The autumn sun blared from a lurid blue sky, forcing me to pop on my shades as I made my way to the Kettle. I wasn’t planning on drinking any whiskey sours at the party. I’d gone back on a diet of neat whiskey and cheap beer. After all, I knew what I liked and that’s what I cared for. That’s the kind of girl I was, right? I was hoping they’d like my kind up in the free state. Only one way to find out, so I was off to do such that. My crappy car was tuned, the few things that meant anything to me packed in liquor mart boxes by the door to my room. Love Hotel wouldn’t shed any tears when I bid the place goodbye.
Neither would I. Because I’d blubbered out more than enough salt water over the loss of Cat Avery, indulged myself in enough weeping to last me a whole lot of lifetimes. Admittedly, I had piss-poor taste in men. And he’d come to me as damaged goods, complete with a convincing S.O. stamp on the front. But I’d fallen for the man. I really felt something for him, and I’d wanted so damn bad to believe in his innocence. But he’d turned out to be just another runaway bastard. Knowing I’d been duped and dumped became a reason to drink too much alone in my room, an excuse to wallow around in the slime of my self-pity, my dark and sticky self-loathing. For a few weeks there, I wasn’t a pretty sight.
Fortunately, seeing myself as the love sucker I was finally morphed from crippling remorse into action. I stopped buying six-packs on the way home from work, gave my three week notice, and took care of what needed doing. There’d been a bright spot after all in my relationship with Cat Avery. The doomed affair had served as the deciding factor in my decision to leave west Dusky Beach and my trashy life there behind.
When I walked into the bar-dark of the Kettle of Fish, I fumbled with my sunglasses. Somebody was playing an acoustic guitar and singing a sappy eighties song about how we all got to go on believing all the damn time. Bad song, but decent rendition. And wow. Live music? In the Kettle?
Before my eyes could fully adjust, a tall dark shadow approached me from the bar. A man, singing and strumming a beat-up guitar. When I realized who it was, my heart raced in a circle like a ’round the world yo-yo on a short string, and perspiration poured between my breasts and down the crack in my ass. My hands shook so bad I had to clasp them behind my back.
Cat Avery.
I would’ve turned tail and fled, but Chet came up behind me and gave my shivering shoulders a solid squeeze. “You done wonders for this boy, Tami Lee,” he said in my ear. It was difficult to hear him because I was caught up in the somewhat corny lyrics Avery was singing in his not so good but not so bad voice. “He’s got hisself a high-powered criminal lawyer now. And with a little assist from my partner, he got hisself some real-live evidence against that guy used to work for him in the classroom. Poor man got set up by a hacker, kid who wanted his job. Now, with hot shit legal clout on his side, our crooner here might just rip that S.O. label clean offa his record.” Chet gave me a knowing look and headed for the bar. Avery sang the whole damn cornball song right to my face. Yup, I know, this sounds completely wimpy, but I had to hold myself up by sheer will, my knees were trembling so bad.
When Avery finished up, the last few bars lingered like dust motes in the sunshine. Then the tip bell ring-a-linged and the folks there gave him a solid round of applause. I stood quietly in the silence that followed, my heart skateboarding up and down the New England hills in my chest. Was it true? Had he begun the process to shine the light on the truth of who he was, who Cat Avery really was? Was he a good man thrust into a bad situation? Could he clear his name, live his life in a free kind of future? Could I actually go ahead and love him?
I wanted to be a believer so bad, I could taste it. Bittersweet, a little salty, and oh so good.
“Tami Lee?” he said.
This small town girl couldn’t have stopped herself if she’d tried, and I didn’t even try. I just ran up against him and hugged tight as I could, bulky guitar and all. Avery kissed the top of my head as he swung the musical instrument around onto his backside. Then he hugged me back hard and long. In the middle of it, he called out, “Round of drinks for everybody who wants one. On me.”
A few of the hearty drinkers hooted and the room got loud. I tried not to cry. I heard Lulu tell Peter, “Bite me,” and Chet remarked, “Don’t tempt him. Ask Chaz, he’ll tell ya. Your fat ex been here since noon. Talking about nothing but seeing your darlin’ face again.” Lulu snorted, which made me smile through my tears.
“I think you’ll like the little house I found for us,” Avery whispered while I clung to him like to a tree trunk in a hurricane. When he lifted my chin to smile into my wet eyes, his calloused fingertips made me shiver with expectation. “A block from the beach, but the rent is reasonable. You can get out of the house when you need your space, take a walk on the pretty white sand. See, I got a good job. One of Chet’s friends put me to work on his commercial construction crew. Pay’s good too, enough that I can afford to treat you the way you deserve. Give us a fair chance in this fucked up world, Tami Lee.”
When I told him I was already packed, Avery threw back his head and laughed. A true, happy laugh. That sound was the most beautiful music I think I’ve ever heard.
Nobody had to twist my arm, either, when we bellied up to the bar together. After he handed me a surprise bouquet of white roses, a full dozen of those gorgeous creatures, Cat Avery ordered us a couple drinks. My man had a pineapple juice and I had me a whisky sour. I tell you, it was delicious.
A word about the author...
Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan lives and writes and gets into trouble in South Florida, where the men run guns and the women run after them. She is the author of half a dozen novellas including the paranormal romance Dream Job (Breathless Press, 2012), the romantic romp Me Go Mango (Champagne Books, 2013), and the geek love story Geekus Interruptus (Bottom Drawer Publications, 2013). Her novels in press include a sexy thriller and a coming of age romantic comedy.
Visit Mickey at:
http://www.mickeyjcorrigan.com
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Whiskey Sour Noir (The Hard Stuff) Page 5