Just My Luck (The Kings)

It irked me that something was bothering Sloane and she hadn’t yet confided in me. I’d thought we were a team—in this thing together. Instead, she’d spent her entire shift acting jumpy and out of sorts. Once the front of the brewery was running smoothly, I found solace in the back with Meatball. The heat and the loud hum of equipment calmed my nerves.

“Hey, boss.” He greeted me and I grumbled, missing the way those same words rolled off Sloane’s tongue. “Been a while since I’ve seen you back here.”

I offered a noncommittal grunt as guilt worked through me. My hand gripped the back of my neck and squeezed. “I know . . . things have been . . . kind of hectic.”

A grin spread across his face. “I heard you got hitched. Congratulations, man.”

Meatball held out his hand, and I took it. “Thanks.”

Not wanting to spend any more time than necessary talking about myself, I pointed toward one of the kettles. “Everything running smoothly back here?”

He shrugged. “Nothing we can’t fix.” He kicked off his desk and walked toward me.

I waited, knowing Meatball would spell it out for me so we could fix whatever issues had come up.

“Something went sideways with the mash tun on this one. When it went to the kettle, it needed a ton of water. Now look at it.” He handed me a glass with a beautiful brown liquid in it. Definitely not the black coloring of the well-brewed stout we were aiming for.

“Well, fuck.” I sighed and swirled the glass, noting the silky texture.

“Yep.” He took the glass from me and knocked it back and exhaled. “Doesn’t taste half-bad. A little underwhelming maybe.”

I crossed my arms and considered our options. “All the extra water affected the coloring and diluted the flavor.” I scraped a hand across my jaw. “Do the pH and gravity still look good?”

He nodded. “They’re perfect.”

My brain ticked through the options. “Let’s try adding plum in the final stages to boost the flavor profile. Come up with a name that’s a play on a brown plum porter or something.”

His eyebrows creased, and his face fell. “I was going for a stout.”

I nodded, empathizing with his frustration and disappointment. He was learning the hard way, like we all had to do. “Congratulations, you successfully brewed your first porter.”

He shook my hand and let it roll off his shoulders. The stout was an easy save—unlike the time he forgot to sterilize and there were enough microbes from previous brews in the kettle to introduce Enterobacter. That mistake was twelve hundred dollars down the drain, but the worst of it was the fact it was in the pipes, and the entire brewhouse smelled like baby vomit for a week.

That was the thing.

In this business, if you couldn’t problem-solve on your feet, you were sunk. I suppose it was part of the appeal of running a brewery—the ability to think on my feet and fix things. A true brewer would do almost anything to avoid dumping barrels.

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Maybe I should have done a single barrel.”

I shook my head. We didn’t have an official pilot program for new beers. Nine times out of ten we developed a recipe and let it rip at full scale. The only time I took the painstaking steps for a sample barrel was to ensure it was perfect.

Meatball followed my attention to the small batch that was nearly finished and grinned. “You are going to want to try this one. I think you’re finally onto something, man.”

Meatball poured a sample into a tasting glass. He passed it to me, and I peered into the amber ale. Its color was inviting, with rich and warm orange tones with hints of deep ruby. I sniffed the beer, pleased with the caramel notes that had already developed. I took a tentative sip.

My eyes flew to Meatball as he nodded and grinned, excitement dancing around the edges of his slim frame. Toasty malt flavors mingled with smooth caramel. Subtle bread-like hints shone through the sweetness of the beer.

It was fucking perfect.

I looked at the glass again, reining in my excitement. “ABV?”

Meatball looked over his notes, scribbled in a notebook. “It should be just under seven percent alcohol by volume.”

I swirled the glass and cracked a tiny smile before taking another sample. “It’s pretty good.”

Meatball’s fingertips came to his temples before he gestured toward me in disbelief. “Pretty good? Are you fucking serious? It’s amazing.”

I smiled down at the new beer. After seven iterations, the recipe I’d developed to perfectly capture the subtle notes of biscuit and honey, which reminded me of my wife, was a slam dunk.

“What are you going to call it?” he asked.

I watched the last bubbles of foamy carbonation cling to the sides of the glass. “Still figuring that one out.”

He nodded. “Well, if we agree it’s a winner, I can start bulk ordering what we need to begin large-scale production and get it on the calendar.”

Everything about it felt right. “Let’s do it.”NôvelDrama.Org owns all content.

I sat, hunched over my desk, with my notes for a blood orange ale I was looking forward to brewing. Plucking a few books from the shelf, I flipped through. I scribbled a few ideas regarding hops varieties or herbs I could try, and in the end decided to go with a malt that would balance out the natural bitterness of the orange pith.

My ears pricked when something felt off. I sat up and listened. Meatball had also noticed. Your body got used to the hum and thump of the equipment, but when any little thing changed, you noticed.

I listened again. “A pump turned off.”

Meatball offered a salute. “On it.” He pushed away from his desk to investigate.

Frustrated with my inability to focus, I tossed my pencil onto my desk and leaned back in my chair. The heels of my hands pressed into my eye sockets. So much of my life had been upended, and while I normally found solace in the precise and scientific nature of brewing and developing new recipes, I couldn’t stop my mind from spinning.

I was too distracted—my thoughts bounced between whatever was bothering Sloane, the information about my mother, my father’s secret life, all of it.

I dragged a hand through my hair and sighed, gaining Meatball’s attention as he walked back. “I can’t do this tonight.”

His eyes narrowed. “Everything okay?”

Not really, no.

“Yeah.” I looked away and exhaled. “I don’t fucking know.”

He lifted a shoulder. “All right. You know I’ve got it covered here. Just do what you need to do.”

I nodded, grateful for my devoted employee, and pulled my phone from my pocket to send a group message to my siblings.

It was time to have a serious talk.

We need to meet . . . all of us. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.

MJ

Brewery?

Somewhere private. Royal, can we meet at your place?

One by one my siblings agreed to meet at Royal’s house that evening. Unable to sit still, I gathered my things and decided to head straight to Royal’s place. The walk was only about two miles out of town and, given the gorgeous sunny weather and cool breeze, I could clear my head before I faced my family.

By the time I arrived at Royal’s house, the sun was sagging low in the western sky. His neighborhood was a quiet mix between dated historical houses and newly built summer homes. His driveway was straight and tidy and led to a cobalt-blue home with a rounded arch-top front door.

I shook my head as I followed the path up to his front door. Only Royal could pull off the white picket fence and dormers—complete with flower boxes—considering their contrast to the devil-may-care, heavily inked persona my brother put out into the world. Part of me suspected he liked being a nonconformist.

I climbed the steps, and my knuckles landed on the door with heavy knocks. After a moment, Royal opened the door with a grin, stepping aside to invite me in.

“Hi, come on in. JP is already inside. Whip and the girls are on their way,” he said.

I dipped my chin and slinked past him. His home was bright and clean, and for the first time, I realized how incredibly tidy he was, but chalked it up to being a bachelor who worked odd hours. My thoughts briefly flicked to the constant cleanup of snack wrappers, socks, and rogue marker caps that had started filling my own home.

One by one, my siblings arrived, with our littlest sister, MJ, arriving last. She swept into his house without knocking and immediately propped herself on top of the kitchen island.

She pointed across the space into the living room. “What’s with the tripod?”

Tucked into the corner was a tall black tripod with a ring light. All eyes slanted toward Royal, who shifted in his boots and scoffed. “It’s nothing. Just filming some tattoo ideas. Doodles.”

“In the living room? There’s not even a table to sketch on.” MJ’s eyes narrowed into little slits. “That’s weird.”

He took a breath and released it with a huff. “I use a sketch pad. The lighting is better in there. Why am I having to explain myself to you?”

I eyed him, noting the large picture windows in the kitchen and the late-day summer sun streaming in. I saw through his bullshit, but what he did in his own house was none of my business.

MJ seemed to buy his excuse, and she rolled her eyes at his impatient, brotherly tone. “Whatever.” She turned to me. “So what gives, Abel? Your texts are freaking me out.”

I stuffed my hands into my pockets. “I have information from John Cannon, the private investigator. It’s . . . well, the information he had was disturbing.”

In near silence, we stared at each other as I let the seriousness of my tone sink in.

MJ looked at each of us with soft, worried eyes. Sylvie had found her quiet confidence, and her chin was raised, ready to withstand whatever reason I had called us all together. Whip paced, seemingly unable to contain the energy that danced through him. Royal stood with his tattooed arms crossed over his chest and waited while JP’s hands were tucked into the pockets of his slacks.

It wasn’t often all six King siblings were in a room together. Over the years it became apparent that it was easier for my father to control us if we were isolated, even from each other.

But that’s over now.

“There’s news, and also a little speculation.” I glanced at each of my siblings. “But I need to know we’re in this together. That we can trust each other, because after tonight, things are going to change.”

My eyes landed on JP, cautiously watching his reaction. His hard eyes were level, and he nodded.

“Right now it looks like our father was married before Mom. In fact, he had a family.” Murmurs rippled through the group, but I forged ahead. “There is no evidence that his marriage to our mother was ever legitimate. I don’t know how much Mom knew . . . but I think either she found out about his wife or maybe gave him an ultimatum of some kind. I don’t know. I think Mom pushed him too far, and he made the problem go away.”

Sylvie took a small step forward, horror shining in her eyes. “What do you mean, he made the problem go away?”

My gut churned. I hated having to give voice to my darkest thoughts. “I think there is a very real possibility that he killed her.”

“Whoa!” JP raised his hands as various levels of shock rippled through my siblings. “Are you kidding me? That’s a serious accusation, Abel. You have no evidence.”

“We have her driver’s license,” Royal corrected.

“She wouldn’t have left, not without us.” Sylvie’s arms wrapped around her middle. “As a mother, I can guarantee that. She would have found a way to take us with her if she’d been given a choice.”

MJ looked at us, sadness weighing down her shoulders. “Maybe he didn’t give her a choice. Maybe he scared her enough to make her think we were safer if she left on her own. She could still be out there.”

“It’s possible,” I conceded. We had all experienced the wrath of my father at one point or another. Perhaps his threats were enough to force her hand.

“What do we do?” MJ asked.

Royal stepped forward. “I think we’d all be safer if we distanced ourselves from Dad. Just until we have more information and figure a few things out.”

A disgusted scoff rattled the back of Sylvie’s throat. “That’s not a problem.”

Our sister had been all but banished from the King family after her relationship with Duke Sullivan was outed. Our father couldn’t fathom choosing them over us. Still, we stood behind Sylvie in silent support, much to his disgust.

“John is still tracking down a few leads. If there is any new information, you will all be the first to know,” I said.

JP nodded slowly, as though he was carefully gathering his resolve. “I can reach out to Veda Bauer. When it comes to business, there’s no one more skilled—or ruthless—than her. If shit hits the fan, we need to be protected. I wouldn’t put it past Dad to leverage everything he has to save face. If he finds out we’re going behind his back, he’ll be out for blood.”

We all stared at JP with a mixture of shock and awe. In all his years, he’d never spoken in opposition to our father. If anything, he was the wild card I was half-convinced would turn against us. If anyone would tip our hand to Dad, I suspected it would be him.

“How much do you think Aunt Bug knows?” MJ’s sad eyes nearly gutted me.

Whip frowned and shook his head. “She doesn’t know about this. All our lives Bug has put herself in his path to keep us safe. She never really wanted to work with him or take part in any of the family business, but she did it to keep us close. I can’t imagine she would have known all this and not done or said anything about it. She loved our mother.”

She also loved this town. Bug was as tied to Outtatowner as any of us.

Sylvie frowned. “She’s his sister. She might know more than she has let on.”

A smirk tugged at Royal’s lips. “You don’t know everything I’ve been up to.”

Collectively, our heads whipped to Royal. He stood tall, realizing he’d spoken aloud, and cleared his throat. “What? All I am saying is that people can have secrets. It’s possible Bug didn’t know.”

“Fair enough.” Whip nodded. “For what it’s worth, I can confidently say that when Bug discovered the box of Mom’s things, she was visibly upset. I think she knows there was something very, very wrong about those items being left in the basement.”

I mulled over that information. At some point, we’d likely have to bring our aunt into this. If not for more information, but also for her protection from our father.

“So we agree?” I looked each of my siblings in the eyes. “We’re in this together until we get to the bottom of it?”

“Together,” Whip said.

Royal nodded. “I’m in.”

Sylvie leaned into him. “Me too.”

“Yeah,” JP said.

“Same.” MJ was near tears, but JP patted her knee, and she offered him a watery smile.

And just like that, the King siblings found themselves unified for the first time in decades.