Page 35 of Vodka And Virtue

“You’ll see when everyone else does. In fact, it’s time to get started.” I rang the brass bell above the bar to get everyone’s attention. “Good evening. If you’re here for the shot tasting event, we will be holding it right here at the bar. If you’re not, I ask that you move to a table in the lounge to give us more room. Thank you for your cooperation.”

I pulled out a stack of black rectangular shaped plates from under the bar, along with a stack of clean shot glasses. Over the last week, I had searched endlessly through my bartender's manual, looking for the most obscure shot combinations I could find in hopes that people hadn’t tried many of them yet.

“As a special event price, there will be four shots available for a fifty dollar buy-in. Please, do not come back next week and ask me for the same deal.” A few of the customers laughed, knowing I would never sell them top shelf liquor for ten to twelve dollars a shot.

I went around and collected the money, giving each participant a ticket, as Shannon began to mix the drinks. First up was the Russian Quaalude, with its greenish yellow color and hit of Galliano and green chartreuse liqueur. Next was an Oil Spill. The layered blue drink was potent, and pretty, containing Goldschläger, blue Curacao, and Jäegermeister. The third drink in the lineup was a twist on a classic but underserved shot. The Mexican Prairie Fire was too spicy for most, but I exchanged the silver vodka for a cinnamon vodka and added the requisite dash of Tabasco sauce. To finish off the tray, I’d chosen an Irish tribute to the Carrick clan, and one of my uncle’s favorites, Shamrocked. The medori melon gave it a greenish hue, the Irish whiskey added a kick, and the Irish cream liqueur cooled things off. Which they would need after downing the Mexican Prairie Fire.

Shannon put on a show, flipping bottles and tossing glasses. He was a master of his craft after years of practice slinging shots. The crowd was entertained and growing thirstier. Finally, Shannon placed the rectangular plate in front of Ryan.

His blue eyes popped wide. “Oh my gosh, I don’t know where to begin. How drunk is this going to make me?”

This was going to be so entertaining to watch. Ryan was a skinny little light weight. The alcohol was going to hit him hard.

“Completely plastered,” I answered honestly, smiling with satisfaction.

Ryan giggled and picked up the first shot. “Oohh! This gives me an idea. I should make a sampler of cake pops for The Sugar Rush.”

His bakery cart in the lobby of his condo, The Sugar Rush, was doing well since he’d opened it just two short months ago. “That’s a great idea. Everyone loves cake pops.”

My brother appeared behind Ryan’s shoulder. “Drink up, Boytoy. You’re always so much fun when you get drunk.”

Ryan swallowed each shot, his eyes becoming glassier with each one. He saved the Prairie Fire for last.

“Hurry up, Carly. Hand me a glass of milk.” Tears streamed down his cheeks as he fanned his mouth, panting to cool it off.

“Sorry, Ryan. I don’t have any milk behind the bar.”

“Help,” he shrieked.

Chuckling, Carson turned Ryan’s head, sealing their mouths together. He kissed him until Ryan’s hands stopped flapping, soothing the burn with his tongue.

When Carson pulled away, Ryan looked wrecked. “Carly, give me another shot of Prairie Fire. Hurry.”

I laughed at his cute attempt to get another kiss. “No more for you. I’m switching you to soda water.”

The tasting event was a huge success for the lounge. It brought in almost double the profit I had projected. Long after I sent my brother home with Ryan and cut Shannon loose, I found myself closing up the bar alone. With the exception of Rory, who refused to leave me on my own. I was actually grateful for his company. When I flipped the sign on the door to closed, Rory played with the sound system, choosing some popular boy band classics from the late nineties that he knew I would love.

I knew he wasn’t a fan of the music, preferring classic rock himself, and it meant a lot to me that he put my preference above his own. I was coming to realize that was the kind of man he was.

I was sweeping the lounge when he approached me, taking the broom from my hand.

“May I have this dance?”

He leaned it against the wall, led me out into the middle of the dance floor, and swept me into his arms. His cologne smelled intoxicating, not Cool Water this time, and I breathed him deep into my lungs. I was high on him; his scent, his warmth, his strength.

“You feel so good in my arms. Want to keep you here forever.”

His breath ghosted over my ear, sending shivers down my spine, straight to my dick.

Rory twirled me in a circle, and I followed his lead. “Can I convince you to spend your day off with me? At my house? I want to show it to you, cook dinner for you.”

I swallowed down my excitement and nerves. “I’d like that.”

“It’s a date, then.”

He leaned in close, and I thought he was going to kiss me. But instead, he touched his lips to my cheek, sliding them down to my jaw, where he nipped the skin. Then, he dragged his lips down my neck, leaving a wet trail before nuzzling the spot behind my ear.

I was incredibly turned on. I wanted more. More of his mouth and his hands. I was becoming addicted to the feeling of being swept away, out of my own body, out of my head, where I didn’t have to think or second-guess myself, just ride the storm of lust and emotion that clouded my mind and polluted my body whenever he touched me.

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