Novelas y relatos de Whiskey Words And A Shovel Series

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."

Snow jumps free from my arms the moment we enter, circling my feet like she’s scolding me for leaving. I collapse onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as everything I’ve been carrying tries to catch up with me. I let myself breathe. I head downstairs, the house quiet enough that my footsteps echo. All I want is something strong to burn away the heaviness sitting on my chest. At the liquor shelf, I grab a bottle of whiskey, the expensive one I save for bad days and a glass. As I’m about to pour, Helen walks in, tying her scarf. “Ma’am, I’ll be heading out now,” she says gently.

The whiskey’s haze cleared in a surge of adrenaline. “What the hell…”

Carolina I pick up the glass and take a tiny sip. The whiskey itself is acrid and dry, but overall, it isn't bad—not that I particularly know what I'd be looking for. But to get in on the joke, I make a big show of spluttering, wrinkling my nose in disgust as I slam the glass back on the table. "That's disgusting," I declare. "The worst whiskey I have ever tasted." Evans looks at me, incredulous. "Oh, for the love of—"

I grab the bottle from inside my desk drawer and pour two fingers of whiskey, neat. The burn scorches my throat, and with it comes the memories I've spent years trying to drown. But whiskey doesn't bury ghosts. It just lets 'em breathe. And tonight, they're tearing their way out. Dragging me back to the night I put my father—Jax Bennett—down like the rabid dog he was.

"That's a two-hundred-dollar bottle." "Then it's a good thing I'm not buying the whole bottle." His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. "I'm Josh, by the way,Josh Anderson. And you look like you could use something better than rotgut whiskey to drown whatever demons you're fighting tonight." "Zara Williams," I said, accepting the crystal tumbler he offered. The whiskey was amber gold and smelled like heaven. "And what makes you think I'm fighting demons?"

Liam’s POV The whiskey glass clinked against the counter loudly as I slammed it down. That was my 6th shot for the night. The bartender gave me a look — that kind of look that says you’re not my first sob story tonight, pal. “Another?” he asked, already reaching for the bottle. “Yeah,” I muttered, pushing the empty glass forward. “Make it a double this time.” He poured and I stared at the amber liquid like it had answers hidden in it. How had my whole life gone to shit in such a short timeframe?

She wonders if any of the doctors have checked him out, and if perhaps he has a concussion, which might explain why he's staring at her. Once behind the bar, she quickly gulps down a bottle of water before selecting a whiskey glass and polishing it meticulously. She then searches for the best whiskey on the shelf. During a slower night, Malia had taken the time to explain the different varieties, highlighting their distinctions and which ones were preferred. "This one," Malia had said, holding up a squat bottle with a golden label, "is Alexander's favorite. Serve this to him, and he'll fall for you instantly."

Tommy says and they clink their glasses against mine. The whiskey tastes good, burning a trail down my throat, and I briefly close my eyes and savor it. Tommy and Joey don't seem to understand the meaning of the word "savor" though and they pound their whiskey back like a shot. They engage me in meaningless conversation to pass the time and Tommy keeps the whiskey flowing. Before I know it, I'm laughing and sharing jokes, and my thoughts of revenge have moved to the back of my mind.

“This is a clean slate. For all of us.” Ezra joins in, placing his hand over mine, and Logan hesitates, but then adds his. I glance toward the shelf and spot a bottle of aged whiskey. I stand, grab it, and pour three glasses. “To new beginnings,” I blurt. “To peace,” Ezra echoes. “To staying in our damn lanes,” Logan adds with a dry laugh. We clink and drink. Logan leans back, stretching. “I should head into town soon. There’s still a mess left behind by Silas that needs cleaning.”