The memory of Josiah DeMille has haunted me for close to a decade.
The way he looked. The way he smelled. The way his lips felt pressed against mine, even when they shouldn’t have been. The one person I’ve never been able to get over. The one singular part of my past I’ve never been able to move on from. In every lyric sung into the microphone, in every chord strummed on the guitar, in the bottom of every single whiskey bottle, he’s there. His memory has me in a chokehold. His absence a gaping hole in my chest. I gave up years ago, wondering if I’d ever stop thinking about him. Josiah DeMille is the ghost of my past. A past I left behind after my rock bottom. Now he’s back, and he’s everything I remember him to be and more. As mesmerizing as ever, a malt perfectly aged in an oak barrel. But there are dark secrets and shameful lies between us, blurred lines, and an underlying temptation that we’ve never been able to ignore. It’s a recipe for disaster, an imminent train wreck. Where will we sit once the dust settles and the truth comes out?
