Whiskey Tender Book Review Novels & Stories

She poured a little in both and handed me one while she took the other. “Liquid courage. Let’s goooooo!” she cried as she tapped my cup. She tossed hers back and I did the same. It scorched my throat going down, hot lava coating my chest. I looked for a chaser but found nothing. My mouth huffed as the heat burned. I waited for it to subside, allowing the whiskey to numb me. Finally, I nodded, “Ok, I’m ready.”

"Wine. Red. Full-bodied." "Whiskey for me. Neat and preferably something aged for at least twenty years." "Of course you drink expensive whiskey." "I drink everything expensive, beautiful. Comes with the territory." We keep talking, small things, favorite books, worst vacations, and childhood pets while my heart beats for the unknown he plans tonight.

It casts long, warped shadows that twist across the floor, turning familiar shapes into something else– something colder. His father is there, slumped at the table. A bottle of whiskey sits in front of him, the amber liquid catching the light in a dull, sickly gleam. A glass rests loosely in his hand, tilting just enough that is taps against the table ever few seconds. Clink. The sound is too loud. Clink. It fills the entire house. Clink. Zack stands frozen in the doorway, the last of the bright, desperate hope draining out of him so completely it feels like something inside him is collapsing. Of course it is not her. The memory hits all over again– not like a though, but like a weight press

My boots stuck to the floor with every step, and when I reached the counter, the bartender—a red-haired woman with tattoos down both arms—arched an eyebrow at me. “What’s your poison?” “Whiskey,” I said. “Neat.” Her mouth twitched like she was impressed. She poured, slid the glass across, and went back to polishing a bottle. I’d barely taken my first sip when I felt it. That prickle down my neck. That instinct you can’t explain, only obey. Someone was watching me. I turned my head, slow, like in a movie, and there he was in the corner booth. Christ.

Impulsively, I turned towards the bar, my hands shaking as I reached for the bottle of whiskey. The golden liquid churned in the glass as I poured, my hand trembling. The initial sip burned my throat, but it wasn't sufficient. Nothing could quench the fire raging within me. I poured another, and this time my hand trembled so violently that I spilled some. I didn't care. The heat of the whiskey was nothing against the fire burning in my chest. How dare he? How dare he put his hands on her? On what was mine?

He pours two hefty splashes. I accept my glass. "Not very well. I wish I'd tried harder to talk to him before now." Gavino sighs and nods and raises his glass. "To future chances," he says. I toast and drink. The whiskey's smooth and dry with sharp aftertaste and it warms my guts. I'm surprised I like it. Whiskey reminds me of angry men and shouting. But this isn't so bad.

I took a seat at the counter and leaned forward, resting my forearms against the cool surface. “Whiskey,” I said, my voice tight. “On the rocks.” I didn’t want anything sweet. I didn’t want anything gentle. I needed something strong enough to burn, something that would remind me I was still in control. The bartender slid the glass toward me, ice clinking softly. I wrapped my fingers around it and took a long sip. The whiskey burned its way down my throat, sharp and unforgiving. I welcomed it. I needed that sting. I needed something that hurt in a way I could manage.

After dinner, Miles poured us a generous measure of the whiskey that according to him, he'd stolen from his dad's collection, and we settled on the floor in front of the fireplace, with our backs against the couch, our shoulders touching, and the fire crackling and warm just a few feet away. The whiskey was smooth, expensive, and it was the kind that burned pleasantly going down and left something like a warm trail in your chest. I sipped it slowly, feeling it combine with the beer I'd had at dinner to create this pleasant buzz that made everything feel softer, easier.

it was puzzling. Arriving in the cellar, I went straight to the whiskey section, then chose the oldest of them all. I hopped off the ladder and walked to the small cabin where bottle openers were stored, then opened and used the bottle. My mouth salivated with anticipation, and when the first hit of Smokey sweetness teased my tastebuds' my mind went numb for a second. I pulled the bottle off my lips and winced at the burn when the whiskey traveled down my throat and settled inside a puddle of hatred in my stomach.