Dark Whiskey (Short Story)

by Emma Meade

of Eli's and stumbling back a few steps before steadying myself.

  Eli tried to hide his smile, and that pissed me off even more.

  “How do you know I like that brand?” I demanded.

  “I can smell it on your breath.”

  Instant mortification! I blushed, knew I was blushing, and reddened even more. Thank Christ for dim club lighting, but then I realised it wasn’t that dark, not with the ice-like, gleaming furnishings.

  Asshole.

  “I love the smell of whiskey,” he said, and I relaxed a bit. Maybe he wasn’t telling me I needed to brush my teeth.

  Bottles of rum, whiskey, brandy and other types of liquor lined up in front of the wall running the length of the bar. I glanced at Eli. His gaze on me was intense, his mouth set in a determined line.

  I looked away to watch the bartender prepare our simple drinks. A moment later, he set two glasses of whiskey and ice before us.

  “And a Coke please, Andrew.”

  The bartender opened a bottle and passed it to Eli.

  Eli poured. "Say when."

  I nodded a couple of seconds later. “Thank you.”

  He pursed his lips, half smiling at the first polite words I’d spoken to him. He took a gulp and made a noise of satisfaction.

  "No mixer?” I asked.

  "I prefer it without."

  My eyes narrowed. "How did you know how I like mine?"

  "Oh, I don't know, Jesse. You just seem like a whiskey and Coke kind of girl."

  I bit back a remark, taking a swig instead. I couldn't shake the bad feeling about the place. Maybe paranoia was getting the better of me. Rich club owners rarely chatted me up. Did Eli fancy me, or had he something else in mind? When I glanced up from my drink, his eyes were on me, again. In the frosty-blue light, they glowed.

  I gulped. "We should get back."

  "I'm sure your friend is fine."

  "I'd like to see for myself."

  I took off before he could reply, hurrying to the booth. Dark red lipstick smudged Tasha’s empty champagne glass. She was too busy having her neck nuzzled by Davis to notice my arrival.

  "They look like they could use some alone time," Eli whispered, right into my ear. His breath tickled. He stood behind me, much too close. "Maybe we should come back later."

  I ignored him, sliding into the booth across from my friend, planting my drink in front of me.

  Grinning, Eli sat beside me, close enough for his thigh to brush mine. My breathing stalled. My hand went into overdrive, stirring my drink with the twizzle stick like I was whisking eggs.

  Eli clamped his hand over mine. "I think it's mixed."

  My eyes flew to his. Could he feel the racing pulse in my wrist? I thought he could.

  His fingers trailed up my arm.

  I debated whether or not to slap him away. His touch felt good, but did he think because he’d ordered me a drink, he could cop a feel?

  Gently, he brushed my hair back from my neck. I shivered again. Goosebumps erupted on my arms.

  "You're cold," Eli said.

  I jerked away. "This whole place is cold."

  "Yeah," Tasha said, opening her eyes. "What's with the temperature in here?" She yawned, snuggling into Davis. "You're not very warm," she mumbled.

  Davis smiled and removed his sunglasses. He looked at me. My hand clutched the glass of whiskey. Gleaming eyes, like Eli's. Was it an employee thing?

  Thump thump, went my heart. Run, said my head.

  Tasha stifled another yawn. "I have to go to the bathroom." She stood and pushed by Davis. The creep ogled her ass as she passed.

  "On the right at the very back," said Eli.

  "Cheers," Tasha said.

  Davis stood. "I'll be at the bar."

  Alone with Eli, again. My stomach performed a somersault. I sipped my drink, the dark whiskey sliding easily down my throat, coating my mouth and tongue in burning ice.

  "You're not from around here," Eli said, leaning in until I was forced to look at him.

  "Wow. What gave it away?"

  He chuckled and knocked back the rest of his drink. "I like you, Jesse. You say exactly what you feel, don't you?"

  "No."

  "I think you do. I find it attractive."

  "I'm happy for you."

  His throaty laugh echoed off the walls. My heart skipped a beat. "Who's the asshole who made you so defensive?" he asked.

  "I'm not defensive."

  "If you say so, Jesse."

  “Don't presume you know me, Eli. It's arrogant, and definitely not something I find attractive."

  "Noted."

  Two tables over, a woman cackled. Her dyed red hair hung above a tiny, black boob-tube top. Her too tight, leopard-print skirt cemented the trashy look. She slurped a blue cocktail while modelesque people on either side of her watched with mild amusement.

  I missed something Eli said. "Sorry, what?" I asked, turning back.

  "Would you like to dance? What's your favourite song? Choose anything. My DJ will have it."

  "No one's dancing." I looked around. Nope. Everyone was too busy being cool. Apart from the redhead. I guessed she'd tear up the floor if Eli asked her for a dance.

  "A song, Jesse. If you could listen to anything you wanted, right now, what would it be?"

  He leaned in until his lips almost grazed mine. That close up, his beauty took my breath away. And those eyes. I imagined girls got lost in them quite frequently.

  I shook myself out of the daze, drawing back. "I don't know. There are too many to choose from."

  "That's not a good answer." He sighed, his gaze locking on my lips.

  "Um, okay then, “We Haven't Turned Around”."

  Where had that come from? It must have been years since I'd last heard that song, smack in the middle of my teenage angst.

  "Gomez. Excellent choice." A delighted smile lit up his pale face. A waitress approached the table, setting down a translucent candle holder in the centre. She lit a nightlight, pristine white, of course, and dropped it in.

  “Thank you, Angela,” Eli said.

  “You’re welcome, Sir.”

  I didn’t care for the mocking smile on the woman’s blood-red lips. She left to deliver candles to other tables.

  The flame flickered, highlighting dark shadows beneath Eli’s eyes. The candlelight afforded him a haunted guise.

  “You look tired,” I said, sipping my drink.

  “I’ll be fine soon enough.”

  The redhead cackled again. I frowned. Tasha had been gone awhile.

  "I'm going to go check on Tasha."

  "I'm sure she's alright."

  "Excuse me," I said, ignoring him. I hurried towards the bathroom.

  A gorgeous man sitting beside the vivacious, red-haired commoner nodded at me as I passed. I didn't like the slight smirk on his face. And commoner? I really had to work on my judgemental tendencies. Just because Miss Red enjoyed dressing on the slutty side, didn't mean she was any less deserving of being in the VIP section. Hell, somehow I was there.

  A few tables down, I saw two girls, barely out of their teens. They had to be guests like Tasha and me. Dolled up in Saturday night clubbing gear, they stuck out beside the chiselled men wearing suits worth a grand or more. Did the club take pity on regular folk, wanting to give us a taste of the finer life before tossing us back to normality?

  On the opposite side of the room, on a black leather couch, sat an attractive young guy, but a Regular Joe like myself. No designer gear or the easy poise exuded by the model types, both men and women, who surrounded him. Two of the most stunning women I had ever seen in real life appeared to be chatting him up.

  I shook my head, still unable to put my finger on what exactly was wrong with the place, and entered the bathroom.

  The ladies’ room had three stalls, all open. No sign of Tasha.

  For feck sake.

  I released an exasperated breath and placed my hands on the marble counter. The girl in the mirror stared
back, her green eyes darker than usual, the pupils enlarged. Her lips needed a fresh coat of gloss.

  I took out my phone. Still no signal. Wonderful. The bathroom door swung open. I glanced over to see one of the women who had been making moves on Regular Joe standing inside the doorway, her glittering eyes fixed on me. My heart stuttered.

  Act like nothing is wrong.

  I busied my hands, pretending to type a text.

  "There's no reception in here," she said, behind me.

  My heart thudded. I looked up, and my phone slipped from my hands, clattering on the tiles. Only one person’s reflection showed. Mine. I spun around. Shrank back. She, it, whatever or whoever, leaped in front of me, her face half an inch from mine. Her painted burgundy lips curved in a wide smile.

  "I was hoping something tasty would come my way, and then you walked by."

  Her voice, both cold and musical, reminded me of the clink of ice in my whiskey glass.

  "I can hear your heart beating."

  I tried to swallow, but my throat tightened. My wide eyes bounced from her coal-black hair to the gleaming white skin of her arms and up to her lips, which, to my terror, parted to reveal visibly extending teeth.

  My grip on reality shifted as did the floor beneath me. Before I fell, I managed to swivel around and grab onto the edge of the counter. Horrified, I shuddered as two cold hands cupped my hips, sliding around my waist from behind. The mirror held my reflection alone.

  A dull moan escaped my throat. I'd never made that sound before, and I never wanted to hear it again. She brushed my hair back, exposing my bare shoulders, and made a noise of appreciation.

  A chink of sanity crept back.

  "No," I shouted, pushing away from the counter, shoving hard against her.

  She barely budged, but she did turn me around to face her.

  "You can't fight me, love."

  "Help me," I screamed in the direction of the door.

  "No one's going to help you." She stroked my