Risky Whiskey

by Lucy Lakestone

  “You were hot.”

  Now it was his turn to look embarrassed. “Maybe this isn’t meant to be, Pepper.”

  I looked around for the nightstand clock and double-checked the time, trying to wake up. “I disagree, but we don’t have time for this conversation now. Or for breakfast, now that I think about it.”

  “They have a buffet Sunday brunch today,” he said. “It’ll be quick.”

  “Oh.”

  He rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing those sinewy arms. “Look, no pressure, OK? I have to check in with everyone, and if you feel like it, meet me for breakfast at ten thirty. And if not, then meet me in the ballroom at eleven.”

  His voice was even, and that cool demeanor was firmly back in place. Once again, I’d messed up my chances.

  I managed a nod. He gifted me with a tiny wink, scooped up his wallet and phone and badge, and left the room.

  “Poopsicles,” I muttered, and I flew across the hall to get ready.

  When I reached the hotel restaurant thirty-five minutes later wearing gray jeans, a scoopy white T-shirt, the leather necklace with the gator tooth, my black cat’s-eye glasses and a gray pinstripe vest, there was no Neil to be found. Odd. I didn’t think I’d ticked him off. It just wasn’t like him not to be there. And I was starting to count on him being there.

  I waited a few more minutes before rushing through the buffet. Restored by a pile of eggs and bacon and pancakes and two hastily downed cups of coffee, I made my way to the ballroom, absently rubbing the puncture in my messenger bag left by the arrow. I’d have to do something about that.

  This was one of the smaller ballrooms, long and relatively narrow, lined with tall windows that faced the street. Mixologists were already setting up their ingredients behind a string of ten rectangular tables on one side of the room. Each was decorated with a white tablecloth, a bamboo cutting board, a full set of sponsor-branded bar tools, several glasses in whatever shape each bartender had requested, and a stack of tiny plastic cups bearing the Cocktailia logo. A banner hung from each table touting that team’s featured liquor.

  At the far end, a judges’ table was set up with a white tablecloth, more flowers, and pitchers of water and glasses. Hydration was key at Cocktailia.

  Bohemia Distillery’s table was almost in the middle, two tables down from the Fairyland table, which featured Frilly Fairy Gin. There, Luke and Barclay were shooting each other arch glances as they took orders from Alastair, who was using his puffy bandaged hand to jab them whenever he was displeased.

  Spectators had begun to wander in, filling the few rows of chairs that faced the bartenders. Melody waved at me as she slipped into the back row with a rumpled-looking but undeniably cute guy—the trombone player. And Mark Fairman and a few of his friends came in, too. This time, he only smiled at me.

  A table behind the audience held a tiered display of bottles of the featured liquors. The booze nestled among lush floral arrangements and bowls filled with a bright assortment of oranges, limes and lemons. Smaller bowls featured other fruits and spices. There was also an array of small bottles of various bitters provided by another sponsor.

  I strolled over to the boys. “Have you seen Neil?”

  Barclay put down a lemon and a knife and shook his head. “No. I thought he’d be here a half hour ago. Hey, are you OK?” The soft warmth in his luminous, amber-flecked green eyes was almost more than I could take. I’d repressed the horrors of the previous evening, and sympathy only brought the bad memories out of hiding.

  “I’m fine,” I said brightly. At Barclay’s questioning look, I added, “Or I will be. Neil wanted me to help him today, but I don’t know where he went.”

  “Please, gentlemen,” Alastair interrupted in his crisp accent, which was almost as posh as his suit. He puffed to get his floppy boy-band bangs out of his eyes. “We have chopping to do.”

  “We’ve got this,” Luke said, unperturbed. Then to me: “Neil left a recipe over there, I think. Holler if you need us.”

  “You are mine today,” Alastair told him with a glower.

  “You wish,” Barclay muttered under his breath, and Luke and I laughed. But I took the hint, moved behind the tables to Bohemia’s spot and set down my bag.

  As promised, there was an index card face-down on the table behind the bottles of Bohemia Rye. I turned it over to find a recipe written out in small, neat capitals. It was from Neil’s book, a variation on a recipe created by a Portland bartender, the Blonde Redhead. Neil credited that one in his book for inspiration but called his the Hot Blonde.

  I looked it over, then went to the table to pick up a few oranges and, in a moment of inspiration, a cup of cloves and a bottle of chocolate bitters.

  It was almost show time. Where was Neil? I checked the broken screen of my phone. No calls. The only text was from Melody from earlier this morning: “Girl, what the hell do you get up to when I’m not looking? See you at the competition.”

  I scanned the audience. Melody was making out with her guy. Great. I was somewhat surprised to see Dash slip into the back of the room. He gave me a wan smile and waved, but there was a question in his eyes when he didn’t see our fearless leader.

  I texted Neil. “Getting ready. Where are you?”

  But he didn’t answer, and he didn’t appear. I was getting really worried, perhaps because of recent events, when a convention official appeared to start the competition—a tall, authoritative woman with a glistening afro and a purple pants suit that hugged her curves. She had a silver bell in her hand.

  “Cocktailians, we have a special treat for you today,” she announced. “Some of our best mixologists are competing to see who can make the best cocktail from our amazing sponsors’ spirits. They have just thirty minutes to produce their cocktails. Now let me introduce the judges!”

  To my dismay, the judges were not mixologists, bloggers, restaurateurs or enthusiasts. They consisted of a pretty entertainment reporter for a local TV station, a big guy who owned several car dealerships, a bigger football player, a semi-famous author (at least he probably knew how to drink), a bored-looking barely legal fashion magazine correspondent who would fit inside one of my pants legs, and the ubiquitous Raquel Tocks, who gave me an icy look before proceeding to ignore me.

  Neil still hadn’t arrived, so I sucked in a deep breath and steeled myself to mix my ass off.

  “And go!” our hostess said, ringing her bell, and we were cutting and clinking and pouring and mixing and rattling shakers.

  I opened a couple of bottles of the Bohemia Rye straight off, just to be sure I had enough. The Italian liqueur followed, the bittersweet Barolo Chinato, along with a really nice vermouth. Then I worked on the garnishes. In a few minutes, I’d created pretty orange-peel spirals studded with cloves that smelled fantastic.

  I was just getting into the mixology, measuring enough to make two cocktails at a time, when I remembered what I forgot.

  “Oh, crap. The ice!” I muttered. I looked around. No cooler. No fridge. When the competition started, hotel staff had brought out a big, clear bowl that was now filled with what we inelegantly called shit ice—sad ice machine cubes that been sitting around melting for a while. It mocked me from the table with the liquor. Not good enough, but unless I borrowed from someone else, it would have to do.

  Just when I was about to hyperventilate, or worse, ask Alastair for help, Neil walked into the room carrying a cooler. I could have kissed him right there. Well, anywhere, really, but I controlled myself.

  Right behind him was someone I never expected. My dad. Still dressed in his Sunday church suit, he nodded at me and smiled, then sat awkwardly in the back of the room.

  I tried to speak as Neil came around to the table, but not much came out. “I—that’s—”

  “Your dad. I know. I ran into him in the lobby when I went to get the ice, and he insisted on buying me a cup of coffee around the corner. He wanted to know all about you, how you were doing. He felt bad about the other day.
Then I realized I was running late, so I invited him up. How’s it going?”

  “Um, OK.” I struggled to get over my shock. “I—thank you?”

  “Least I could do after I railroaded you into seeing them,” Neil said.

  “No, you didn’t.” Well, he had, but that was OK. I shot my dad an answering smile, then dove into the work.

  I caught Neil up, and between us, we used pretty faceted mixing glasses to stir together the ingredients, more than enough for six cocktails. Neil placed large, glistening ice cubes in seven sparkling rocks glasses, and in tandem, which made for a very pretty shot for the event photographer roaming the room, we poured the potion into the glasses. Synchronized mixology.

  As Neil brushed the rims of the glasses with the insides of orange peels, setting free wonderful aromatics, I fingered the bottle of chocolate bitters, wondering if I should say anything. Finally I worked up the courage.

  “Listen, I know this isn’t in your original recipe—”

  Neil discarded the orange peel pieces and quirked his mouth at me. “Yes?”

  “But I was thinking these bitters might be a nice touch.”

  “I concur.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course!” he said. “I saw you had those and wished I’d thought of it myself. All recipes are works in progress, and I want our team to come up with twists, as it were. Makes us all better.”

  I smiled. I was part of the team. “We should test it first, though.”

  “That’s why I made an extra.” Neil pointed to the seventh glass. “Have at it.”

  I carefully used the eyedropper to add a few drops of the bitters to the glass. Then I gently placed one of the clove-studded garnishes in the glass. Normally we’d test a drink with a straw, but to get the full impact of the aromatics and the bitters, we needed to taste the complete cocktail.

  Neil sipped first. His eyes rolled back, and his low moan made my lady parts want to do the rhumba.

  I tried the drink next. “Yessss,” I hissed, once I found words after my mouthgasm.

  It was bittersweet. Complex. And I knew it would get better as the hunks of ice melted a bit. We exchanged a grin, and our eyes connected for a hot moment. Then the moment was gone as the noise of the crowd and the shout of “Five minutes!” popped our bubble.

  We got back to work, garnishing the remaining six glasses and setting them on the edge of our table.

  Despite some colorful English-flavored cursing from the Fairyland table, Barclay and Luke also were setting out their cocktails. That is, Alastair’s cocktails. So were the rest of the teams as our hostess rang her bell.

  “Time’s up, and what a fabulous-looking lineup we have for you!” She waved at the chef-jacketed helpers, who swept by the tables with their trays to pick up and deliver the glasses to the judges’ table at the end of the room.

  The judges wore broad smiles now as they took in the array of liquid jewels before them, and then they started sipping.

  “Now we have to make another batch,” Neil said.

  “What?”

  “It was in the memo I got.” He gestured to the plastic cups. “We have to put out a few samples for the crowd.”

  As the judges worked, so did we, whipping up enough of the mixture to fill a couple dozen of the small cups. We stirred the batch with ice first, since we couldn’t put fat cubes in the little cups, and we twisted orange peels over them to add some of the aromatics the judges were getting through our more elaborate presentation. Miniaturizing cocktails for the hoi polloi was one of those things mixologists hated about cocktail competitions.

  When we were done, we set the cups on the edge of the table and eyed the judges, who were nearly through their beverage bonbons.

  “What do you think?” I asked Neil.

  “I think it’s always better to be first or last. You’re either the first impression, or they’re drunk.”

  I laughed. “Raquel didn’t like ours.”

  “You saw that? What a face.”

  “I’m starting to think she never smiles.”

  “Maybe she’s in mourning.” Neil was always so understanding. For a moment I’d allowed myself to forget the horrors of the previous evening.

  Our hostess rang her bell again.

  “We need just a few minutes to tally the scores. I’d like to invite you all to come up and help yourself to a sample while we do the math!”

  The crowd wasn’t large, but when everyone rushed to the tables at once, it was a little overwhelming. Melody, who looked half-drunk from her makeout session at the back of the room, managed to slink her way to the front to pick up one of our Hot Blondes. Given her bedroom eyes, the drink could’ve been named for her.

  “Where’s your guy?” I asked, noticing the distinct lack of a trombonist on her arm.

  “He had a gig. C’est la vie. Just two ships passing … blah blah blah.” She took a sip. “Oh, damn, this is good. It will never win.”

  We laughed.

  I noticed my dad didn’t come up. He just sat at the back of the room, looking a little dazed.

  The bell rang again, and the spectators shuffled back to their seats, cups in hand, as our hostess began the announcements.

  “In third place, representing Bohemia Distillery’s Bohemia Rye, the Bohemia Bartenders with the Hot Blonde!”

  Neil and I looked at each other and laughed again. Melody was so right. But third wasn’t bad. We gladly went up front to accept our medals—one each for us, and one to give to Dash.

  We stood to the side as Fairyland Distillery won second place for its Frilly Fairy Gin concoction, a variation on a Bee’s Knees. Alastair waved off Luke and Barclay and went up front to accept the award. They just shrugged, smiled and sipped their cocktails.

  “I told you I’d beat you,” Alastair purred as he took his place next to us.

  “Revenge is a drink best served cold,” Neil murmured back, and Alastair’s eyes grew wide. So did mine. The retort was so unlike Neil, I had to chuckle.

  The winner, unsurprisingly, was a bright blue vodka drink.

  While Melody went to help Luke and Barclay clean up the Fairyland table, Neil and I began to pack up the Bohemia gear.

  With a goon following her, Raquel Tocks shot us a sharp look on her way out, curling her lip in an expression of distaste.

  Her teeth were blue.

  Dash came over and shook hands with both of us, then took his medal from Neil. “I don’t know what I would have done without you this week. All of you.” He touched the raised surface of the medal, and his brow wrinkled. “Or if I would have survived the week at all.”

  “Oh, Dash,” I said. “I hope it all works out.”

  “We’ll be happy to work with you anytime,” Neil added. “How’s Barnie?”

  “Much better, though …”

  We knew what he meant. But Barnie seemed like the solid kind of guy who would transcend his new disability, especially with Dash’s help.

  “Anyway,” Dash said, “thanks again. I’ll take you all out for drinks tonight for a change, OK?”

  “French 75 bar?” Neil and I both said at once.

  A genuine smile lit up Dash’s face. “Done. I’ll text you later.”

  Neil’s phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” he said as he fished it from his pocket and stepped away from the table.

  My father approached, his eyes bright. “This is quite the production. I really had no idea this is what you did,” he said. “It’s actually kind of neat.”

  I almost laughed at his astonishment.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t try your drink,” he added.

  He never was a drinker. But it almost felt like his apology wasn’t just about the cocktail. I nodded. “It was nice—I mean, thank you for coming.”

  “I think I needed to, Kayanne.” He held my gaze for a moment, then looked around at everyone loading up to leave. “Well, I’d better get back to your mother. We’ll talk soon?”

  I nodded, fighting an awkward impuls
e to cry. “Uh-huh,” I managed. We exchanged a brief hug, and he left.

  Getting ahold of myself, I resumed packing up our gear, and members of the audience snatched what was left of the branded cocktail kits out from under our noses. I snuck looks at Neil, who was still on the phone. He ended the call just as I finished closing the last box, but he didn’t move. Just stared out a window.

  I went over to him. “You OK?”

  He startled, then looked at me. “Um, fine. No. Maybe. Actually, I’m not sure.”

  “What was that about?”

  “I got a phone call from my dad.”

  “Oh, no. Is everything OK at home?”

  “It’s hard to say, since we don’t know all the details yet.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  “Remember I told you about my grandfather?”

  “The treasure hunter with a potential secret fortune and the antique dildo collection?”

  A hint of a smile cracked Neil’s serious mien for a moment, but only for a moment. “He’s missing.”

  Don’t miss Wrecked by Rum, Book 2 in the Bohemia Bartenders Mysteries!

  When rum collectors collide …

  When mixologist Pepper Revelle joins the Bohemia Bartenders for what promises to be an entertaining, rum-soaked tiki convention in sultry South Florida, she expects divine ukuleles, sublime swizzles and a chance to know chief bartender Neil a little better. What she gets is chaos — the death of a high-profile rum collector, a cast of sneaky suspects and ten thousand limes to squeeze.

  With one of their own under suspicion, Pepper and Neil set out to find the real killer. But behind the aloha shirts and cocktail parasols is a blender full of secrets. The centerpiece of the convention is a high-dollar tasting of rums that survived a shipwreck and other disasters, and when a precious bottle vanishes from the crime scene, everyone with a ticket is a suspect.

  As Pepper tries to keep the insatiable crowd inebriated and her gregarious dog Astra sober, she finds peril under every palm tree. It seems like everybody’s guilty of something. But who’s guilty of murder? And can she and Neil find the culprit before they’re smacked like the mint in a Mai Tai?