Page 7 of Whiskey Throttle
I inhaled too sharply, the sound of my real name catching in my throat. No one called me that. Not my friends, not my ex-husband, not even my son. Hearing it now, spoken with reverence, with heat, made me feel seen in a way that stripped me bare.
My jaw clenched, my mind went blank, unable to form a response. This man is my son’s age. My son’s best friend was making a pass at me. Even in the thick fog of humiliation and heartache from the night’s events, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering there. Maybe hoping something would come out of it, words to push him away or a whisper that would draw him closer. Neither occurred to me.
I sat in stunned silence, the weight of the moment pressing down on my chest, making it impossible to breathe, let alone speak. Then he stood, slow and controlled.
His glass was abandoned. He moved past me, and I held my breath, unsure what would happen next. As he passed, his fingertips grazed the side of my neck. A barely-there caress that seared straight through me, down to the place that still remembered what it felt like to be wanted. To be desired.
“I’m here if you need someone to talk to. Someone who understands.”
He paused by the door, his voice low and gentle.
“Goodnight, Babs.”
I turned to look at him, but he was already gone. The door clicked softly behind him. He looked at me like he saw me. Like he wanted to. And God help me, I wanted to be seen.
His imprint still heats my skin when I blink away the memories of that encounter. The fashion show is wrapping up around me. The chairs are scraping as attendees move to the trunk show to buy the goods modeled around us today. I grab my clutch, intending to follow the crowd, when I pause, reach inside my purse, and retrieve my phone. The number I saved is the one I got when I called Dominic and asked for it.
I glance down, tap out a simple text message.
Thank you.
My heart beats faster. The unexpected pull of hope blooms in a dead garden. I drink the remains of my champagne. It still tastes flat, but I feel different now. Not better or worse. Just more real.
In my world, that’s the most dangerous feeling of all.
CHAPTER 3
HOLLISTER
Her. Maybe it was how I left it. How beautiful, yet sad, she looked, staring back at me with that haunted look. The fire in her eyes had died, replaced with a vacancy that unsettled me. It’s a look I’ve seen before. Haunted me before. I hated seeing it, especially on her.
I knew she needed a break. Dom, either too oblivious to notice or simply didn’t care, wasn’t going to help his mom out. I certainly couldn’t see her looking like that in front of all the vultures that circle society events in search of their next prey. Her crying is an easy target. Now my brain won’t shut the hell up.
It keeps going over the message like it’s going to morph into something else. Something clearer. Maybe she’ll follow up with Just kidding, wrong number or forget that you received it and pretend I didn’t send it.
She doesn’t.
It just sits there. Loud, obnoxious, and demanding a response. My grip tightens around the throttle. I ride harder. Faster. Try to shake it off. The wind doesn’t help. Neither do Em’s reckless showboating nor Massimo’s dumb commentary.
The truth is, I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do. Do I reply? Say what? You're welcome? Do I ignore it?
That feels worse. Rude and cold. Something her son would do. It goes against how I was raised and the expectation that all communication, even unknown or unwanted, is met with a response. And if I ignore it, I am pretending it didn’t happen, and it did.
It definitely happened. She cried. I pulled her away to the men’s lounge for privacy.
What was I thinking?
Granted, I was a bit tipsy myself. Having knocked back more than one whiskey at the event, then had another with her. She wanted to talk, and I listened. Rarely, if ever, did I see her vulnerable as I did that night. She looked broken. Damage done by someone else long ago. Long before me, and shared whiskey.
Then the touch. I couldn’t keep from caressing her neck. Her pale skin shines. Smooth as moonlight. My fingers itched to touch it. To know what milky glass felt like. Fuck if it wasn’t the softest flesh I’ve ever felt.
That’s saying a lot with how much I fuck around. Now she’s thanking me.
What the fuck?
Most people in our world don’t thank you for anything. They nod. They toast. They move on. But Barbara Barrette, Babs to the world, doesn’t move on. She doesn’t do anything without purpose. It means something. I don’t know what.
