Whiskey Tender Book Review Novels & Stories

Starting at her with disgust, he let out, "It seems like common sense has left your head and it has constantly been replaced with stupidity. If you want to know what I will have for diner, then I'll tell you. Chelsea, serve me anything that is not you and edible. You have half an hour to do so, let a second not add on the set time," The temerity of his words made her scurry off into the room, as she made way to have her master's meal done. In the living room, he walked towards the corner of the large room where his wine bar stood with over hundreds of alcoholic drinks rested, waiting for him to taste them. Choosing a rare brand of whiskey__Jack Daniels, he added three ice blocks in the glas

Enough rotgut that I couldn’t make out much of his scent past the gasoline odor of cheap spirits harsh enough to strip paint. Finally, he spoke. He had a voice like raw cane sugar and barbed wire. “Whiskey,” he said. Again that subtle sense of casual power—the feeling that he expected to be obeyed, and wouldn’t brook opposition. “Anything that burns going down. Four fingers. No ice.” I surreptitiously slipped my fingers away from the shot glass and felt out a tumbler from the stock under the bar. As I pulled down a bottle of top shelf bourbon—the imprint of that black card still raising silent questions—I said, “That’s a lot of whiskey.”

Lights danced across the walls and ceiling, bathing the crowd in waves of red, blue, and gold. I made my way to the bar and took my seat right in front of the bar attendant. “Whiskey, neat,” I said. He nodded and within seconds, a glass of whiskey was in front of me. I took a sip, the drink gave my throat a sweet, burning, tinging sensation. The whiskey burned slightly as it went down, warming me and easing the tension I’d been carrying all day. With every sip, I felt my mind lighten, the music’s bass thumped through the air, and I could feel it vibrating in my chest.

CANNON THE WHISKEY tasted like piss and for the fuck of it, I dunked down another glass. No cheap whiskey would ruin my night and certainly not the man seated on my couch blabbing about his wife and related marital issues because that’s just the thing, I was high like a teen on Valium.

Now I know better, she was nothing different than the other gold diggers at the club, yes the one I meet almost every other night. As I shoved myself into my car, I grabbed the short bottle of whiskey on the seat just next to me. I uncapped and gulped a good quantity into my mouth. The liquor sent a burning sensation down my lips and my throat. With one hand I turned the ignition on and began to drive out while on hand clutching my whiskey bottle like a pretty damsel. My whiskey never betray, my whiskey never leaves me except it's finished and just as I like my women a new one comes in no time.

ZEUS The whiskey burns as it goes down, but I welcome it. It’s the only kind of warmth I trust. Everything else; people, promises, bonds, is fickle. A distraction. A liability. I sink deeper into the armchair, swirling the amber liquid in my glass, watching the light fracture through it. The silence in my room is thick, like smoke after a war. The kind that settles after something destructive has already been set in motion. And it has. My plan.

The contact sent another spark straight to my core. “Thank you,” I murmured, taking a cautious sip. The drink was smooth and slightly smoky — an aged whiskey, I guessed, with a hint of honey and oak that warmed me from the inside out. It was strong but not overwhelming, perfectly balanced, much like the man who had poured it.

“Got any of that whiskey you spend all your money on?” “Course I do,” Booker scoffed, waving toward one of the chipped white cupboard doors, hanging on by a single hinge. “Help yerself. After the night ya’ve had, might as well drink from the bottle.” Returning to the armchair, a bottle of the finest whiskey clutched in his bloodied knuckles, Jon downed a third of the bottle. The oaky liquid burned his throat, spreading warmth down into his chest. “Was Harley there?”

Obviously sad and fake. Silence dominated, pressing down on us heavily, as he poured me a glass of his special whiskey and handed it to me. I accepted the glass with a smile, not wanting to break that silence he seemed to so desperately want and need, and took a sip from it. The alcohol slid down smoothly, a slight sizzling in my throat, leaving me with this hunger for more. Its burn was gentle yet enough to make you feel alive. It wasn't too dull or too sharp. It was just right. I couldn't help the compliment that escaped my mouth. "Hmm! This is amazing! How is this perfect taste even attainable?"

I slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered a drink. “What kind of drink?” the bartender asked patiently. Good question. “Give me a shot of Glenfiddich,” I said. “Fifteen years old.” It was what Derek liked. The thought of Derek made me slam the drink when it came. “Ugh,” I said. “That is foul.” “Hey, lady, it’s what you asked for,” the bartender said. “No, no.” I waved my hand. “Give me another.” The second one went down smoother. My head felt lighter and the tension was draining out of my shoulders. By the time I was on my third whiskey, I was looking around and feeling more cheerful.