A Love Letter To Whiskey Novels & Stories

The fragments of glass scattered in various directions. The strong aroma of whiskey followed with the burning anger, a reminder of the emotions blowing up before the surface. Ethan, clearly aware of Connel's reactions, recognized the signs of a man pushed to the limit. The sound of shattering glass was enough confirmation he needed and he was determined to uncover the truth.

She cut herself off and covered her mouth, embarrassed. Bella's mind returned to the past. She had been drunk in these events, too, in the past. Damian would always lecture her about it while driving her home. "You should cut down on alcohol, Bella! It's bad for your liver!" She would then angrily retort, "You're just saying this because you think I'm a pain in the ass! Hmph!" He would sigh and reply, "No, you're not a pain. I'm more worried about you suffering…"

She wonders if any of the doctors have checked him out, and if perhaps he has a concussion, which might explain why he's staring at her. Once behind the bar, she quickly gulps down a bottle of water before selecting a whiskey glass and polishing it meticulously. She then searches for the best whiskey on the shelf. During a slower night, Malia had taken the time to explain the different varieties, highlighting their distinctions and which ones were preferred. "This one," Malia had said, holding up a squat bottle with a golden label, "is Alexander's favorite. Serve this to him, and he'll fall for you instantly."

For a moment, I thought I heard familiar footsteps. The scent of lavender drifted through the air. I opened my eyes. A familiar figure was walking toward me through the sea of purple flowers. She wore a wedding dress. Sunlight wrapped around her as she stopped in front of me. "Mister, my name is Leah Lambert. It's nice to meet you." The wind stirred. It felt like time itself was turning a page. I reached for her hand. "My name is Wystan Wren. I've known you for a long time."

I have never come across someone like that in my entire thirty years on this motherfucking earth. The bitch despises you. She almost sold you to some human trafficking motherfuckers. You should fucking hate the bitch, shawty. You should hate her not me. The hell does she want?! I grabbed my bottle of whiskey, opened it, and took in a gulp. She's messing with my fucking brains, men. How do you love someone who has been fucking terrible to you? Blood is rotten if it wants evil for you. Why the fuck can't she get it?

I could hear the honking of cars, the bustle of people moving, and the chatter of voices rising up from the street below. I took a sip of my whiskey, feeling the smooth liquid burn its way down my throat. It was the only thing that seemed to give me any sense of relief from the anger and bitterness that had been building up inside of me. The taste of the whiskey was comforting, like an old friend who knew all of my secrets.

Nicos keeps the good whiskey in a cupboard that squeaks on purpose. He says it’s an alarm—lets a man consider his choices before his hand meets the bottle. I poured two inches into a heavy glass and let it kiss the air while the city tried on its evening cologne: diesel, sea salt, and that old, dear to my heart perfume of evening prayers.

They should fear us. I didn't even have to say anything to the waitress she handles me a glass, already straddling me. coke-crazed whore. still not bothering to get her off me I savored the taste of whiskey in my mouth. I love the peppery, astringent drink damning my mouth with the smoky taste. My father used to love this drink. loved it so much that it destroyed his liver and killed him. But you know what they say, love the things you like and watch them kill you.

she whispered. "Good." He picked up his whiskey again. "Hate is a much more reliable emotion than love. At least it's honest." He headed toward the master bedroom, loosening his tie further. "I'm going to shower. Feel free to join me... or don't. Either way, we're sharing that bed tonight." Isabella waited until she heard the bathroom door close before letting out a shaky breath. She looked at the untouched whiskey in her hand and downed it in one burning gulp.

He whimpered, wounded by the rejection, unable to understand how our mate could cast us aside so completely. She chose him, the thought circled through my mind. After everything, she chose him. I stumbled to the cabinet where I kept my whiskey and pulled out the first bottle I found. I didn't bother with a glass. Just unscrewed the cap and drank directly from the bottle, letting the burn of the alcohol drown out the pain. One drink became two. Two became half the bottle. I slumped into a chair, my head spinning, the letter still clutched in my hand like a lifeline I couldn't let go of.