it make you even later than you were today?” he asks.

I scoff. “No.”

“They’re fine. Other bartenders have them, too.” He turns back to his computer. “I’ll tell Wes to text you about starting early next week. This week is pretty busy for them with some events, so just take the next few days to get familiar with the handbook and the company.”

I fill out the forms and slide them back to him. He scans them for a moment before nodding, then glancing at the door.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“For today, yes.” He gives me that look that pisses me off every time, like I’m insane for asking a question.

I pet Bubba a little more before leaving, a weird mix of emotions stirring in my chest. I see the evidence of JD not being that awful in front of me, but why can’t I shake the feeling that things won’t be different between us when the pressure’s on?

I head back home to an empty apartment, besides Pip. He greets me like a dog, trotting up to me with his tail in the air. I pet him, kick off my shoes, and head to the kitchen table since the living room is still fucked up.

Shit, the living room.

I look at the big tarp on the ceiling, and the second one across the couch.

Jada and I need to share her bed.

“Fuck,” I say. Pip chirps in response, butting his head against my legs. His doppelgänger fucked me up.

I open my laptop, which I left on the table, and it wakes up to my email inbox.