Whiskey Kisses

by Addison Moore

  “Traditionally.” Mom averts her eyes before offering her own signature grin, the one she throws out like a barb when she’s good and pissed—like now.

  “Let’s hold off on the sarcasm, Miranda. You mind?” He gives her a slimy wink. “Just one night.” He glances around the table. “Everyone, I’d like for you to meet Jenny. Jenny and I have been seeing one another for a while, and I thought it would be good for us all to sit down and get acquainted.” He nods over at Baya. “And I see there are some people I’ve yet to meet, myself.”

  Bryson segues into the intros, and we start in on dinner. Twice I catch Jenny checking out my brother and me. I know that look. She likes what she sees. Swear to God, I’ve got a couple years on her. Mom said she was a little older than me, but it’s obvious Jenny, here, is barely street legal. What the hell does she want with someone like my dad anyway? It’s obvious she thinks the bars are some giant cash cow that will pave her closet with designer handbags and shoes. I’ve got news for her. The bars aren’t oozing money. Actually, that’s spot on. They’re hemorrhaging like there’s no tomorrow. It’s a fucking sieve, and if we don’t take care of things soon, we’ll all be out on the streets looking for a sugar daddy.

  Mom touches her hand to mine while Bryson and Baya carry on a full-blown conversation with Dad.

  “You okay?” She mouths.

  “I’m fine.”

  I can see the hurt in her eyes. The betrayal is still as fresh as the day he left. My appetite cuts out, and I think I’m next. I push my plate back, and Dad is quick to eye it.

  “Before we lose anyone,” he clears his throat—“Jenny and I have an announcement.”

  Crap. I shoot a look to Mom, and her jaw clenches. Her hands knot up in fists. I’ve done this to her. You can place the blame of what comes next right on my fucked-up shoulders.

  “We’re going to make it official.” Jenny squeals like one of Nitro’s chew toys before holding up the rock on her hand.

  “And there it is,” Bryson whispers just under his breath.

  Nice to know we think alike, too.

  The rest of the night goes off like a bomb, and even Annie looks as if she’s ready to slaughter our father with a butter knife.

  Yup, all my fault.

  After the fuck fest that was dinner, I take off and head for the hills, otherwise known as anywhere but here. That night from long ago comes to the surface, and I try to push it away, submerge it right back down where it belongs, in the filth and the mire, the forever castoff of my mind. I’ve done some stupid shit in my day, but that night—that damn night changed the way I breathe. It took what my parents once had and flushed it down the toilet—flushed my future right along with it.

  Izzy pops back into my mind and a flood of relief fills me. It’s funny because all these years I’ve held onto her like some sort of life raft, and now she’s really in it—sort of. Not that she’ll most likely ever speak to me again after what happened at my apartment, but, thanks to Baya, I know just where to find her next Friday night—at the Black Bear on her first blind date. I’d love to take her out myself sometime—maybe take her for a ride on the boat.

  I drive through downtown Jepson on my way home. I know for a fact Laney and Ryder live here somewhere in one of these high-rises. Wish I knew which one. I’d swing by and see if I can get anything out of them about Izzy without being too obvious.

  A dull laugh rattles through me as I make my way home. I’m not sure I can hide my feelings for Iz much longer.

  Sooner than later it’ll be apparent to everyone how I feel about Izzy Sawyer. But I don’t think anyone gives a rat’s ass one way or the other.

  I just hope Izzy does.

  At the end of the day, she’s the only one that matters.

  That’s been true since the first day I laid eyes on her.

  3

  Desperate and Dating

  Izzy

  Hey Dad,

  How’s it going?

  Me? I’m still royally goofing up my life. It’s called paralysis by analysis. Sometimes I want to move in a different direction, but then I start to overthink things and my brain gets fried. Has that ever happened to you? I guess I’ll never know. I have so many questions for you with nothing but blank space on the other side of them. You would think I’d be used to the nothingness of it all by now, but my heart has foolishly saved a place for you, and all I have to fill it is grief. For the record, I don’t believe in “good” grief. It’s all bad—right down the very last drop. I should know, I’m still grieving for you.

  ~Izzy

  There have been plenty of times I’ve wanted to wring Laney’s neck over the years—mostly for borrowing my clothes without asking, but I have a feeling by the time this night is through, I’ll have amassed an entire new list of reasons.

  The Black Bear Saloon is a metropolis of every STD known to man and some that have yet to be discovered. Laney seats me in a dark booth toward the back of the booze-riddled establishment as I await my potential Mr. Friday Night Right.

  I keep an eye on everyone who enters the facility, but mostly it’s groups of girls—guys with their arms already wrapped around a coed for the night. Not a single person walks in alone—another sign that I’m a basket case because that just so happens to be the way I walked in.

  Holt catches my eye from the bar, and my heart stops. My face floods with heat as I quickly look away. Crap. I’m still not over the trauma of ditching him for no apparent reason last week. Well, other than the fact I wanted that kiss. I wanted to press my lips to his and feel the softness for myself—to set my tongue loose in his mouth and have the thrill of him doing the same. I wonder where it would have gone from there—how far things could have escalated if I blew the ceiling off my self-inflicted boundaries. A vision of us rolling around naked on that shag carpet of his runs through my mind, and I don’t fight it. I let that slow burn in my gut increase in ferocity until I’m sure my body is about to combust into flames. Holt is a wildfire waiting to happen. He’s also a saint for volunteering to teach me the basics, but a part of me wants more, and I can’t figure out what to do with that.

  I glance back, and Holt gives a brief smile. His muscles ripple out from under his Black Bear T-shirt like the thick roots of a hundred-year-old tree. I lift my fingers in a mock wave while openly studying his biceps as if I had just discovered new terrain that I’d like to map out with my lips. Holt hasn’t taken those pale gray eyes off me yet. He looks hungry—malnourished as far as his sexual appetite goes, and it’s as if he’s fixed his sights on a scrumptious meal in the shape of my body.

  Every inch of me quivers at the prospect. Could I do that? Am I even remotely ready? Just what is it that I’m waiting for?

  Holt’s grin expands as he makes his way over. The music shifts to a far more moody song, and suddenly I’m hopped up on adrenaline and false bravado thinking he might ask me to dance. Hell, I think I’ll ask him to dance. Just something platonic to wet my appetite for the things that he might be willing to give me.

  “Izzy!” Laney sings in that overly cheery way that lets me know she wants something, and judging by the tall Slim Jim of a man standing by her side, the thing she wants most is for me to join myself at the hip with someone of the opposite gender. “This is Marty McMullen.” She says his name as if there was some underlying meaning in it. She presses a hand into his T-shirt, and it concaves where his chest should be. His hair is long and shaggy. He’s skin over bone for the most part but defined in that sinewy way that cyclists usually are. “He’s a sports enthusiast! Just like you!” She deposits him into the seat across from me. “Well, I’ll let you two kids get to know each other. Drinks are on me.”

  He holds up a long, thin finger. “Just a beer is fine.”

  “I’ll have one, too.” Wait, I’m driving. And I don’t drink. “Make it a virgin.”

  Laney sucks in her cheeks. “One non-alcoholic beer and one regular.”

  “You know.” I glance back at the bar where
Holt is in action as a crowd of blondes bombard him with their over-glossed lips and Victoria’s Secret enhanced décolleté. “Never mind.” I almost said whiskey. Almost.

  Laney takes off, and for three solid seconds I will myself to teleport anywhere but here. What the hell was I thinking? I don’t do blind dates. Hell, I don’t date.

  “I hiked up Daringer Peak last weekend.” He starts in with his mile-high achievement. “You a hiker?”

  And so it begins, a forty-minute montage of all his daredevil feats that have taken place over every corner of God’s green globe. I’ve long since knocked back my near-beer, and he’s yet to touch his, but swear to God if he drones on, I might have to start damaging my liver just to keep up.

  “This is really great.” He comes out of his vested monologue after running down the bullet points of his titanic list of achievements. “We need to get together again. I think we’re really hitting it off.” His Adam’s apple travels up and down the length of his neck like a broken elevator. “You up for a night hike? I know a cliff side just past the Witch’s Cauldron that’s vertical as shit.” His eyes bug out at the prospect, and, for a fleeting moment, I wonder if I should be alarmed. “We can hit it right now!” He leans in, hitching his thumb toward the exit. Holy crap. They say never let an abductor take you to a second location. I’m pretty sure that’s one rule I should abide by tonight. “I’ve got my climbing gear in the trunk.” He’s halfway out of his seat while I screw myself into mine.

  “In the trunk?” I’m betting he has a Hefty bag and shovel back there, too. Where the heck did Laney find this one? And what exactly are her requirements for this little charade? All limbs accounted for? A basic eye exam? I’m thinking a Rorschach inkblot test could have taken us far.

  “If you’re not down for that, we could do a run. I’ve got a pair of night vision goggles in the trunk, too!” His breathing picks up pace. “We could hit the beach.” His eyes bulge as if it were the greatest idea in the world—never mind the fact it’s just this side of freezing. That’s nature’s way of giving June the finger. “There’s nothing like getting the sand between your toes—just taking off down the shore like a fucking bullet!” His hand jets past my face, and, swear to God, he was inches from smacking me in the eye.

  Crap.

  I do a quick sweep of the bar for my psychotic baby sis, but she’s nowhere to be found—blissfully oblivious to my newfound terror of all the things that might be lurking in Marty McMullen’s trunk. My eyes snag on a familiar brassy blonde—Jemma.

  “Or hell”—he digs his fingers into his temples—“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. We got all those damn dormitories right down the street!” He sweeps my elbow off the table. “Fire escapes!”

  “Fire escapes?” Dear God. I need a fire escape.

  “There’s no greater rush than climbing those fuckers at midnight.” The veins on the side of his neck bulge like garden snakes trying to escape their imprisonment.

  “I don’t think so. I’m not wearing the right shoes.” I sling my purse strap over my shoulder and prepare for my own escape. I’m going to string Laney up on a fire escape by midnight if this doesn’t end soon.

  “All right, look.” He scoots in close and snatches me up by the arm. His fingers close over me tight as a coil.

  “Don’t touch me,” I breathe the words out, almost inaudible. That fated night comes back to me in jags. Don’t touch me! My mom will be home any minute. I said stop!

  “We should go for a drive down to Jenson’s Lake. I’ve got a kayak hidden in the brush—” He buries his face in my neck, and I gag on my next breath. “The things I’d like to do to you.”

  A pair of strong arms pluck him off and send him flying.

  “Get the fuck out!” Holt roars before pulling me from my seat and cradling my face in his hands. “You all right?” His steely eyes settle on mine, and something deep inside my soul melts. I want to bury myself in his chest and cry rivers because I’m anything but all right.

  “Yes. I promise, I’m fine.” The lie corks from my throat like a raft. “He was just getting worked up.”

  “He’s a notorious cokehead. I think Laney needs a little help vetting the crew.” He glances over his shoulder, and we watch as coked-up Marty blasts his way to the exit.

  “Nice.” Figures. Laney is scraping the bottom of the barrel, most likely because the rest of the barrel is taken.

  Holt gives the idea of a smile, his eyes never leaving mine. “You look beautiful.”

  The heat rushes to my cheeks. “You always say that.”

  “I always mean it.” He’s still cradling my face in his hands like he’s going to kiss me, and a primal part of me is screaming for him to do it.

  The music dies down, and a stagnant silence crops up between us. Holt’s chest expands wide as the world as he leans in.

  “You smell nice.” He pulls his hands away, and my insides cinch because every last part of my body was hoping for something more.

  “Thank you.” The music starts up again—loud and atrocious, as the crowd goes wild on the dance floor. “I’m sorry about last weekend.”

  Laney and Jemma burst into our little corner of the world, each with equally wild-eyed expressions.

  “What the hell happened?” Laney points hard at the door. “I just saw Marty leave nursing his balls. Tell me you didn’t knee him.”

  “She didn’t,” Holt answers. “I did.”

  “Nice touch.” I place my hand over his back, and an electric current travels up my arm, setting off a series of sparks throughout my shoulder. I can feel the tension snapping as my veins snake out of control like downed power lines. Holt is rewiring me from the inside. He’s putting all the connections right back where they belonged, where they once were before my eighteenth birthday, and I marvel at the power he has over me.

  “Well, well.” Jemma steps in, eyeing the metric distance between our bodies or lack thereof. “What have we got here?” Her lips expand right off her face with that shit-eating grin. Swear to God if she says the word cougar, I’ll make sure another body hangs from that fire escape I’m about to swing Laney on.

  “Just a friend helping a friend.” Holt is quick to answer. He flings his bar towel over his shoulder and bears into me with those sea silver eyes. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.” There’s a sadness in his tone, something morose as if on some level he knows I would never take him up on his offer. He takes off toward the bar, and my gaze drifts to his Levis.

  Laney waves her hand over my face. “Earth to Izzy. Okay, so Marty was sort of a creep, but it’s good that we got that out of the way. While you were over here sorting the sheep from the goats, I found another hot prospect.”

  “The sheep from the goats?” I interrupt before she can hit the gas once again on this crazy train. “I, my dear sister, was busy conducting an amateur psychiatric evaluation and judiciously weighing the prospect of my short-term safety.”

  “It’s all in the past.” She’s quick to brush off my quest for sanity. “Next Wednesday night, you’ve got a molten hot date with Dr. Cliff Lancaster.”

  “A doctor?” I scoff. “Anyone can be a doctor in a bar, Laney.”

  Jemma pushes me out of the way. “Are we talking G.P. or some of that metaphysical bullshit?”

  “Neither.” Laney gives a sliver of a smile. “He’s a podiatrist. And I did some fact checking. Two guys from the track team testified to this. I swear, this one is golden, and have I mentioned he has the eyes of a god? I’m telling you, Iz, this is the one.”

  “Right.” I cut a quick glance to the bar where Holt is busy tending to an entire harem of wannabe bedmates. There’s only one man with the eyes of a god around here, and I happen to be looking at him.

  “Oh, hon”—Jemma shakes her head at Laney—“you don’t know your sister at all, do you? Sometimes it takes more than the one to set a girl’s heart straight.”

  “I know my sister plenty.” She bats off Jemma’s rem
ark. “Tomorrow night is the big party. Be here at six. We’re serving dinner. You’re welcome too, Jem.” Laney gives a little wave from over her shoulder as she swims back into the crowd.

  “Rwarrr.” Jemma purrs in my ear as we both stare at the hottest bartender around. “Looks to me like you’ve already found the one.” She mocks Laney in the process. Jemma doesn’t believe in the one, other than the one right now. “Go on and get him, hon. God knows you’re starving for that kind of attention. Nothing a little cougar action can’t cure. I bet he can prescribe just the right shots to get you rollin’ around his bed like a kitten.” She tweaks my ribs, and I jump. “You know you want to.”

  “Would you stop?” I bat her away like a gnat. “I’m not there yet.”

  “Is this about—”

  “Yes.” I cut her off before she speaks it into existence. Years ago, when I told her what happened, she promised she’d never repeat it, not even to me. “It’s always about that.” I shake my head. “I gotta go. I’ve got about four of my own starved kittens just waiting to roll around in bed with me.”

  That’s about all the action I’ll ever get because I can’t breathe anytime a man comes near me. I’m broken—an old machine with faulty wiring.

  I head out without bothering to say goodbye to Holt.

  He doesn’t need someone like me in his life.

  I’m pretty sure no one does.

  Holt

  Marty Flying High McMullen. Who the hell would set Izzy up with that fool? Laney, that’s who. I spot Izzy darting out the exit and tell Cole to man the fort.

  I thread my way through the crowd and land outside where the night jasmine lights up the air with its sweet perfume. Not as sweet as Izzy. It took all my self-control not to bury my face in her hair. She holds the scent of lilacs in springtime. That was a contact high right there.