Whiskey Words And A Shovel Series Novels & Stories

His words landed like slaps, casual but cutting. I rolled my eyes back, mumbling under my breath about arrogant bastards. I grabbed the hot whiskey from the table, taking a big swig. It burned going down, warm and sharp, spreading heat through my chest. Nikolai watched me, his eyes half-lidded from the painkillers. “Can you handle that?” he asked, voice soft. I sighed, the alcohol already loosening the knots in my stomach. “At this point, I can literally work in hell.” The words came out slurred a bit, but I meant them. After bombs and gunfights and auctions, whiskey was nothing.

POV JACKSON The whiskey in my glass was the only thing keeping the roar of my wolf at bay. Ever since Silas returned with that jagged mark on his face—a brand of shame that screamed Darlene’s defiance—the air in Silver Moon felt like it was laced with poison. My warriors moved with a hesitant caution, their eyes darting to me whenever I entered a room. They were waiting. Waiting to see how their Alpha would handle a "healer" who had found sanctuary in the arms of the North’s most dangerous savage.

Grandpa barked, his tone biting. The bartender nodded, moving to the shelves stacked with questionable bottles. He poured the drink without a word, setting it in front of Grandpa like a tribute. Then he looked at Zia, waiting. "Just water," Zia muttered, her voice low, almost ashamed under Grandpa’s heavy gaze. Grandpa smirked. “Figures.” He grabbed the glass of whiskey and motioned for the bartender to give her the water. It came in a chipped glass, looking as untrustworthy as the rest of the joint.

The second application of whiskey had stopped foaming. The poison was still there, deeper in the wound, but the alcohol had done what it could. Now for the hard part. I stood up and grabbed the oil lamp we'd lit earlier. Carefully, I opened the glass frame. "You're really good at hide and seek," I said, looking at Ava. "But I don't ever want to lose you again."

I could hear the honking of cars, the bustle of people moving, and the chatter of voices rising up from the street below. I took a sip of my whiskey, feeling the smooth liquid burn its way down my throat. It was the only thing that seemed to give me any sense of relief from the anger and bitterness that had been building up inside of me. The taste of the whiskey was comforting, like an old friend who knew all of my secrets.

I folded my hands, walking to a buffet table of Elven snacks, dropping the plate of the leftover I just consumed. “Come on, Maya! You too, Nameless, let’s play a shot game!” My Elven friends surprisingly called out and though embarrassed, I walked to their table settling on a sit. Nameless was just beside me and the shots were poured. Strange he knew the people I knew too… “One…” The countdown began, as we set to take the strong whiskey. “… two, three.” I gulped everything and so did everyone as quickly as possible. The oaky and dry taste surrounded my mouth, and I let out a puff.

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.

“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?”