Page 11 of Lost Trust

“Now, that’s my kind of hospitality,” Bryce says.

Laughter ripples around the room because Bryce is one of the owners of the whiskey brand.

The corks come flying out, one after another. A pretty brunette passes glasses around while another pours generous splashes of amber liquid.

Bryce taps his glass with a fork, and the room slowly quiets.

“I’ve stood in front of a lot of rooms like this over the years.” He pauses, glancing toward Axle. “But tonight is different. When I first met this asshole”—he points at Axle—“he couldn’t grow a decent beard.”

“Still can’t,” I yell.

“He worked harder than anyone I’d ever met,” Bryce continues. “Except me, of course. Took every loss personally. Every mistake. Every buck-off. And tonight, all that paid off.” He lifts his glass. “To Axle Trust, our new million-dollar man.”

“To Axle!” The room echoes the toast, and glasses collide.

I glance toward my brother.

He’s rubbing the back of his neck, looking like he’d rather crawl under the table than be celebrated.

Jovie slips her hand into his, and I see him immediately relax.

Amazing what one good woman can do.

The next few hours disappear into a blur. The phone never stops ringing. We all field calls from Momma and Dad, Grandma Evelyn, and our younger brother, Cabe. Our cousins Micah and all the Storm girls, our wide variety of sponsors, reporters, and friends from back home.

Every few minutes, someone else shoves a phone toward Axle. Jovie eventually steals it and tucks it away.

“Eat,” she tells him.

“I am,” he says as he tears off a piece of roll and pops it into his mouth.

“More than two bites of bread.” She scoots his plate, piled high with steak and potatoes, closer to him. “You haven’t eaten all day. You’re gonna crash out when the adrenaline’s gone.”

I chuckle into my beer. “Listen to the doctor.”

“And you need to follow your own advice,” she says.

Axle’s eyes snap to me. “You all right?”

“He reinjured his shoulder tonight. It’s pretty bad this time,” Jovie answers before I can.

“Damn, and you still managed to come in fourth,” Axle says with pride as he extends his fist past her.

I bump it with mine.

Jovie shoves his arm. “You’re both impossible.”

The private room doesn’t stay private for long. Within an hour, the restaurant is standing room only, and the fans begin drifting toward our section.

Most are respectful. They just want a glimpse at the champ.

Axle signs everything from hats to ticket stubs to boots. One woman has him sign her baby’s blanket. The little bugger is wide-eyed and partying right along with the rest of the crowd.

I move to the long mahogany bar in the center and am halfway through another glass when someone slides onto the empty stool beside me.

“Hey there, cowboy. That was some great riding today.” The voice is smooth.

I turn to see a stunning blonde, probably in her early twenties. Her hair spills over her bare shoulders. She has perfect makeup. She’s wearing a black fringe dress, which leaves very little to the imagination, cinched at the waist, with a belt featuring a large silver buckle.