Page 1 of Whiskey Kisses

Prologue

We cut through the damp, foggy woods as a unit, twigs and dead leaves crunching beneath our feet. Alex, who’s leading the way, glances back, motioning toward a split-rail fence just ahead. We ease over it, pushing through the brush until the estate comes into view.

As planned, the rest of the team spreads out to secure the perimeter while we remain concealed. Lucky zeroes in on the guards at the door, disposing of them without hesitation. We burst from the trees with no time to spare, because while suppressors manage sound, they don’t eliminate it. Lucky jiggles the knob and then slams his shoulder into the door, but it refuses to yield. Standing back, he aims his gun and shoots the lock, splintering it open with a loud bang. Guns drawn, we enter the empty foyer cautiously. A voice calls out and another responds, but it’s impossible to tell where they’re coming from—inside or outside? Our guys or theirs?

“Upstairs first,” my brother whispers, jerking his head toward the staircase. We ascend silently, my eyes glued to the first floor until we round the landing. Every muscle in my body tenses as we make our way down the hallway, my heart pounding faster and harder with every empty room.No Liam, no Bria. No one at all. The emptiness is eerie, and it makes my heart sink. I hope we’re not too late.

We’re on our way back down the stairs when shots ring out from the first floor. There’s an angry yell and a loud crash and a woman’s voice that sounds a lot like Bria’s. Jumping the last few steps, I sprint toward the sound. Lucky’s harsh, panicked breathing follows me as I burst into the kitchen, gun raised and ready.

It all happens at once.

A guy in a black mask is near the open back door, another by the sink. Bria’s lying on the floor, unmoving, like a discarded doll. Another gunshot cracks through the air, so loud and close I can almost feel it. Another follows and then I do feelit. Flying back like I was shoved, I collapse next to Bria. “Fuck,” I groan. Heat spreads down my arm, radiating from an overwhelming pinpoint of intense pressure and pain.

Adrenaline rampages through my veins, forcing me back up, but it’s temporary. I crumple back to the tiled floor, dizzy, my lungs sucking in desperate, sloppy gasps. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I smell the sharp tang of fear radiating off my own skin. Lucky and someone else are arguing as Finn kneels beside me. I feel the light press of his fingers on my face, my back, his voice cracking as he chants “you’re okay, Tris, you’re okay.”

Lucky screams something, and I wish I could help, be at his side like always, but I can’t move.

Gunshots. Silence.

Dr. Browning steps backfrom the bed, her pen scratching across the notepad she always carries. “You’re ready to go, Tristan. We’ve done all we can for now—but if your symptoms don’t resolve by the three-month mark, we might have to go ahead with the other surgery, okay?”

Nodding, I ease off the bed. “Thanks, Doc.”

She cocks her head, her dark eyes assessing me shrewdly. “No fighting, no competing. I mean it. If you want that nerve to heal properly, it’s essential you take it easy.”

Grimacing, I adjust the sling cradling my left arm. Even with an elbow splint and a daily diet of painkillers, I’m still in too much pain to even think about getting back into the ring or onto the mat.

Actually, that’s a lie. It’sallI think about.

“Got it.”

Dr. Browning gives me a sympathetic smile, murmuring something to my mother before leaving. Dad walks in just as Mom’s swinging my bag over her shoulder. “Ready to get out of here?” he asks, looking me over.

“I’ve been ready for days,” I grouse, following them into the hallway. Several of the nurses I’ve come to know wave, bidding us farewell. I appreciate them for saving my life, but I hope I never see them again.

Quiet Harbor, or justthe Harbor, is a small, private hospital in the heart of Boston, unassuming and easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. The general public doesn’t know about it and never will, because it’s not for just anyone. It’s where we come to be treated for stab wounds and bullet holes and broken bones, a place where discretion is key. My grandfather, who was a doctor when he wasn’t one of Saoirse’s soldiers, established the Harbor a couple years after coming to Boston.

Bria’s room was two down from mine, but she was released after a couple of days with a concussion and two cracked ribs. She’s back at Lucky’s now, healing.

Not me. I’ve been here for a week of observation following the vascular surgery they did to repair a nicked vein. The bullet missed bone by millimeters, so I was lucky. The worst ismild axonotmesis of the ulnar nerve, which is a misnomer in my opinion because there’s nothing mild about having any kind of damage to the main nerve running down your arm. It affects everything.

Flanked by my parents, I walk out into a cold, bright November afternoon. Sun shines onto my face for the first time in days. My arm throbs, and I’m tired, but I’m alive. And for that, I’m eternally grateful.

1.Tristan

Ten Months Later

The microwave beeps faintly, letting me know my burritos are ready, but I barely hear it over the roar of the crowd crackling from my laptop’s speakers. I might not be able to fight right now, but I can watch old videos of myself dancing around the ring, reminding me of how good it felt to dominate.

Movement catches my eye, and I look up, spotting my reflection in the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony. It’s the tail end of twilight, and the lights of Boston are blinking on just as stars start to speckle the clear September sky. That view is the reason I chose this unit over all the others.

It’s hard to see all that right now through the colorful canvas of my body, once immaculate but now marred with the memories of bullets that tore through my flesh. I trace a finger along the worst of them, a jagged scar rising from my left bicep like a little mountain range. Ironically, it’s one of the only parts of my upper body that isn’t tattooed. I’d had plans to finish my sleeve, but then I got shot. Needless to say, surgery and rehab took precedence over aesthetics.

Turning away from my reflection, I slam my laptop shut, plunging the room into silence. I pull on a shirt and close the blinds, shutting the city out. My phone blinks to life with the latest in a series of unansweredtexts from friends, but I shut that out, too.Yes, I’m fine. No, I don’t want to meet up later.

Another text comes through as I retrieve my dinner from the microwave, and I catch Lucky’s name. It’s not the first message he’s sent today. I usually always text him back—I just forgot this time.

We still on for tomorrow?

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