My next summons comes six days later.
Is this a booty call? I text back.
A few minutes later, her reply: I don’t do booty calls.
“Like hell you don’t,” I say with a laugh. I can picture her as she typed it - spine straight, expression conveying a sense of superiority. At her instigation, we’ve managed to sneak f***s in about every nook and cranny throughout the vineyard, but this time I’m ready. I pull up to the front of the house in my brand new Dodge 2500 pickup. It’s been an adjustment, switching to a vehicle so slow to respond to the gas and sluggish on the turns. But as long as I fit in with the local color and neither Mrs. Townsend or my brother suspect anything, then I’d drive a Dodge Dart if it would help me spend the night with Macey.
I reach across the seat to grab the bottle
