Whiskey Kisses, Page 3

  Izzy sweeps her long, dark hair off her shoulders, and all I can think of is how bad I’d like to bury my face in it. Her lips give the perfect pout. Her eyes have always been a hypnotic glacial blue that not a person on the planet can keep from staring at. My dick perks to life again, and I take a deep breath. I haven’t been within touching distance of Izzy Sawyer in months. And, God knows, my dick has been pointing in her direction for the last eight years. She and Jemma were two of the more infamous seniors of West Hollow Brook High. Of course, they were long gone by the time I hit high school. Too bad. I would have done any and everything to take Izzy Sawyer to prom. While Bryson and the rest of our buddies were drooling over the latest Hollywood hot mess, I was busy worshiping at the altar of Elizabeth Sawyer.

  I take a breath and drum up the nerve to talk to her.

  Laney rushes over and sits next to her sister, so I switch gears and pretend to rearrange the glasses set out under the bar.

  “So, do you have a date for the engagement party?” Laney grabs her sister by the shoulder as if trying to shake an answer out of her.

  “The party you just informed me about ten minutes ago?” Izzy belts out a laugh, and the sweet sound of her voice resonates right down to my boxers. “No, I’m afraid I don’t move that fast.”

  “Jemma says you don’t move at all these days.” Laney rocks into her sister as if she’s trying to get her to open up. I dated Laney once, but only because she was looking to drive Ryder off the deep end, and I’m pretty sure it worked. He still can’t stand the sight of me. Ironic since he’s good friends with my brother.

  Izzy glances sideways at the exit. “Move—don’t move—believe me I’m not crying over the lack of testosterone in my life, so both you and Jem can chill out. Yes, I’ll be going to your engagement party stag and most likely your wedding, too. Is that grounds for disqualification? Too much reality for your fairytale lifestyle?”

  “Very funny.” Laney jumps to her feet. “Hey, I know”—her voice pitches with hope—“let me set you up on a few dates. Nothing serious, just some quick meet and greets. We can do it right here in the bar. You never know where things could lead.”

  “I know where things could lead—with me dead in a ditch.” Izzy stabs the words at her sister before shooting me a look that suggests something akin to waterboarding is in her future. I give a quick nod and suddenly feel like an ass for standing here, listening.

  “I guess. Whatever.” Izzy gives in and shudders as if she just sunk a bad shot.

  “Perfect!” Laney offers a quick kiss to her sister’s cheek. “I’ll catch you later. Tell Mom I said hi!” She takes off toward her tables once again.

  “Yes, Holt, I still live with my mother.” Izzy’s lips curl with a sour smile, and even then she looks cute as hell.

  “Nothing wrong with that.” I make my way over and feel the air stifling. I’ve always felt as if a damn inferno was about to break out between us, and I can’t for the life of me understand how this could be one-sided. Then again, I’m probably not in her league, so the entire inferno scenario is solely in my pants. Izzy is one of those untouchable girls reserved for the cream of the crop of which I’m the bottom of the barrel. “You might live with your mother, but I work at a bar. The end.”

  “What’s this?” Her eyes brighten the exact shade of a sunny afternoon, and my cock is back to begging to be let out to play. Sorry, boy, this is one girl who will most likely never roll out the red carpet for you. “Are you trying to crash my pity party?”

  “Consider it busted.” I grab a glass and fill it with ice. “Any drink. It’s on me.”

  “In that case, water.”

  “How about wine?” I’d uncork a bottle of the best vintage I have in stock for Izzy.

  “No thanks, I don’t really drink all that much. Sorry about the whiskey.” She bites down on her cotton candy pink lip, and my gut starts to liquefy. Holy shit. Now I see why the universe never has us together more than once a year. I’d be a dead man if given a few more run-ins.

  “No drinking, huh? I have the power to change that if you like.” I’d rearrange the solar system for Izzy if she wanted.

  “I’m good.” She gives a sideways smile, and my head tilts in line with it. Damn. I’ve always wondered why my brother acted like a complete idiot around his girlfriend, Baya, and now I know—it can’t be helped. When you find the one it’s simply a knee-jerk reaction. Only I’m not Izzy’s one, and that explains why she’s looking at me like I’m some sort of bartending psychopath. “Anyway, I usually never touch the stuff, unless, of course, it’s a special occasion, and, even then, I’m stuck on whiskey.” She nods back to the table that holds her abandoned drink.

  “Whiskey can be a tough place to start.” It takes everything in me not to dive across the counter and shove my face in her neck just to see if she smells as good as I remember—sugar and spice and everything very fucking nice.

  “Yeah, my dad—it was his signature drink. Most men prefer beer but not my father.” She glances down at the counter and traces out a figure eight. “So what’s new with you? Heard you just graduated. Your brother is getting hitched soon. Where’s your significant other? She around?” Izzy pans the facility with those glowing eyes, and it makes my balls ache. All right, so my balls ache for her regardless, and it forces me to defer to my favorite lifelong mantra when I’m around her—just breathe—because, holy hell, Izzy Sawyer is beautiful. That’s exactly what I used to remind myself each time I dropped Annie off and picked her up—breathe. If there’s one woman who can take my breath away each and every time, it’s Izzy. Always has been, always will.

  Bryson nods to me from the far end of the bar as he picks up my slack.

  “No significant other here.” I try not to infer some underlying motive. The last thing I want to do is hit on Izzy as if she were just another barfly. “So I heard Laney.” I try not to come across as an ass for listening in. “Sounds like you’re about to hit the ground running.”

  “Ha!” She belts out a short-lived laugh. “As in running in the other direction. I doubt my Mr. Right is lurking in the mess she’s about to sling my way.”

  I slide a glass of water to her, and she’s quick to play with the straw. Her long, perfect fingers coil over the tip, each nail painted a bright cherry red. For a second I imagine plunging each one into my mouth, sucking her down before biting the tips ever so gently.

  “Holt?” She catches my gaze.

  “Yeah.” Shit. Way to let her know you care.

  “See? I can’t even hold your attention. I’m about as exciting as watching paint dry. Anyway”—she hops down, and my heart breaks as she steps away from the bar—“I’m out of practice. I wouldn’t even know what to say to someone.”

  “I can help with that.” My heart rattles around in my chest unsure of what the hell I’m about to say next. “And, I promise, you’re anything but boring. Any guy would be lucky to have you.” Especially this one.

  She shakes her head without thinking twice. “Trust me, I’m a charity case you want nothing to do with.”

  “Come by tomorrow night at seven, and I’ll walk you through the basics. You’ll be a pro by the time Laney sends you out into the cold, cruel world of dating. By the time I’m done, you’ll have to fight them off with all four limbs. I’ll teach you everything and anything you’ve ever wanted to learn.” I steady my gaze over hers, and my heart aches because a part of me wishes she could see right through the charade I’m putting on. “You in?”

  Her eyes widen, and she goes away for a moment.

  “All right. I’m in.” She sighs as she takes a step away. “I’ll swing by at seven. Bring your pillow. You’ll need it once I put you to sleep.” She gives a little wink and heads off toward her sister. I watch as she sways those perfect hips, back and forth, back and forth.

  A hand glides in front of my face, and I find Bryson standing there with a shit-eating grin.

  “Sawyer still has you pussy whipped?”

>   “That about says it.” I fling the dishtowel over my shoulder and watch as she embraces Laney before taking off. “Scored a date, too.”

  “More like a training session.” That goofy grin slides off his face. “Heard the whole thing.”

  “Yeah, so what. I’d stand on my head and eat a bag of dog food if she wanted me to just as long as I could spend a few extra minutes with her.”

  “All hail Queen Izzy” He leans over the bar and looks from the empty doorway to me for a second. “Dude, are you going for the gold?” His demeanor shifts from playful to downright worried. “She’s into thirty-year-olds and shit. You’re a glorified teenager in her eyes.”

  “Doesn’t bother me. So she’s a few years older—five to be exact. And who the hell cares? Isn’t Dad’s newest squeezebox fifteen years his junior?” Or so he claims, we’ve yet to meet her. It makes me sick to think about it. Not the age difference—I’m still stuck on the fact he left my mother five years ago. I try to brush the memory from my mind. It was me who played a major role in their breakup, and I’ve hated myself for it ever since.

  “I don’t know.” Bryson’s gaze is still fixed at the far end of the bar. “I’d layoff if I were you.”

  “Would you have listened if I told you to layoff Baya? Hell, if I remember right, her brother told you just that, and it was the last thing you did.”

  “So you think she’s your Baya, huh?” He huffs a quiet laugh. “I bet you a thousand bucks she’s not your Baya. I seriously doubt she’s going to give you the time of day let alone stick around long enough to stroke your ego or anything else, big bro.” He swallows hard as if he’s trying to let me down easy. I know for a fact he threw in that big bro comment to soften the blow. Every now and again he likes to flaunt the fact I’ve got fifteen minutes on him. “Look, I don’t want to see you voluntarily putting your heart in a blender. I care about you. Let me set you up with someone. It’ll be easy. They’re already lining up around the block for you.” He motions at the crowd of girls amassing at the far end of the bar. “Pick one. They’re all dying to fall at your feet.”

  “I’ll pass. And I’ll pass on the bet. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over where I put my heart.” I’d let Izzy rip it out of my body and stomp on it with her pink ballet heel if she wanted. Hell, I’d encourage her to do it—hold it down for her.

  I’d give Izzy anything—any part of me she wanted. Both Bryson and I know that.

  My heart in a blender is just the first thing I’d offer.

  And, if she’ll let me, I’ll throw in a whole lot more.

  “You’re really into her, aren’t you?”

  “God’s honest truth right there.” I stare out at the empty space left in her void and wonder if she could ever feel about me the way I do her.

  “You should’ve offered to pick her up.” He flexes a dry smile. “Sophomoric blunder.”

  “Didn’t want to spook her.” Izzy is as fragile as a dove. One overbearing move and I’m afraid she’ll flutter away again, this time for good.

  “Looks to me, she’s got you pretty spooked.” He flicks his towel at my chest before taking off. “Watch the ticker. If you’re not careful, a girl like that can split it right in half.”

  I’d welcome it.

  But then again, I’d welcome anything Izzy Sawyer has to offer.

  2

  Piece of Me

  Izzy

  Hey Dad,

  Guess what?

  Mom is up to her old tricks again, and by tricks I mean her quasi form of prostitution that involves non-paying customers. Living at the brothel is sort of wearing on me. You sure you don’t want to pop in and alleviate some of this misery?

  I know. You’re never coming back. Sure wish you’d change your mind.

  ~Iz (Little Bit)

  But then, you’ve forgotten who I am, haven’t you?

  “Bashful, Sleepy, Sneezy, Grumpy,” I call out as I rattle a bag of kibble, and right on cue all four jelly-bellied cat’s waddle into the room with my mother on their heels.

  “You really should upgrade your dining standards,” I snark. My mother and I have been known to enjoy a healthy dose of banter. Her daily barbs assure me she’s still breathing—and, in some small way, that she gives a damn.

  “I wouldn’t talk. You’re just three cats away from a straight jacket.” Mom walks by with her jet-black hair knifing out over the top of her head. A thick, blue headband is pressed into the center of her skull just trying to contain it. She’s wearing her signature fuchsia lipstick and lavender bathrobe, both of which are nightly rituals. If my mother is anything she’s immaculate at all hours of the day. She has a panache for matching her jewelry with her clothing, right down to her fingernail polish, shoes and purse. Unlike me who lives in stretch pants and a sports bra, but that’s mostly because I’m at the studio 24/7.

  “Straight jacket, huh? And here I thought I was three cats away from being a Disney Princess.”

  “Sorry, honey. To qualify I’d have to kick the bucket, and I don’t plan on heading to the light just yet.”

  “Light? As in flame?” I tease. My mother is my life. I’ve ruined hers, and I plan on making up for it by keeping the promise I made to my father. My mother will never be alone. Laney doesn’t come around much anymore, and I’m all she has left. Greasy D’s ugly mug crops up in my mind, welcome as lighter fluid at a flash fire, and I push him right back out. “I saw Laney yesterday. She said to say hi.”

  “That’s your sister’s favorite song. Next time you see her, tell her to come by and tell me herself.” She slaps the papers down on the table before taking a seat. “Damn bills.” You’d think that was the proper name for the reckoning she partakes in each month to ensure the lights don’t go out and we have an ample supply of hot water in the morning. “How did the classes go?” She asks as an afterthought.

  Mom’s been away from the dance studio for weeks now ever since she turned her ankle. The doctor’s been after her to lose some weight, but, by the looks of how she’s eyeing that box of Yo-Ho’s next to her, it’s a farfetched idea.

  She reaches for the carton as if reading my mind.

  “The doctor said—”

  She holds a Yo-Ho up victoriously. “The doctor can pry this out of my cold, dead hands.”

  “He might get the chance.”

  My mother never listens. I learned that the hard way the summer I turned eighteen. I brush the memory out of my mind before it ever gets the chance to fully form.

  “Classes were fine. Bella wants a raise. She says—”

  “Tell her to get in line.” She lifts the stack of envelopes once again and snarls. “I can’t stand this bullshit anymore. Some days I think it’s just not worth the headache.” She pulls the hair at her temples. “It’s either this mother isn’t happy with the coaching—or that one wants her daughter to have a solo every damn week—and I’ve got fifteen building inspectors breathing down my neck nagging at me to make repairs, or they’re going to nail the doors shut. It’s all a load of bullcrap if you ask me.” She bites the Yo-Ho’s chocolate head off as if she means business. “Donny and I were talking about firing up the motorhome. What do you think of that?”

  My heart stops. “Donny” is a moron who, if memory serves correct, believes in tweaking my ass when he’s wasted out of his mind on a bender.

  “What is it exactly that draws you to him?” For a woman who seems to have every single answer in life, she can never really figure out men. Over the years, Mom’s rendition of a good catch has been—same loser, different body. If there’s a bad batch of assholes out there, rest assured, my mother has plowed through them all.

  “He’s tall, dark, and dangerous, and he gives me the time of day.”

  “So you’re settling.” At least she got the dangerous part right.

  “You wish. Bobbie Sawyer never settles.” She darts a pudgy finger at me. “That man is a saint for putting up with her, what with all the foul language and condescending remark
s—and those are just the verbal love pats she directs at him. Any lesser of a man would have long since sliced his own balls off before hightailing out of town. He gets her. He knows her love language is lethal and that she’s not afraid to abuse it.”

  “Nice. And, by the way, speaking about yourself in third person is creepy, knock it off, or I’ll flex my power to have you committed.” I’m only half-kidding. Greasy D is an asshole. The D might as well stand for douche—although, I’ll give him points for dealing with my mother. And if he ever shows up smashed and tries to cop a feel, I’ll be the one slicing his balls off. I’m not some helpless teenager cowering in the corner anymore, hoping he won’t hit on my sister or me. In fact, if things get crazy, I might slice off his dick for kicks, too.

  I fill the cats bowls and give them each a quick scratch behind the ears. Three orange Tabbies and a white Persian. They’re my babies, my family, and no matter how insane I look by collecting them en masse, I’m their furless mommy for the long haul. Besides, if it weren’t for their fluffy warm coats, who would heat the sheets with me at night? It’s a sad day when you’re able to admit the only attention you get in bed is of the feline variety. Speaking of attention…

  “So”—I stand and arch my back until my lungs fill with the unfortunate scent of tuna and salmon—“I’m headed to the Black Bear again. Laney is determined to set me up on a series of bad memories in the making. I thought I’d go ahead and humor her once or twice.”

  “Bad memories as in bad dates? Blind dates?” Her sea blue eyes dart up to mine. “So that’s what it’s come to, huh?” She plucks another Yo-Ho out of the box and pulls back the wrapper like peeling a banana. “Well, good riddance. Maybe we’ll both get some action for once. I’m tired of watching those damn cats rut around the house like this is some sort of feline brothel. Where’s our rutting? Where’s our cat on a hot tin roof moment?”