Whiskey Kisses

by Addison Moore

  I look up, and Holt catches my eye.

  I don’t want to be alone either.

  Once the studio clears out, Holt offers to help with the clean up. Laney and her friends took down most of the decorations before they left. Bryson took Annie home, so Holt and I have the studio to ourselves.

  Holt dips his chin and looks at me from across the room like he’s ready to pounce, and, holy hell, I’m not too sure I’d stop him if he tried. His eyes are on fire, and his smile is most definitely lewd. I’m liking the direction this is heading—a whole hell of a lot.

  “Nice party, kitten.” Holt strides over like a man on a mission.

  “You know what I’ve always wanted to do?” I turn it to the last song on my phone and lock it in on a loop. Music filters through the air—a moody lyrical piece, rife with romantic implications.

  “Test out the speakers when there’s no one around?” He makes his way to me with his eyes glazed over, his lips already parting. Holt holds out a hand, and I take it.

  “No, this.” I wrap my arms around his waist, and he’s quick to do the same. I’ve missed this with him since the moment we parted ways last week. I don’t bother telling him this is my second slow dance with a man in my entire life and that he’s that man.

  “You’re pretty good at this.” He dips his face into my neck and unabashedly takes a deep breath.

  “Why are you always sniffing me?” I hold back the giggle ricocheting in my chest.

  “Why do you always smell so damn good?” He lands a cushioned kiss over my neck, and I pull back. “Sorry.” He blinks a quick smile.

  “Don’t be. In fact, put your lips back there.” I take a deep breath and feel his body crushing over mine. “I was enjoying that.”

  Holt complies without a word, and his mouth lands over my neck in a series of butter soft kisses trailing up to my ear.

  “Are you feeling this?” he whispers.

  “God, yes—it feels amazing.”

  “I mean us.” He tucks the words hot in my ear.

  I freeze for a moment before forcing my muscles to move in time with his. There. I’ve done it. I’ve toyed with his emotions, and now I’ve landed us in this questionable place.

  “Holt”—I pull back—“I can’t date you.”

  “Why not?” His Adam’s apple rises and falls as if a tragedy were about to unfold, and I think it is.

  “Because.” I shrug, trying to lighten the mood. “I’d have to dye my hair blonde and outfit my wardrobe with skanky clothes. Which I may or may not already own.” I bite over my lip as if I were trying to shake up his Levis. “Plus, I’d have to dust off my bombshell bra, and that thing really cuts into my back.” I shake my head as if this were a real issue, and, even though it is, I don’t think I’ve managed to add any levity to the situation. Holt wants something more, and I think I do, too.

  My mother’s banner catches my eye. The night of my eighteenth birthday flashes through my mind, unexpected as a grease fire. I can hear his taunting voice. Feel his hands pressing in, snaking all over my body and no matter how hard I try to shake the image out of my head, it won’t leave me alone.

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.” I pull back. “You have to go.” I rake my fingers through my hair. “I have to lock up.” I bolt for my phone and pluck the wire from it, filling the room with a deafening silence.

  “Whoa—I’m sorry.” He takes a step toward me, and I back away without meaning to. “Izzy.” His eyes fill with heartbreak as he takes me in.

  “It’s not you. It’s me, Holt. I’m damaged—nothing or no one can ever fix that. You deserve someone whole and happy.” Tears come uninvited, and I’m unable to blink them away. “You deserve someone who’ll make you happy.”

  “You make me happy, Iz.” He holds out his hand. His lips fill in a deep shade of crimson. His face turns ashen. “Let me do this with you. We can get help. We can find someone you can talk to.” He pleads with tears of his own brimming to the surface.

  “Please, just get out.” I spin around.

  “Iz, you can’t mean that.” He places his hand on my shoulder, and I prove unmovable. “We can push through this. I want to help you. Let me be there for you.”

  I don’t say a word. Holt drips his hand down my back, slow, hot as lava, and eventually his footsteps drift toward the exit.

  “I’m still here for you, Iz.”

  I wait until I can’t hear his footsteps anymore. The sound of an engine roaring to life fills the silence, and I fall to the floor in a heap of tears.

  This time they’re not for my mother.

  This time they’re all for me.

  Holt

  A week bleeds by and no sign of Izzy at the bar. I’ve tried calling her twice, but she won’t pick up, and there’s only so much rejection my ego can take. So I do the next best thing, I ply her closest friend with free drinks until she sings like a bird.

  A group of coeds walk through the door just as I’m pouring the third beer down Jemma Jackson’s throat. So far I’ve learned there’s far too much drama and trauma in this woman’s life for me to ever keep track of and, also, she might be on the lookout for husband number four.

  “So what’s going on with Izzy these days?” I try to sound cool about it as if we were just shooting the breeze.

  She lets out a loud whoop of a laugh, and Laney looks over from the bar.

  Shit. I hadn’t noticed she walked in, and I know for a fact she’s not on the schedule tonight. Laney breezes over without missing a beat.

  “What’s up?” She pulls up a seat, stern as shit. She’s knows I’m up to no good, I can tell by that disapproving smirk on her face. It’s the same look Izzy gave me last week just before she told me to get the hell out of her life—give or take a few sentiments.

  “We were just about to discuss your sister,” Jemma slurs before letting out a belch that has me sliding my seat back a good two feet.

  “Holy crap, Edwards.” Laney slaps her hands down over Jemma’s keys and sinks them into her pocket.

  “There was no way in hell I was going to let her take off.” God’s honest truth. When Baya came along, we implemented the “sorry Charlie” program, and we’ve never looked back. Not one drunk ass is allowed to get up and drive.

  “And what’s this we’re discussing about my sister?” Laney pulls a forced grin across her face because we both know she’s putting my balls on notice. “I hear she’s well. And you, Holt, have you heard from her lately?”

  Here we go. “No, I haven’t.” It’s like stepping on a landmine. I know better than to piss Laney off.

  “Really? Okay, so it looks like the math is pretty simple. Izzy plus no contact with Holt equals she’s not interested.” Laney doesn’t hesitate with the sting.

  “Oh, she’s interested.” Jemma gives a circular nod. “She’s so puma.” She rakes her hand through the air like she’s about to claw my head off. “Rawr!” She screeches so loud half the bar turns around. “No, not puma, she’s so—cougar!” She shouts as if guessing an answer on a game show. “She’s the cougar.” Her eyes close as she rolls her head over her neck. “Izzy—cougar—rawr.”

  “Oh, hon,” Laney moans. “Holt and I will get you some coffee.” She pulls me up by the ear until we’re clear across the room.

  “Ouch.” I gently remove Laney’s pincer grasp from my earlobe. “What was that for?”

  “What was that for?” She points hard at the pile of blonde hair that’s currently lying over the table.

  “She was thirsty.” I give a slight scowl at the puddle of a woman I’ve turned Jemma into. “And I’m pretty damn thirsty, too.” I take a step toward Laney. She looks so much like Izzy it hurts. “What’s going on with your sister? She’s all messed up, Laney.” My voice cracks. “I want to help her, and she won’t let me.”

  “What are you talking about?” She takes a step back as if I were out of my mind, and I wish I were. “There’s nothing wrong with my sister.”

  “Something or so
meone tore her apart. She’s injured on the inside, and that’s about as far as she let me in.”

  “Oh my, God.” Laney clasps her hand around her throat while looking over at Jemma. “There is something, then.” She swallows hard. “I think Jemma knows.” She shakes her head before burying her face in her hands. “God, I’m such a lousy sister. I have no clue what it could be.” She looks up at me with those serious navy eyes, and all I see is Izzy. “I’ll try to get her to open up. She’s got another blind date this Thursday. What better day than the Fourth to make the sparks fly—right?” She gives a little shrug. “Anyway, I thought we were close. I thought I knew all of Izzy’s secrets, and now I feel like nothing more than a stranger. Isn’t that something? The person you thought you knew best, you don’t know at all.” She takes off toward the kitchen in a daze.

  Funny, I’ve felt that way for years, only in my family it’s me that nobody really knows. I’m the charred branch of the family tree, the invisible stain that no one quite realizes. And, if I get my way, it’s going to stay like that forever.

  No use in making a bad situation worse.

  But if it’s such a good idea to keep my mouth shut why the hell do I feel so bad about it?

  Izzy flashes through my mind. She’ll be here in two days.

  Maybe it’s not so important that I know what’s killing her on the inside—at least not yet.

  Maybe all she needs is for someone to give her space—to love her on her own terms. And that’s exactly what I plan on doing.

  That is if she gives me another chance.

  And I’m hoping she will.

  Wednesday night after a long line of shit bands perform, if you can call it that, Bryson sits both Cole and me down.

  “What’s up?” I ask, landing between them.

  “Just thinking about what Dad said a few weeks back. I’m not sure I’m ready to part with this place.”

  Dad owns more than the Black Bear, there’s the Ice Bar, and Sky Lab. I try to make an appearance at the other locations at least twice a month, but with Izzy on my brain, I haven’t done that lately.

  “I’ve been thinking about it, too.” Damn straight I have. This is it for me. I don’t have a fancy degree to hang on my wall or flaunt in any prospective employer’s face for that matter. This is do or die for me, and to hell if my father thinks I’m going down with this place. “I’m going to buy him out.”

  “Are you serious?” Cole deadpans. “Dude, you work for tips. How the hell are you going to bankroll three different bars?”

  “It’s called a loan, moron. If I don’t qualify, I’ll see if I can get my mother to cosign. I’ll sell that damn boat I never see anymore. Every little bit helps, right? I’ll do what I have to.” I’ve thought it through enough to have worked out any impending details. Lost about a week’s worth of sleep over the idea, too.

  “You’re just going to pick up and run this place, huh?” Bryson smacks his lips together as if I’d have better luck laying a golden egg.

  “Yes—exactly the way I have been.”

  “You don’t have any clue how to pay the bills. Mom has a small army working the back office—and payroll? You have any idea about that?”

  “I’m a quick learner.”

  “Really? And how do you know this?” Bryson crosses his arms as if he were amused. “You haven’t set foot in a classroom in the last five years.”

  “All right.” I stand up with my arms in the air. Swear to God, if he were closer, I’d deck him. “I get it. I’m too freaking stupid in your eyes because I don’t have a four-year degree to shove down everyone’s throat for the rest of my life. Well, have a great rest of yours because if you’re going to be throwing that shit in my face every chance you get, feel free to stay the fuck away from me.” I kick my chair back as I leave.

  I wondered if it was coming. Bryson has never been an ass about our educational differences, but now that he’s got that hot little degree in his hands, he’s settling into becoming a self-righteous prick.

  I take off into the cool night, hop in my truck and just drive.

  Sure wish Izzy was here filling that seat beside me.

  But then nothing ever seems to go my way.

  It probably shouldn’t.

  7

  Great Sexpectations

  Izzy

  Dear Dad,

  It’s safe to say I’ve fucked up my fair share of things in life (excuse the language). Usually it’s things I don’t intend on ruining that sort of unravel because of me—such as Mom and her revolving door boyfriends. But this time I’ve delved into new territory. I’ve managed to screw up something sweet that might have led to interesting places—hell, good places. Anyway, I’ve finally become a master at sabotaging my own life. Just because something pretty terrible happened to me once doesn’t mean I should let it terrorize me for the rest of my days. But then that’s logic and my mind seems to run on anything but. Plus there’s Mom. You may have left her, but I’m the reason she’s truly alone. Sure wish she’d meet someone halfway decent. I’d take a quarter decent at this point.

  ~See ya.

  Fucking up in Hollow Brook (Happy now? Without you my language is in the shitter. I hope you feel a little guilty. You should.)

  ~Iz

  By the time my cats finish their tap dance routine on my back, Mom already has the coffee brewing. I used to enjoy a good cat stomping, but their light-footed paws don’t even come close to Holt’s magic fingers. A wave of grief washes over me. As cruel as I was to him the other day, I think we both know it’s for the best. Holt deserves someone capable of navigating her way through the day without choking on the smoke from a fire that burned out a long time ago. That’s all I ever seem to do these days, gag on the memories that have wrapped themselves around my neck like a noose.

  “Well, it’s official”—Mom slams the fridge shut with a package of bacon fisted in her hand—“Don says he’s not coming back. Wouldn’t say why.” She huffs her way over to the stove and starts up the flame so fast it almost singes her brows. “Damn men. Never know a good thing when they see it.” She opens and slams the cabinets until she finds the pan she’s looking for while continuing her rant about damn men. She’s used that phrase so often over the course of my life¸ I’m almost positive that’s the proper way to address them.

  “I’m telling you, Iz”—she huffs it out—“finding an upstanding man who would die for you—who would kill for you…” She loses herself in a daze just staring at that half empty bottle of my father’s whiskey. “It’s like finding a pot of gold. You find one like that—you know you’ve struck it rich. Sometimes I think love is the only fortune that matters.”

  Holt runs through my mind with his high-voltage smile, his bedroom eyes that have already had me twelve different ways. Holt said he wanted to help. He wanted to push through this thing, whatever it was, together. Heck, I don’t even know what it is. All I know is that my mind fractured like a mirror one day, and here I am almost ten years later still cutting myself on the shards.

  “So I’ve been thinking.” She heads back to the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs. “I haven’t really been spending time at the studio, and you’ve more than picked up the slack.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got your head screwed on straight.” For once. “You’ve been thinking right.” I pluck a banana off the counter and pour myself a cup of coffee. Mom has been persona non grata as of late, but, now that her ankle is better, I’m sure she’ll be back full steam ahead.

  “I don’t know if I told you, but I’ve had three different investors contact me about the studio.” Her eyes narrow in on mine, with their blue topaz prisms. My mother was voted Ms. All American her senior year in high school. She was a stunner, and, if you could look past all the rage that boils in her these days, she still is.

  “Investors, huh? Sounds like we should consider stock options.” A surge of adrenaline rockets through me. “I’ve always felt the studio should franchise. Do you know we have over
fifteen families that have moved to Hollow Brook just so their daughters could participate at Electric Lights? Half the time, I’m wondering if we know what we’ve got. I have all kinds of ideas that could help streamline the business from teaching techniques, right down to office work. With a little elbow grease, I think I can get the studio in top running condition before Laney ever says I do.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.” She turns the burners down and takes a seat across from me at the table. “Izzy.” She folds her hands and looks into my eyes as if she’s about to dispense life changing news. God, maybe she’s ready to pass the baton and give me the business? I’ve wanted that—hoped for it. Heck, I think I expected it on some level. “The reason I’ve had so many investors look into the dance studio is because I’m in talks with a real estate agent.”

  “Real estate? Are you thinking about selling the house?” My hair stands on end at the thought. When my father left, my mother whisked us away to a faraway town where no one knew our shame. We came with nothing and no one to call our own except this tiny piece of real estate my mother purchased. And now this was our house. Our dingy yellow walls, our weed-riddled yard. This was more than our home. It took the place of my father when he left us all those years ago. It’s strong and loyal and managed to stay in one place unlike the man that ran out on us.

  “Izzy.” She lets out a breath, slow and full of frustration. The bacon starts to burn, but she doesn’t pay it any attention. “It’s the studio I’m looking to sell.”

  “What?” I bounce back in my seat, holding onto the lip of the table as if it were anchoring me from drifting away. I was wrong. It wasn’t just the house that held us together after my father left—it was the studio. They’re my brick and mortar parents that I love as much as the real deals. And why I still love my father after what he did is a mystery to me.