Whiskey Glasses Song Novels & Stories

she asked over the booming music. I leaned against the counter, scanning the crowd as I pondered my choice. "A whiskey on the rocks, please," I replied, my voice barely audible above the uproar. As I sipped the smooth liquid, a surge of courage flowed through my veins. It was time to let loose and have some fun.

There is even a bar in here fully stocked with different whiskies and liquors as well as glasses and an ice maker. I walk over to the bar and grab three glasses from the glass chiller and add some ice to all three before pouring the dark whiskey in. I walk back over to Trev and Grey, handing them each there drinks before Trev makes a toast. "Here's to all the men who have crossed us, and the women who have uncrossed for us. Both women of big and small, short and tall, let us drink to the dresses that will fall! The men may die, the women shall cry, let both fall to their knee's as we smile with ease," He finishes as we all swallow our glasses in one swig.

The music was loud, thumping through the room. The lights were dim and shifting, flashing between blue and red as people danced and laughed. But none of it reached Adrian. He wanted to forget. Forget everything. Every pain. Every lie and betrayal. "Whiskey," he said flatly. "The strongest one you have." The bartender hesitated - Adrian looked pale and distant but poured him a glass anyway. Adrian threw it back in one gulp, wincing at the burn in his throat.

His gaze was locked onto mine, filled with expectation. I smiled. Took the glass. And emptied it in one go. The whiskey burned all the way down, but I welcomed the sting. I needed the liquor to do its job—fast. Walter’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. "You drink?" I ignored his question. Instead, I dropped the glass on a nearby table. Then, I stepped closer, pressing my body against his. I could feel his breath hitch as I started to move—grinding against him, my hips rolling in time with the music.

“Give me some whiskey on the rocks, please.” The black woman probably shares the same age as mine nods, “Whiskey on the rocks coming right up.” She places the glass of whiskey on the counter, and I drink every drop of it. “One more, please.” I don't remember how many times I said that phrase. My head is spinning, excellent, a fantastic lullaby to sleep. “Where is my whiskey?” My voice is dry. “Ma’am, I think you're drunk. I’m giving you a glass of cold water to sober up.” I can't have a glimpse of her face. Maybe the alcohol is kicking in.

The words hung unspoken between them, a silent acknow- ledgment of their shared history, a secret language understood only by them. She reached for the bottle, her hand surprisingly steady despite the turmoil within, the ritual so familiar it was etched into her very bones. The simple act of pouring the whiskey almost calmed the storm raging within her. She measured out two !ngers into a heavy rocks glass, the amber liquid swirl- ing, catching the dim light of the bar in its depths. With a practiced move, she slid the glass across the polished wood toward him. Their !ngers brushed as he took it

He walked to the small round table near the window, where a heavy crystal decanter and two glasses caught the sunlight filtering through the curtains. He didn't look back as he unstopped the whiskey, the amber liquid splashing into the glasses with a sharp, rhythmic sound that filled the sudden silence of the room.

I said to the bartender, my elbow resting on the bar stand. “How many glasses?” Demonstrating with a finger, “Just one. I don’t have a companion.” “Ok.” The bartender reached for a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He served me. “Ice?” “Yes.” He brought some ice, dropping it closer to the bottle. And then he sent his focus to the next person beside me, “Your order, Ma'am.” I paid no more attention to their conversation as I focused on my drink. I reached for the bottle of whiskey, and I took out the cork. I served my glass and gulped down quite a quantity. The words of Brooks played in my head as I laughed hard like a madman.

I pulled the whiskey from the corner cabinet, my own pace slow and measured against the storm in my heart. The yellow liquid blazed in the lamplight, gold in the bottle where it rested for all time. I picked up the bottle, and two of my grandmother's crystal glasses, their chilly cool and comforting in my hand. The glass was heavier than it would have been had I been holding anything other than simple fancy crystal in my hand—like I was holding all that unspoken weight. "Whiskey?" I asked, already knowing. Rowan never said no to whiskey, not when things between us were tight enough that they could be cut.

The bartender, a tall, dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes, greeted me with a nod. "What can I get for you?" he asked. "Just a whiskey. Make it a triple. Wolfsbane." The bartender poured me a glass of whiskey and handed it to me and left. I took a sip, drumming my fingers on the table. "Whiskey," a familiar voice said behind me. "A double."