Page 26 of Live Love Steal
7
Whatever - Isobel
Drinking whiskey with a biker was not on my to-do list today. Bear slid onto the barstool with practiced ease. I had the choice of a modified motorcycle seat, a wooden stool that leaned to the left dangerously, or a saddle tacked onto what I could only assume was a piston of some sort.
I picked the motorcycle seat.
Bear glanced at it as I dragged it over to sit by him.
Not that I wanted to sit by him, but of all the men in the room currently giving me the third once-over, I felt safest on his left.
Heck, I’d be safer tucked under his arm. No one would fuck with me then. I glanced at the ceiling, where I assumed Sketch was. He’d walked straight for a door on the side of the room. I assumed it led upstairs.
Or maybe they had a basement dug under the place? I shuddered.
What if they tortured and killed people here?
Were there bodies buried under my feet?
Bear snapped his fingers, and one of the bikers slid behind the bar.
“Smoke. You know what I like. Grab a glass for the lady, too.”
The biker, Smoke, pulled down a bottle filled with dark amber liquid. I didn’t recognize the brand at all. But a quick scan of the shelves behind the bar told me these men didn’t drink the cheap stuff you found at dive bars. There were only a few brands I did recognize, and none of them were less than ten dollars a shot.
Bear thumped the spare tumbler down in front of me. “Here.” He poured the whiskey.
“Stop.”
Bear ignored me.
I waited.
He filled it to about a finger, maybe half of one, from the rim. No ice, no water to cut it with, just straight whiskey. Almost six ounces of it.
The fumes made my eyes water.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I didn’t drink whiskey. But what then? Would they make me drink it anyway? Would I be given a choice?
I tried to play it cool. I picked the glass up, held it where I wouldn’t spill it, and pretended to admire the rich color. Once I got over the initial blast of it, I sniffed it because I caught notes of caramel, or was that vanilla?
Bear sipped from his glass like it was water.
There was no way I’d keep up with him. He had me by at least five inches and had arms thicker than a defensive lineman’s. “You’re not driving later, are you?”
A huff escaped from him. Smoke watched us both carefully.
Bear took another sip and smacked his lips. “Shut up and drink.”
I took a tentative sip, bracing for the fiery burn and the horrible churning of my stomach that would happen from pure whiskey dropping into it.
But instead, my mouth ignited with a rich, smoky heat. I let it roll around a bit, catching nuances of flavor I never knew whiskey had. Was that some sort of spice? I swallowed.
Then coughed, practically spilling the too-full glass. “Holy shit.” I set the tumbler down.
My mouth, my stomach, my body warmed… wow-wowie-wow. I breathed out apple-tinged flame. Holy God in heaven. The flavor shifted once again. No wonder people drank this stuff. It was like a chameleon you could taste. One that would likely bite. Could you get drunk off one sip? “What is that?”
This time, the huff was closer to a chuckle. Bear turned to look at me, a grin on his face. “That, sweet lady, is single batch bourbon, aged at least seven years. Treat it like a woman, and give it the same respect due the Devil.”
