“Men are stupid stupid faces!” I slurred, raising my glass.

“The stupidest,” Scarlett obliged. “No offense, babe.” Devlin was our designated driver.

“None taken,” he promised, elegant and gorgeous in navy slacks and a cashmere sweater with tiny threads loose around the cuffs. Kitten Jedediah, named for Scarlett’s moonshine-making bootlegging great-grandad, was hellbent on destroying everything the happy couple owned.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Devlin offered.

I certainly would. I launched into my sixteenth explanation of exactly why Bowie made me so damn mad, except this time I couldn’t quite remember the specifics. Thankfully, I had enough wits about me not to bring up the clusterfuck with Connelly at work. And the pictures. I shuddered. I couldn’t stop thinking about the pictures. There was something so…dark about them.

I knew the Bodines would want to know about the pictures. But I didn’t want them to get their hopes up. With Connelly running the show someone could produce a notarized suicide note from Callie and he’d still try for an arrest warrant on a Bodine.

So instead of talking about it, I drank.

We’d started at The Lookout and then made our way to a bar called The Still farther west. It was easier to get shit-faced in a place where you wouldn’t be as likely to have to arrest someone in a week.

The Still was a little shabbier than The Lookout. The floors were stickier, the darts were sharper, but the drinks were poured with heavier hands. Drunk was I. But not too far gone to forget to hydrate regularly and stuff fried food down on top of the liquor.

“June Bug, come take a selfie,” my mom screeched. Nadine Tucker didn’t let her hair down often, but when she did, she could rival Scarlett in party antics. I’d spilled my guts to her this afternoon about the Dad and Bowie situation, and in solidarity she’d left my father home with a frozen TV dinner.

June, mourning the career-ending injury of her fantasy football receiver and the lack of a Turkey Tuesday, came along to mope alongside me. Leah Mae and Scarlett were the only chipper ones in the group. But their good moods buoyed mine enough to keep me from thinking too hard about Connelly.

“Lula!” Scarlett shouted over the country twang of the band on the stage. The band was horrible, but the drinks were cheap, and that’s how I was blitzed out of my gourd before 9 p.m.

I swiveled on my stool and slid right off. Devlin, kind gentleman that he was, helped me back up. “Luuuuuulaaaaaa,” I crooned. “You’re so pretty!”

Lula was a massage therapist who ran the Bootleg Springs Spa. She was annoyingly beautiful with her flawless dark skin and fabulous thick hair. She was wearing a plaid shirt knotted above the top of her probably size four jeans.

I magnanimously chose not to hold that against her.

“I’m here to get the dirt on you and Bowie,” she told me.

“Bowie is a stupid face and you need a drink to hear why,” I insisted.

I leaned over the bar and shouted “Yoo-hoo” at the bartender. He shot Devlin a “control your ladies” look, and Devlin gave an amicable shrug.

“Hey! Stop that,” I said, poking him in his arm.

Devlin looked at me. “Stop what?”

“Stop the tele-path-ic male communication,” I told him being careful to enunciate each word so no one would realize how drunk I was. Deserving of an Emmy, that’s how good my performance as a sober woman was.

He grinned at me, and I wondered if Scarlett lived her life in constant mid-swoon. He was terribly good-looking. Selflessly, I decided not to hold it against him.

Lula ordered a vodka tonic and took the stool next to mine. “Spill, sister,” she ordered.

I was too happy to comply. “So, a hundred years ago, my dad told Bowie to leave me alone because I was too young to get tangled up in a relationship.”

Lula nodded, listening intently. “And?”

“And. He. Did.” I drilled a finger into Lula’s shoulder with every word. One of my eyes closed so I could focus in on the Lula in the middle.

“Wow,” Lula said, sipping her drink. “So who are you more mad at?”

“Bowie!” I spat his name out like it was Brussels sprouts flavored. “Not only did he listen to my father and back off, but as soon as Sheriff Stupid Face announces he only meant to it to be temporary, Bowie Dumb Jerk decides now he can tell me he intends to marry me!”

“Marry you?” Scarlett spun me around so fast I slipped right off the stool again and landed on her.

We got tangled up in legs, bar stool ones and human ones.

“Bowie says he wants to marry you?” Scarlett shouted in my face.

Something cold and wet was working its way through my jeans.

“Did you just pee on me?” I asked her.

“It’s your moonshine, dumbass,” she told me as Devlin picked her up off of me and set her back on her feet. He helped me to my feet and propped me against the bar as I swayed.

“We’re gonna need some coffees, waters, and three more orders of chicken strips,” Devlin told the bartender, sliding a hundred dollar bill across the bar.

Leah Mae skipped over to me. “Can I design your wedding dress?” she asked, listing to the right. Leah Mae had only recently moved back to Bootleg so her alcohol tolerance was nowhere near as good as a native Bootlegger.

“I’m not marrying that good-for-nothing sheriff’s boy. He chose my father over me! And now that my nosy, interfering father gives him the thumbs-up Bowie acts like it’s off to the races.”

Lula thought about it, lips pursed. “Cassidy’s right. She has the right to be supremely pissed at both of them for at least a week or two.”

“Two,” I decided firmly.

“To Bootleg justice,” my mom said, wiggling into our circle holding her bourbon and Coke aloft. Half of it spilled down her arm, and I felt a little bit bad about how sticky we were going to make the interior of Devlin’s SUV.

“To Bootleg justice,” we all echoed, clinking glasses and sending an enthusiastic shower of beverages down our arms.

“You’re totally going to marry him though, aren’t you?” Leah Mae asked. “Because I see you in this fabulous lace dress with little cap sleeves. Cowboy boots. Some flowers in your hair.”

While Scarlett, Leah Mae, and Lula began to debate my bridal look, I looked to June for help.

She was frowning at her phone.

“Whatsamatter, Bune Jug? Why the face?” Did I just say Bune Jug? Good Lord, I needed chicken fingers stat.

“George Thompson is the reason for my face,” she said flatly.

“My cat?” I asked her, closing my other eye to bring her into focus.

“The receiver. The most consistent player in the league. His injury is most likely career-ending.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” I said. I was. I was a good little sister. I cared when my weird sister was upset over weird things. “Did I tell you why I’m upset?” I asked, eager to repeat all the reasons that I wanted to tie Bowie up and stuff him in the trunk of a car and drive it into the lake.

“You’ve spoken incessantly about it since we got here.”

“Do you want to tell me in-chest-antly about George?” I offered.

She gave a mopey shrug. “I could always depend on him for my fantasy team.”

“And you feel like he let you down?” I filled in the blanks. Juney came by her shit-tastic communication honestly.

“It’s stupid. He’s stupid. I’m stupid,” June said.

In elementary school, the guidance counselor had pulled my sister out of class to test her to see if she was weirdly gifted or just weird. Her IQ hovered somewhere around 141, putting her in the genius category.

The bartender plopped down a steaming basket of deep-fried chicken in front of me.

“Wanna eat your feelings with me?” I asked, offering her a chicken tender.

“I fail to see how eating trans fats will improve my overall mood.”

I snorted. “Honey mustard sauce is a proven mood enhancer.”

June narrowed her eyes at the grease-soaked, paper-lined basket. “I’d like to review the evidence for that statement.”

“Eat your fat and grease. It’s all the evidence you need.”

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Bootleg Night Out.”

I swiveled around on my stool and came face-to-face with the fried blonde hair and perpetually over-tanned face of Misty Lynn Prosser.

She was flanked by two carbon copies in ripped up, too-tight jeans, with crispy hair and low-cut tank tops.

“It’s thirty-one degrees outside,” my mother interjected. “Shouldn’t you girls be wearing more layers?”

Misty Lynn smirked. “It’s a crime to cover all this up.” She hefted her giant fake tits with her hands. “Ain’t it, girls?”

Sidekick #1 mirrored Misty Lynn’s movements with the B cups that were barely concealed behind an I’m Too Sexy tank. Sidekick #2 was too busy drooling over Devlin to play along.

“What brings y’all out?” Misty Lynn asked. “I hear that Bowie Bodine’s been paying you a little extra attention.”

“Lemme tell you about Bowie Bodine,” I began, but Scarlett cut me off.

“Why don’t y’all do yourselves a favor and go play Venus fly trap someplace else?” Scarlett hated Misty Lynn and the feeling was very mutual. Misty Lynn had wormed her way into Gibson’s bed years ago and then had cheated on him when their mother died. Scarlett had broken her nose over it a few years back, and the bad blood still ran strong.

Especially since Misty Lynn kept trying to wriggle her ass back into Gibson’s good graces. When she wasn’t busy breaking up marriages or shoplifting the morning after pill.

“I was bein’ neighborly,” Misty Lynn drawled. She took a cigarette out of her blue leopard clutch. “Maybe I should go be neighborly with Bowie, since y’all are so busy ignoring him.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Devlin interjected calmly before I could choke on my chicken tender.

“You stay away from my brothers, you gonorrhea-spreadin’, no-good shithead!” Scarlett squalled.

“Gonorrhea?” I asked Sidekick #1. “Is that true?”

“I thought it was just crabs,” she said.

“Shut up, Belinda,” Misty Lynn snapped. “As I was sayin’, maybe I’ll pop on by Bowie’s house and see if he needs some attention. Seein’ as how Cassidy is too high and mighty to give it to him.”

I knew she was saying it to get a rise out of Scarlett. Just as I knew Bowie wouldn’t let the woman cross his threshold given the fact that she was such a shitty human being. But despite all this knowledge, the moonshine in my belly overruled my sensibilities.

The noise that drew every eye in the bar was coming out of my mouth as I threw myself off of my stool in Misty Lynn’s direction.