Whiskey Sour Noir (The Hard Stuff) Read Online Free

world as we know it. The lack of precipitation along the Atlantic coasts, the ensuing drought and famine, the freezing temperatures in normally mild areas. The resulting stock market crash, the housing crash, the everything crash. Hell in a fast-track hand basket. But all that tuned out as I watched Cat Avery strut back down the bar with a pretty little drink in his hand. And that’s what seemed, at the time, more relevant to my happiness than the rapidly dropping temperature of the Atlantic Ocean. He made me forget who I was and where we were at, allowing me to focus in on what I wanted to be.
    Naked. With Cat Avery. In his bed. Or, preferably, mine.
    He set the fuzzy drink in front of me with a jack flourish and, I have to say, I liked the color of that beverage. Reminded me of sunset on the bay. Of mango soup. Of the leaves up north in late October.
    “What’s in this?” I asked him while I lit into it with a sniff and a swaller. Yum . Smelled like it tasted, went down smooth and cool. Autumn like.
    “Three parts bourbon, two parts lemon juice, jigger of syrup. Shaken, and served on the rocks in an old fashioned glass.”
    He leaned across the bar between us, watching me with those tidal eyes of his. I tried to think about my drink, sipping intently, but it was no real use. He smelled like vacation, like limes and pineapples and sunbaked flesh.
    “You know your whiskey history, Tami Lee?” he asked.
    I said no and licked the sugar from my lips. Slow enough that I caught him watching my tongue. I have a nice sharp tongue. I was pretty sure he wanted it in his ear, navel, and elsewhere, so I stuck it out a little bit and smiled around it.
    “I’m serious,” he added. “Whiskey was around before Jesus was, and in my opinion has saved more men from despair.”
    Down the end of the bar by the rest rooms, a couple of young drinkers with their caps on backward stood up to fiddle with the TV. “I’ll get that for you, guys,” Avery called to them. He turned back to me and said, “I think we need time alone. To talk about the creation of the whiskey sour.”
    It was all I could do to not grab him in a headlock and drag him back to Love House, cavegirl style. Something about his victimhood brought out the primitive in me. I’m attracted to vulnerable losers. This is typical of women lacking confidence. But I just sat there, sipping at my sweet and sour, gave him a tiny nod. Like I was hesitant, rather than foaming at the bit. “What time you get off work?” was what I managed to say.
    “Five, or as soon as Chaz and Chet come in. Chet has his kid cleaning the johns, says it’ll man him up. Ever see the inside of the men’s room in this place? Not for the weak of gut.”
    He shook his handsome head and went down the bar to fix the TV the way the boys wanted it. More negativity from the talking heads, more dire warnings, more reason to drink too much and have wild sex with ex-cons. I didn’t care much for the whiskey sour. Not my kind of drink, too nice, too civilized. But it sure went down easy and it softened up the edges, giving my chicken ass a little kick in the direction intended.
    “You coming to my place after work or are you inviting me to yours?” I asked when Cat Avery returned to my end of the bar. When he looked startled, I turned it into a joke. “If the whiskey history lesson is long, we’ll have to finish it up somewhere.”
    I almost swallowed my tongue when he leaned right into me and kissed me on the mouth. His lips were cold, but wide and soft. He pushed his fat tongue into my mouth and ran it around my sticky teeth. He tasted as tropical as he smelled.
    When I reached up to touch his face, he pulled away, looked around like he was guilty of something. I didn’t think Chet would care if his bartender hustled a customer or two. Wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before. To me. In this very bar. In fact, I’d gone a few rounds with Chet himself when I first moved to Pearl Street.
    “You