Page 1 of Whiskey Throttle
CHAPTER 1
HOLLISTER
“Dommy Darko, you alive back there?” Emilio’s smug voice buzzes through my helmet. Taunting and teasing as usual. “You disappear without saying shit. Now you’re riding like an old man. Should we stop for prune juice or?—?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dom grumbles, loud and irritated.
Em’s right. He’s been more distant and grumpy. How that’s even possible is beyond me.
“Same shit, different day with these two,” Massimo says through his laughter.
Diego blasts ahead on his black bike, leading our formation. A rarity for him. He’s quiet. A hand at his hip, the other on the throttle, looking back at us. It’s good to be back. It’s been a minute since we last rode.
A long damn minute.
The five of us own the road on a clear spring day. The air even feels fresher with winter finally over. It was long and sort of boring, with Diego dipping out on us for his lady professor. Then, Dom after that. I heard they were working on something, and I wrangled it out of Diego after apologizing to him and his woman on more than one occasion.
I was a bit jealous. A bit of a pussy. A bigger asshole.
He didn’t talk to me either for a while. After I wore him down, we made up. Sort of. He’s more distant than before, siding with her over me, but I get it. The smile that hangs on his face when he thinks no one is looking speaks to it.
I respect the space he’s put between us, even if I don’t like it. Now, Dom, he’s a different dude. He never calls. Never texts. Not anyone. Not ever. We only became friends when I asked him for a puff of his joint at a gala years ago. I spotted the white rolled marijuana in his fingers as he was pushing out of the ballroom. I followed him and have been friends ever since.
He didn’t talk much then and still doesn’t. I don’t know much about the Barrett family, except that they seem to be miserable. Then one day, he showed up with Diego. Shocked the hell out of me.
He had another friend? Two people in the world who could stand his ass?
“Who’s up for Silhouette tonight?” Em yells when the comms go silent for too long. His brother groans in disgust. Responding to what we’re all thinking. “Diego? Dark daddy Dom?”
Never one to take the hint. Those guys haven’t gone out with us to Silhouette in a while. No matter how many times Em asks.
“You know they are not going, Em,” I finally contribute to the conversation.
“Don’t say that, Holli Balls.”
His whine is loud. The new nickname is annoying. I’m starting to get how Dom feels. Both remain quiet. The silence speaks their answer.
Massimo blasts up toward Diego, signaling to head right, out of town for a longer drive. Fine by me. I’m glad to have my boys again. Even if two are changed, the other two are identical. The twins are always down to ride. Literally ride or die in many ways. The other two are harder, not just because of their graduate school courses.
“Hey, don’t drag Holli into this,” Diego adds, his voice light. Not irritated as I would have guessed. “He’s just trying to keep the family together.”
Honestly, he’s right. I’m the glue. The bridge between everyone. It’s how I am in all my friend groups.
“Fuck off, Em, or I will turn this ride around so fast, you’ll be going to Silhouette alone,” I threatened, knowing full well I wouldn’t.
“I hate going alone,” he pouts, then overtakes the two guys in the lead out of spite.
I’ve missed this. Them. The five of us are flying down the road and leaving our cares behind. Out here, I’m not Hollister Prescott Morgan Harrington III. I’m not a legacy. I’m not the future.
I’m just Holli.
The guy with tatted arms, a slight whiskey problem, and an addiction to speed. We slow at the next curve, engines growling as we roll through like a pack of wolves in carbon fiber and leather. Diego drops back by me, holding a fist out.
“Glad you pulled us together, man. It’s been too long.”
I fist bump him. Glad he appreciates it.
With summer approaching and each of us going our separate ways, I’d like us to ride every weekend. I’ll head to our house in the Hamptons, a family tradition. I’ll wish I wasn’t there, smothered in obligations, garden parties, and the other bullshit requirements I’ve endured for as long as I can remember. Summertime in the Hamptons can be suffocating.
