Whiskey Kisses Read online

  Whiskey Kisses

  3:AM Kisses Book 4

  Addison Moore

  Edited by: Sarah Freese

  Cover design by: Gaffey Media

  Interior design and formatting by: Amy Eye of The Eyes for Editing

  Copyright © 2014 by Addison Moore

  http://addisonmoorewrites.blogspot.com/

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Books by Addison Moore:

  New Adult Romance

  Someone to Love (Someone to Love 1)

  Someone Like You (Someone to Love 2)

  Someone For Me (Someone to Love 3) July 2014

  3:AM Kisses (3:AM Kisses 1)

  Winter Kisses (3:AM Kisses 2)

  Sugar Kisses (3:AM Kisses 3)

  Whiskey Kisses (3:AM Kisses 4)

  Rock Candy Kisses (3:AM Kisses 5) Coming soon!

  Beautiful Oblivion (Beautiful Oblivion 1)

  Beautiful Illusions (Beautiful Oblivion 2) Coming 2014

  The Solitude of Passion

  Celestra Forever After (Book 1)

  Young Adult Romance

  Ethereal (Celestra Series Book 1)

  Tremble (Celestra Series Book 2)

  Burn (Celestra Series Book 3)

  Wicked (Celestra Series Book 4)

  Vex (Celestra Series Book 5)

  Expel (Celestra Series Book 6)

  Toxic Part One (Celestra Series Book 7)

  Toxic Part Two (Celestra Series Book 7.5)

  Elysian (Celestra Series Book 8)

  Ephemeral (The Countenance Trilogy 1)

  Evanescent (The Countenance Trilogy 2)

  Entropy (The Countenance Trilogy 3)

  Ethereal Knights (Celestra Knights)

  Prologue

  Izzy

  When I was a girl I’d whisper my wishes and dreams into a jar, screw the lid on tight, and collect them all for someday. My world once had everything—powder blue skies, starry nights lit up like a pirate’s treasure, and wide open meadows I’d run through while taking in vats of fresh North Carolina air. Then on a dime, the sun went dark, the stars faded to nothing, and I lacked the oxygen I needed to breathe. The night that my life changed forever, I opened the lid on that silly jar and let all of my wishes and dreams evaporate to nothing into the cold, cruel world I was abandoned in.

  In retrospect, I can see the ominous pattern my life is mapping out. My world seems to fracture at least once a decade, and, seeing that I’ve just crested the horizon on twenty-seven, I’d say I’m overdue. I’m not a superstitious person by nature, but when you have a track record of misfortune it makes you uneasy enough to glance over your shoulder now and again just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  The first fracture came when I was just a child. My father left us when I was seven and my sister only two. He called me Little Bit, a play on Elizabeth, and I believed that was my true moniker to the point of correcting my teacher and classmates. My name was Little Bit because my father never lied. And it was so on that day he came to me with tears in his eyes and said he was leaving and never coming back. I stood stoic next to my mother, my sister dangling from her hip, and listened as he poured out instructions over me. Make sure Momma is never alone. Protect your little sister. And write me. Even though he said he would never get my letters—I did. I wrote feverishly. Every year I would designate a different color paper, different textures—one year they were all in the shape of a leaf. After a while I thought maybe when he came back I would string them out like party decorations and the house would be festive, dressed in the pastel sheets I bathed in tears. But he never came, the party never happened, and all of the letters remain entombed in a box where my father will never read them just as he said.

  I wish I could say the next fracture happened as unexpectedly as the first, but this time all of the signs were laid out in front of me by way of wandering eyes, groping hands that belonged to the men my mother dragged home like pigeons she baited with a box trap. The night before my eighteenth birthday was the day the universe laid a bruise over my existence and burnt my world to cinders once again. The first fracture tore my heart in half. The second broke my spirit. I remember the last moment before I walked through that fire. The dance class I taught had just let out. The room cleared, and standing by the door was the brother of one of the girls. Holt Edwards had eyes so luminescent he could light up a dark alley at midnight as bright as a football stadium.

  He tilted into me filled with all the adolescent angst you could ask for and said, “Izzy Sawyer, you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.” He kicked the floor, and his shoe squeaked before he walked out of the room as if nothing happened. It was the last bit of sunshine in my world before I was forced to drink a bitter cup full of vinegar and bile, and to this day when I think of that horrible night, Holt’s beautiful eyes still shine through the darkness like a distant ray of hope.

  And now, here we are, all these years later on my bed with nothing but a bottle of whiskey splitting the difference. Holt Edwards looks at me expectantly—his eyes slit with wanting, his entire face glazed over with lust for me.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Maybe.” I feel it coming like an animal senses an earthquake rumbling, long before the tremor ever hits the surface.

  Holt digs into me with those unearthly pale eyes. “What has you running scared?”

  And there it is. I take another bitter hit from the bottle and let the fire race all the way down to my gut.

  “So—you want all of my secrets on a platter.” I blink a smile as the room starts to sway. “You tell me yours—I’ll tell you mine.” I’ve long since suspected Holt has been harboring his own issues.

  Holt takes the bottle and indulges in one last swig before settling it between his legs. He looks up with a devilish grin, and suddenly I’m very damn thirsty for whiskey.

  “Why do I feel like you’re changing the subject?” I reach down and cradle the bottle with my fingers grazing over the blooming hardness in his jeans. “Hello there.” I glance down as I move the whiskey to the nightstand.

  “He can’t quite hear you.”

  “Maybe I’d better bring my mouth a little closer.” I run my tongue over my bottom lip, and the smile slopes right off his face. “Secrets?”

  “How about we focus on the here and now?” He scoots over and pulls me onto his lap. His breath warms my neck with the strong scent of whiskey. When I was little, I would open that old bottle my mother keeps as a shrine and take in its scent. It always reminded me of fresh cut wood, of a forest, a man, but oddly never of my father.

  Holt holds the scent of a country meadow, earthy and raw. His fingers dig into my flesh as he massages his way up my thighs. I roll my head and give a soft groan until it feels as if I’m falling right through him. Holt and I don’t need liquor. We can get drunk simply off each other. Holt is the only high I’ll ever need.

  “I’m sort of liking the here and now.” My heart thumps, wild and rabid, as it tries to break free from its cage. I reach up and run my fingers over his rough stubble. Holt is handsome as hell, kind, and I’m pretty certain he’d kill for me. He’s my pot of gold, that’s for sure. I wonder if he’d want to live in this room with me forever. How could I ever explain that those were the terms I promised my father—that I could never abandon my mother to the fate of being alone after she sacrificed so much for Laney and me.

  “What’s running through your mind?” He smears my lips with a juicy kiss.

  “I’m thinking you should stay right here in this bed and never leave.” I blow the words right over his lips. “You in?”

  “I’m in.” Holt lies over me, and my robe opens voluntarily.

  “There’s something I want to give you,” I whisper as my heart fires in my chest like a gunshot.

  “What’s that?” He traces my lips examining me like this, naked and splayed beneath him.

  “All of me.”

  1

  Heart in a Blender

  Izzy

  Dear Dad,

  Everything is going great. I’m on track to graduate, I’ll be getting married in a few weeks to the man of my dreams, and I love where I work.

  Actually, that’s Laney’s life. But don’t worry about me. I’m pretty happy with Mom. And, most importantly, I’ve kept Laney safe just the way you told me. It cost a little more than I bargained for, but things that are worth it usually do.

  Love,

  ~Iz

  “Would you get a load of that tight ass?”

  Jemma leans so far out of her seat I have to pull her back by the elbow before she does a face-plant onto the floor. She’s waiting for her sister to arrive much like I am. Although I never look down on a minute I get to spend with my best friend since these moments are far and few between as of late. We’re just killing time by staring at the aforementioned tight ass.

  “Leave it to you to balance out equal rights by objectifying the male species.”

  “Oh, hon, I ain’t objectifying.” Jemma has held onto her country accent ever since she moved to North Carolina in the middle of junior high. It’s one of the things I love about her. Jemma is not only fun as hell to listen to, but she comes fully equipped with a plethora of what I’ve grown to accept as Je
mma-isms—slightly salted words of wisdom that are eerily on target. “If he didn’t want all eyes on deck, he wouldn’t dress that way.” Point in case. Jemma is the worst offender when it comes to objectifying anyone with an extra appendage slung between their legs. She fluffs out her deep fried hair and plucks a cigarette from her purse simply out of habit. Jemma knows there’s no smoking in the Black Bear—Holt Edwards and his tight ass have probably warned her enough in the past. She moans as he walks by. “He keeps strutting around in those bun-hugging jeans, and I keep noticing.”

  I sneak a glimpse at Holt with his tall, sturdy frame. He’s built like a linebacker, muscular, but not overly so. He’s got the same thick hair I remember and those illuminating eyes that look as though they have the ability to see right through your soul. He glances in our direction, and I’m quick to turn back to Jemma. A wave of heat floods over me at the thought of him heading this way. I’ve never understood how he has the power to make my heart flutter like a love struck schoolgirl. Whenever we meet, the air seems to thicken unnaturally. My body heats up ten degrees, and my fingertips tremble to touch him. He’s gorgeous beyond belief—that should explain the blatant desire my body has to worship his. But Holt already has more than his fair share of devout parishioners willing to sacrifice daily at his king-size altar. He’s a little younger than me, but obviously my hormones couldn’t give a rat’s ass if he were an embryo. I hate feeling helplessly attracted to someone, mostly because I hate feeling out of control.

  He walks down to the far end of the bar, and I take the opportunity to further investigate Jemma’s skintight theory.

  “They’re not bun-hugging.” I tilt my head to better inspect our friendly bartender’s rear assets. “They’re loose and sort of low hanging. And, by the way, I’m pretty sure Ron wouldn’t appreciate that.” Ron is Jemma’s latest spousal acquirement. At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, she’s managed to amass three of them in rapid gunfire succession. She’s two divorces up on me, and here I’ve yet to get out of the conjugal starting gate. Not that I’m looking to venture into that lawyer-laden not-so-great beyond. In fact, I’m pretty content right here in the singles stall with no desire to jump into the matrimonial spiral that seems to have swallowed up so many of my girlfriends. Jemma and I stopped juxtaposing our lives around the time she had baby number four with daddy number three.

  Holt catches my eye again. He’s lean and mean and full of enough testosterone to let everyone in a ten-mile radius know he’s ready and willing to light any ripe coeds fire. But it’s me he keeps stealing glances at—lingering those silver eyes over mine like a skin graft.

  He heads in this direction, and I straighten.

  Jemma’s mouth opens to say something, and I covertly shake my head at her. Shit. Jemma is known to espouse all sorts of wild crap at the least opportune moments. Please God, let her pick another time to balance out the scales of tight-ass injustice.

  “Hey, ladies.” Holt leans over my shoulder and the entire left side of my body erupts into flames like dry brush in August. “Can I get you something? We’ve just put in a full lunch menu.” He points to the laminated sheets that Jemma and I are currently resting our elbows on.

  “Burger and fries. Throw on one of those fancy cocktails, too.” Jemma wets her lips as her gaze drops to his crotch. “How about a Scantily Clad Cabana Boy for starters?”

  “Never heard of it, but I can look it up.”

  “Oh, hon, you can make it any way you like.” Jemma shakes the girls when she says it, and I avert my eyes for fear of having one of them poked out by an errant nipple.

  “How about you?” Holt kneels beside me with his silver eyes harnessing the light and mastering its wayward beams. “How’ve you been, Izzy?” He breaks out a warm grin all for me, and my body melts right into the seat.

  “I’ve been good. And you?”

  “Same story, different day.” He tweaks his brows, and my insides jump right along with them. “How about it? You up for inventing a new cocktail this afternoon?” He gives Jemma a quick wink at the dig.

  “How about we keep it simple. Just a strawberry daiquiri for me. Make it a virgin.” Much like myself. Virgin—Izzy Sawyer, they’re interchangeable at this point. But just the reaction my body is having to Holt lets me know it might be time to rectify that. Maybe it is time to switch things up in my life.

  That amber bottle my mother keeps in the kitchen flashes through my mind.

  “You know—make it whiskey,” I say. It was my father’s favorite drink. My mother has kept his unfinished bottle of Jack Daniel’s just above the stove for the last twenty years, and I’ve hailed it as a shrine ever since.

  “From virgin to whiskey in a single bound. Whiskey it is. How do you want that?” Holt growls it out like a sexual command, and my entire body responds.

  “Make it any way you like,” I purr right back. I can’t help flirting a little with him. His brand of perfection demands it.

  “That’s always a brave answer, sweetie.” He gazes at me a moment too long, and I drink him in with his dark stubble peppering his cheeks, his intense glowing eyes—lips of crimson—and my stomach squeezes tight.

  He takes off, and Jemma starts in on a series of spastic kicks under the table.

  “Would you stop?” I retract my feet and scoot back an inch. “I’m going to bruise. And I have a class to teach in a few hours.”

  “He called you, sweetie.” She presses her lips together, but a laugh bubbles through anyway. “Oh, hon, he just tapped you on the shoulder and told you to get in his bed.” She shakes her head, pleased with her ability to connect the sexual dots—albeit incorrectly. “Ten bucks says you can have that shiny tight ass on a platter by midnight if you play your whiskey right.”

  “Please. I’m not plating him or anybody else up by midnight, and I don’t plan on touching the whiskey.” Maybe just enough to wet my lips.

  “Knew it.” Her eyes pull with sadness, an almost foreign emotion for Jem. “Does your daddy ever leave your mind?”

  I slide down in my seat a few inches. Jemma Jackson has always had the uncanny ability to read me like a book—more like a picture book that shows the same heartbreaking scene on every single page.

  “He does,” I whisper. “But lately he’s really been on my mind, and it makes me wonder what it means.”

  “I know exactly what it means.” She touches her hand to mine. “It’s time to get you to a good therapist. Trust me, hon, this is long overdue.” She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. “Make sure you get one of those touchy feely ones that know how to make you feel extra good when the session is through. We’ll find you someone who’s ready and willing to straighten you out a little.”

  “I know where this is going, and I don’t need a sex therapist, Jem.”

  Holt pops up like an apparition. “I should hope not.” His dimples dig in and—oh crap.

  Turns out I don’t need to worry about Jemma’s wayward mouth. My own is quite capable of landing me in a steaming pile of humiliation.

  He leans in, and his cologne washes over me like a heat wave at midnight. His cheek glides up one side as if all hell were about to break loose. And, judging by the way my thighs are quivering, it so is.

  “Here you go.” Holt sets a pair of matching amber drinks in front of us and the vanilla rich scent permeates my senses. It’s a far cry from my usual catalog of virgin cocktails, and I’m pretty sure the only virgin in this scenario is me. It’s nothing I’m shouting out over the rooftops, but it’s something that’s been swirling around my mind now that Jemma so subtly suggested I see a therapist who might be bribed into a one-night stand with the hope he’ll straighten me out a little.

  Holt lands a plate of burger and fries in front of Jem before directing his attention to me.

  “Thank you.” I give a weak smile. I’ve known Holt forever. His little sister, Annie, took private lessons at my mother’s dance studio for years. Annie is one of the sweetest kids I’ve ever had the pleasure to teach. She was born completely deaf, but her determination to live a full life has put it in her heart that she can do anything she sets her mind to, and, for a while, that happened to be dance.