Novel & Cerita Whiskey Words And A Shovel Series

Ethan I didn’t care how bad it smelled. I took a strong swig of the whiskey, if only to have something to do with my hands. That, and to keep them from shaking. It tasted horrible, burning as it went down. I thought of Kira. How could she stand this stuff? I shuddered, draining the glass as if the smell of the alcohol would calm my mind. “Ethan?”

Followed by Stephanie’s whimpers and moans. Shane laughed at himself. “And I thought she would go after me. Was I wrong to trust you again, Stephanie?” He went out of her place with a dark face. Ten minutes later, Shane found himself drowning in whiskeys. He chugged down the whiskey from the bottle, mixed the gin and vodka, finished several glasses of beers, and even poured a bottle of wine on his body.

I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured some on my glass until it was full. “What the fuck are you doing?” August inquired looking at my glass full of whiskey. “I’m drinking.” I spat sarcastically and began chugging but not actually chugging. “Are fucking crazy? Stop it! You’re going to be fucking wasted in just a minute!” August yelled and rushed towards me. He was trying to stop me from actually chugging everything and I just shoved my hand to keep him at bay. I didn’t realize the fact that I shoved him that hard and he was thrown over the couch.

EMILE The first glass of whiskey as I got home tasted like absolutely nothing, the second wasn’t much better, by the third, I had accepted that alcohol was not going to solve today’s problems. Unfortunately, this evening’s problems had a name. Actually, two names. Aiden and Elian Moore. The fireplace crackled softly across the room while evening settled over my estate. Outside, the grounds were quiet. Inside, the silence lasted exactly twelve seconds before the front doors slammed hard enough to shake the walls.

The fireplace popped, throwing jagged gold light across the floor. "Get me a tequila," I muttered to Dan. "Something strong enough to burn the back of my throat." Dan gave a low, amused huff. "Taking shots of tequila with the amount of steam coming off your shoulders? Do you actually plan to burn the Hawthorne pack to the ground tonight, boss?" "Just get the drink, Dan." He returned with a glass, but changed it to an eighteen-year whiskey. I swirled the liquid amber around the glass, watching the ice melt, but I couldn't bring myself to take a single sip. Ten minutes passed.

“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?”

ALEX'S POV A large glass of whiskey was the first thing I ordered right when I slumped onto the high bar stool after another brutal week at the publishing house where rejections piled up high on my desk and the deadlines just threatened to crush me to smithereens. I drank the whiskey, then ordered another one which I downed quickly while the bright upscale bar hummed with soft music and laughter. My head was kept down as the warm buzz hit me harder than usual with each glass of whiskey I consumed.

His arm went around me, giving me a tight hug before he let me go. “We have a few fun games planned.” Jo grabbed Cade and pushed him against the wall. I watched as all the guys got forced to line up and were handled a baby bottle. “What is this shit?” Alpha Jackson looked at his bottle and then at Jo. “It’s a baby bottle. Surely you knew that?” She smiled at him. “Okay, it is full of whiskey. The first person to finish their bottle, get’s this.” She held up a bottle of whiskey. “This is Old Rip Van Winkle. It’s a ten-year-old Bourbon that is worth around $1,000.”

Another shovel. The others already know who I am. They don’t look at me kindly. A few mutter under their breath. One spits. I hear the words. “Wolfless.” “Doom-bringer.” “Moon-cursed.” My cheeks burn, but I say nothing. It’s safer not to. !! !! !! !! !! !! The hours drag like chained corpses. The air is stifling. The pickaxe bites into my palm even with the gloves, and I can feel blisters already blooming. I cough, then keep coughing. Someone laughs.

The silence pressed heavily as I sat there for a minute gripping the wheel until my knuckles went white and then I climbed out and took the elevator up. The penthouse was dark except for the city lights bleeding through the windows. I didn’t bother turning anything on. I went straight to the bar and grabbed the first bottle my hand found, Macallan 25. I twisted the cap off with my teeth and drank straight from the neck. The whisky burned all the way down and settled hot in my gut. I dropped onto the leather couch and stared at the skyline. My phone kept buzzing in my pocket but I ignored it, probably it was Victoria sending memes or Mom checking if I was alive. Or reporters wanting a comment