Rock And Scotch Novels & Stories

She just kept stacking dishes in the sink like nothing happened. Dinner had gone well, and Theo was ready to crack open something special. "Sean, how about a drink? I’ve got a thirty-year-old scotch sitting around that’s been waiting for an excuse." Sean's face lit up. "You serious? I wouldn’t dream of saying no." They walked into the living room together and sat. From the kitchen, Talia called out, "How do you want it? Straight or on the rocks?" Sean glanced over to Theo, then raised his voice. "Straight, please!"

His big hands were trembling as he leaned into the cabin. "Sweep it again!" Marcus yelled. Another message came through my bag. A loud ping. I reached for the phone on the floor. Marcus grabbed my wrist. His grip was like a trap. "I'll read it," Marcus said. He picked up the phone. His face went gray. He turned the screen toward me. MARCUS LIKES THE VINTAGE 1945 WHISKEY. SCARLETT LIKES THE TRUTH. TOO BAD THE BOTTLE IS POISONED. CHECK THE CORK, BIG MAN.

Whether she showed up or not didn’t matter. Apparently, it did. “Yeah. I’m busy. That’s why I’m out drinking. Stress relief. That a problem?” Allison took the Old Fashioned the bartender slid over and took a sip. Whiskey base. Strong, smoky, unapologetic. Way bolder than her soft, sweet appearance suggested. Marcus studied her for a second. “Must be a lot of stress. I’ll drink with you.” He nodded at the bartender. “Single malt Scotch.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the sharp line of his nose, then away. She didn’t say anything.

I walk over and take a seat at the bar. “What will it be?” The bartender smiles. “Blue label Scotch on the rocks, please.” I glance around as I scan the crowd. She makes my drink, turns back and slides it over the bar. “You here alone tonight?”

"Macallan neat," Alexander gruffly says to the bartender as soon as he reaches the bar. He takes the empty seat next to the informant, Kyle Vennillia, and impatiently awaits his Scotch, drumming his fingers on the bar top. "That was quite the performance," Kyle remarks, breaking the silence. "Who would have thought a woman who looks like that could play so well." Taking a long sip of his Scotch, Alexander turns to Kyle with a hint of irritation. "I'm Alexander Stone." Alex does not extend his hand for a handshake.

He was still focused on his laptop, his face lit by the blue glow of the screen. "I don't want to bother you." "You're already bothering me. Might as well commit." She couldn't tell if he was joking. His voice gave nothing away. Slowly, she walked to the island and sat on the stool across from him. Far enough that there was no chance of accidentally touching. Close enough that she could see what he was drinking. "Is that whiskey?" "Scotch. Macallan 25." She had no idea what that meant, but it sounded expensive. Everything in this house was expensive.

Ethan replied sternly, his eyes full of something that looked like anger. I studied his face for couple of second before offering him coffee “Hmm…. will talk about it, but before that what would you like to have coffee, tea or….” Ethan cut me in-between and replied pointing at my bar table on side with vintage scotch bottles “How about a drink?” I was surprised with his demand but agreed and walked up to my bar table nearby. I filled two glasses with ice and scotch and offered one to Ethan before getting back on my seat, Ethan eyeballed his scotch as he swirled his glass with one hand.

I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a nervous cough. He's even more striking up close - tall enough that I have to tilt my chin to meet his gaze. His presence is magnetic, commanding. "Sorry," I manage, my voice barely a whisper. "What can I get you?" "Scotch. Double." His voice is deep, gravelly, with a faint Italian edge. The sound rumbles through me, low and dangerous, like distant thunder. "Ice?" I ask. He just stares at me, silent. "Okay then," I mutter under my breath as I turn to pour the drink. "No ice, got it."

Reaching for the bottle, I blink slowly in confusion when I discover it's no longer in my hand. “I ken ye’ve had more than enough, mo bhràthair,” Roland warns, rounding the workbench and walking away with the bottle of scotch in his hand. “Och, ye ken how mad wae it ye gets by tryin' to drown yer blootered arse in Scotch.” He taunts, glancing over his shoulder at me. Raising the bottle to his mouth, he took a few healthy swigs, waggling his brows at me.

Then he moves towards the liquor cabinet and grabs two tumblers from nook above it. “I can do with a drink. How about you?” he asks as he rolls his shoulders and shrugs out of this jacket. I move closer. “Hit me up. I definitely need something too.” He smiles and pours a tot of amber liquid into each glass, handing me one. I savor the rich notes of what is clearly a very good bottle of scotch, but sip at it carefully. I’m not all that fortified against hard liquor. Rocco throws the whole content of his glass back into this throat and reaches for the bottle again. Then he turns to me, a guarded look in his eyes.