by Emma Meade
Dark Whiskey
By
Emma Meade
Copyright 2013 Emma Meade
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your own personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Clarissa Yeo
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Dark Whiskey
"I think we should leave—like right now, Tasha," I said, grabbing my best friend’s arm.
Tasha yanked away. "You promised me a night to remember, and that's what I'm getting."
I took a deep breath.
Tasha's watery eyes met mine. Her smudged eyeliner and rosy cheeks indicated her tipsy state.
Would the night ever end?
Being invited to the VIP room in an up-market nightclub by a handsome employee wasn’t the sort of thing that happened to us, not usually anyway. Tasha and I frequented the same pubs in our hick town in the West of Ireland week after week, year after year. A sophisticated time for us involved an evening of drunken dancing followed by a snack box of fried chicken and chips in the local pub, The Lough. And that was just fine by me, and used to be with Tasha, until she'd gotten dumped.
Now she avoided Smithies, The Lough and O' Brien's, anywhere the ex could possibly turn up with his new bottle-job-blonde bimbo (Tasha's words) on his arm.
Tasha insisted the only way to get over a man was to get under another one. Finding the lucky guy in our sleepy town didn’t look promising. At least not without every gossip in a ten mile radius writing her off as a slut. She was right on that front. Bishop's Grove was as uptight as small towns got. As the best friend, I had been wrangled into hopping on a train and travelling a few hours across country to help Tasha do the deed in the big city.
Oh joy! BFFs were seriously overrated.
Tasha, happily plastered on double vodkas and Red Bull, flirted with every decent looking male in sight. My body refused to absorb the whiskey I'd plied in the last pub, a desperate attempt to drown out Tasha's unsubtle advances. I lost count of the number of times she flicked her blond highlights over her shoulder.
It’s not that I didn’t want Tasha to be happy. I was closer to her than my own sisters. But Jesus, she took loud and brassy to the next level when she’d had a few. She was the yin to my yang, the Thelma to my Louise. Tasha could be counted on to drag me out on a Saturday night in the hopes of “finding me a fella” when I’d prefer to stay home, watch The X Factor and sip a glass or three of rosé. We were best mates. But right then, I wanted to throw a glass of icy water on her pretty face.
Because the club felt wrong. How could I describe it? Shivers crawling up your back and coiling around your spine sort of wrong. A cold draft coated the dance floor, despite two hundred bodies crammed together, swaying to the hard beat. Dozens more hung around the bar, sipping from tall glasses filled with dark red liquid. I glanced at the poster advertising the drink of the night. Bloody Mary. Gross. What person under the age of fifty drank those things?
“You ladies ready?” asked Davis, waiting at the top of the steps. Good-looking and dressed in a designer suit and dark sunglasses, I pegged him as the manager. What kind of person wore sunglasses indoors, and at one o’clock in the morning?
Can we say poser?
“Let’s go,” Tasha said, eager to climb the ivory staircase and mingle with the elite. She shone a sexy smile on Davis.
“Please, Tasha,” I begged, trying to keep my voice low. “This place has a bad vibe. Can’t you feel it?”
“The only thing I feel is the need to sample the fine champagne Davis promised me. Now, stop your whining and try to enjoy yourself.”
“You cow! If you wanted to leave, I’d go with you.”
“Do what you want, Jesse. I’m going up there.”
And that’s exactly what she did. She turned her back on me and climbed the stairs in her four and a half inch, ruby-red heels, holding on to the metal banister for support, and giving me a view of the tiny, scarlet g-string beneath her mini dress.
Bitch!
Grumbling, I followed her lead, albeit a tad more cautiously in my black strappy sandals. I’d spent a week’s wages on them the previous Christmas for a wedding, an extortionate amount for me.
I glanced at my phone.
No reception.
I silenced my inner worrier and joined Tasha and the poser, aka Davis, on the landing.
Wow. We stood in an ice palace. Well, that’s what the glassy bar counter, table surfaces and walls looked like to me. Everything was misty white or pale frosty blue. Tasha, in her hot red number, couldn’t have been more out of place if she tried.
Every man and woman sitting elegantly on couches, armchairs and bar stools emitted chic beauty and grace, not to mention a keen sense of fashion. We had entered model central. My eyes roamed over the pale, long limbs, blemish free skin, glistening lips and smooth foreheads.
Thank God I’d worn my Karen Millen black dress with the cream stripes. I stood taller, taking slow, deep breaths. Okay, so Tasha and I didn’t belong, but why let all those über cool attractive folks know just how uncomfortable I was. It’s not like anyone was paying attention to us anyway . . .
Only they were.
A draft of cold air tip-toed across my back. I shivered and turned around, coming face to face with a man who trumped Davis in the looks department.
Not very tall, perhaps five ten and a half or thereabouts. In my heels, I almost matched his height, but he was built well, lean muscles visible through the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt. The bluest eyes I'd ever seen gazed back at me. I glanced down at his hands. Long fingers, narrow wrists. Music hands. A tattoo of a rose adorned his right wrist, the stem curling up his arm, disappearing beneath his sleeve. He wore simple, dark jeans, but I guessed they cost a pretty penny, judging from the snug way they fit his lean legs. Fashionably tousled dark locks skimmed his forehead. Bedroom hair, i.e. sexy as hell.
I swallowed.
An amused smile played across his lips. He extended his hand. "I'm Eli. Welcome to my club."
When my own hand didn't automatically move to meet his, Tasha elbowed me sharply in the ribs. "You own this place?" I asked. He couldn't be much older than thirty.
“I do, Miss?”
I didn't give him my name.
A slight frown coloured his lips, disappearing as soon as Tasha stepped forward to shake his hand.
"I'm Tasha. Your club is cool."
"Thank you, Tasha. And your friend. Does she like it too?"
I said nothing. I knew plenty of guys like him, arrogant, sure of themselves, but something else was going on. Frosty blue eyes, not unlike the icy décor, continued to stare at me. The bad vibe came again, thrumming from my toes to the tips of my fingers.
Wrong, all wrong.
"She's just too sober," Tasha said, a bitchy edge to her voice.
I didn't look at her, unable to focus on anyone but Eli. He was challenging me. To what? I wasn't sure.
"Wellll," he said. "Let's do something about that." He nodded at a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes.
Davis handed a glass to Tasha.
She gave him her best seductive smile, flashing rece
ntly laser-whitened teeth. "Thank you."
Eli held out a glass to me.
"No, thanks," I said, my tone stiff. My fingers clutched my handbag in a death grip.
Alarm bells sounded in my head, and I had no idea why.
Tasha's forced laugh made my stomach clench.
Uh-oh. I was in for it later.
"Jesse drinks whiskey," said Tasha.
Traitor. I glared at her.
Eli's eyes glinted. "Well then, Jesse and I have the same taste. Why don't you and Davis grab that empty booth over there, Tasha, while we order drinks at the bar."
My stomach flipped when he said my name. The hairs on my arms stood erect. Just the air conditioning, I told myself.
Davis draped his arm around Tasha's waist. "Make it a double,” Tasha said. “She needs it."
She passed me on her way to the booth, a clear warning on her face. I clenched my fists. If she expected me to accompany her on a trip ever again, she’d be sorely disappointed.
A cold hand uncurled my fingers. I looked down to see Eli grasp my hand in his. Before I could protest, he led us to the bar, nodding at various very important people he passed.
The bartender, as beautiful and flawless as every other person in the VIP section, came right over. Straight white teeth blinded me when he grinned, and my blood ran cold. I tugged out of Eli's grasp, or at least I tried to. He held on tight, pretending not to notice.
Eli pointed to my favourite brand of whiskey. "Two please, Andrew."
The bartender moved away to make our drinks, and I yanked hard, pulling my hand out