Worth the Whiskey: Love on the Banks, #3

By J. Silence

Take one predictable, reliable accountant subtract one cheating ex-boyfriend, add a damaged, workaholic pub owner, and combine with a cross-country flight and several bottles of whiskey. Pour over the sand of the Outer Banks and watch the fireworks.

Harlee - I'm sure my life is over when a spur-of-the-moment lunch date with my long-time best friend turns into me finding my boyfriend nailing a blonde bimbo in my bed. My bestie reassures me it's not, but she's been wrong before. Men suck. Except for Jack Daniels. He never lets me down. After a week in bed and a strange moment of clarity, I hop the first flight out of LAX and end up on the other side of the country in a bar with a seriously hot bartender. But all men are cheaters. I'd rather be a crazy cat lady in Venice Beach than have my heart stomped on again, but how do I resist his southern charm?

Zack - After being shot down by enemy fire on my last mission before leaving the Air Force, I threw myself into making my brewpub, The Flight Deck, the best in the Outer Banks. My focus and dedication have made my bar a favorite among the year-round locals and the tourists that flood our beaches for eight or nine months of the year. The other thing my focus has done is left me with is no time to date. Not that I want to date the beach bunnies that slip me their digits every night. I want a family like the one I grew up in, but that's not going to just fall into my lap. Or at least, that's what I think until she stumbles into my bar. 
 

Can a broken accountant and a damaged bartender heal each other's wounds and learn that they are both worthy of love and affection, or will their pasts remind them they aren't worth the whiskey?

Recommended for 18+ years for naughty words, naughty scenes (in public!), and a whole lot of whiskey.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margeaux Nix
• Release date: Jun 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201498290

Book preview

Chapter 1

Harlee

H arlee babes! I’m finished in court early. Let’s get some lunch to celebrate my win, my best friend since kindergarten, Isabella Rossi - lawyer extraordinaire, defender of the weak, and all-around great gal - says into the phone without greeting.

Hi Isa, I sigh. Not sure I can get away right now. I’m eyeball-deep in spreadsheets.

"Sure you can. No one will die if their accountant doesn’t take a lunch break. I’ll meet you at the Blue Café in twenty."

She disconnects our call before I can respond. She knows it’s the only way I’ll agree to meet her for lunch. I replace my desk phone into the cradle and glance at the clock. Twelve-thirty, the height of lunch rush-hour in LA. I’ll have to leave now if I don’t want to be late. And I hate being late.

I lock my computer and grab my purse from my bottom desk drawer and head to the tiny bathroom attached to my office to check my hair and apply a fresh layer of lip-gloss. The private bathroom and my corner office with amazing views of LA are only a few small perks of being the daughter of my accounting firm’s owners. My parents, Susan and Derek Davis started Davis & Davis Accounting thirty years ago right after they got married. When I was born two years later, it was assumed that I would join the business and eventually take over. So that’s what I’m doing. That’s me. Always doing as expected.

I don’t take risks because the accountant in me demands the safe and predictable. I prefer spreadsheets with neat columns and rows that add up perfectly – both in my job and in my life. I like lists and order. I found comfort in the knowledge that I knew what I’d do with my life while my friends were still figuring out how to combine a social life with schooling.

I’m meeting Isa for lunch. I’ll be back in about an hour, I call to my mother who is chatting with her secretary outside her office.

Have fun sweetheart. Tell Isabella we said ‘Hello’. She smiles sweetly and returns to her conversation without even a warning about making sure to be back in time for this afternoon’s staff meeting. My mother knows how reliable I am.

I nod and wave at her as the elevator doors close. I ride down the fifteen floors, grateful to my friend for forcing me to take a lunch break. My eyes were starting to cross with that damn spreadsheet. It’s something I’ve been working on for a few days already and the numbers just aren’t adding up. It’s driving me batty.

Some of my clients are so disorganized, that I don’t know how they manage to function on even a basic level. They show up once a year – in tax season – with a box of receipts and paperwork that takes me days to organize. They promise to do better next year but inevitably return to the same state just in time for the next round of taxes.

When the elevator doors open, I climb into my 2019 four-door white BMW sedan parked in my reserved space in the building’s underground parking lot and set my purse on the seat next to me. I fasten my seatbelt, check my mirrors then start the engine and slowly back out of my space.

I arrive at the café exactly three minutes early. Not bad considering traffic was a nightmare. Isa is already seated with a glass of lemonade in front of her and a glass of iced tea across from her, waiting for me.

How’d you get here so fast? I ask her when I settle in across from her.

I was already in my car driving when I called. You hate to be late, so I knew I wouldn’t be waiting long. I’ve only been here a few minutes. I ordered us our usuals, Isa says and tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder.

So what case were you working on today? I asked sipping my tea.

"That domestic abuse case for the TRO. I got it put into place permanently and got the bail and visitation rights revoked on the dirtbag. All in all, a pretty successful morning, if I do say so myself."

My bestie, saving the day again, I laugh.

Hey, you know how I feel about scum like that.

"Yes, I do. There’s a special place in Hell for people who abuse women and children," I repeat Isabella’s life mantra. She and her mother were victims of abuse for many years until her drunkard dad was killed when he wrapped his car around a telephone pole. Isa was ten years old. Her family was wealthy, so no one knew the extent of her father’s drinking until he died. His autopsy had shown three times the legal limit of alcohol had been flowing through his veins at the time of the crash. Amazingly, he managed not to kill anyone else that night. Since then, both she and her mom have dedicated themselves to helping others in similar situations.

The waiter arrives with our food and our conversation stalls for a few minutes while we eat those first few amazing bites to satisfy our rumbling bellies. Only then do we pick back up with our conversation.

So...are you still with Colt the cocksucker? Isa asks just as I take a bite. I nearly choke on my sandwich at her bluntness. I finish chewing and swallowing, taking my time so I don’t say anything I’ll later regret.

Why are you asking? You know that I am. You also know that I hate that you call him that.

Harlee, Isa sighs. "Babe, why are you still with him? You deserve so much better than a man that talks down to you, berates you in front of his friends, and sleeps around."

He doesn’t talk down to me, I defend. "And you don’t know he’s cheating."

Yeah, it’s a weak argument when faced with her other accusations, especially since I’m not entirely sure he doesn’t sleep around, but it’s all I’ve got.

Are you sure about that? You know about those rumors I’ve heard around the office. My sources are rarely wrong.

But they’re just rumors, Isa. I don’t care how accurate your ‘sources’ are. You don’t have any proof that he’s cheating. And until I have proof, I’m not giving up on the only guy to be interested in me since high school.

So all you need is proof that he’s a philandering asswipe and you’ll leave?

Well...

Because if that’s all it will take to get you to see the light, one phone call to the detective that my firm keeps on retainer, and I can arrange that.

Isa! I gasp in outrage, inhaling a piece of spinach and inciting more gasps, coughs, and wheezing. Isabella crouches next to my chair to pat my back and dislodge the stuck food. When she stands to return to her seat, she and a passing waiter collide. In super-slow motion, I see the full tray of drinks he’s carrying tip and sway while he tries in vain to keep the glasses upright. One glass after another tip, causing a chain reaction on the tray. One minute I’m dry, the next, I’m drenched, as the wobbling tray and its contents crash all around me.

Leelee Isa gasps, using the childhood nickname that I’ve always hated but only she is allowed to use. Oh, honey! Are you ok?

I flash my friend a look that clearly says, ‘Do I look ok?’ My brown hair is drenched and sticky, I feel my makeup running down my face, my blouse is nearly transparent, and my skirt is soaked and sticking to my skin. The man must have had enough drinks on that tray for the entire restaurant, and every single glass managed to empty itself directly on me. There is no way I am this wet from just a glass or two of water.

Ma’am, I am so sorry! The cute waiter says while trying in vain to clean me up. What can I do to help you?

Nothing. There is nothing you can do to help me. I fight back the tears that want to fall. Just, get us the check. Please. And, don’t call me ma’am.

On the house. Again, I’m so sorry. Ma’- uh, Miss, the waiter says, catching himself before calling me ma’am again and adding insult to injury. I’m not old enough to be a ma’am. Certainly not mature enough for it.

Isa and I gather our things and head towards the door of the café. I keep my head down as I walk, not wanting to meet the disgusted or curious gazes of any other customers. Isa steers me towards her car and settles me in the front passenger seat. I didn’t even realize what she was doing until she climbs in next to me and starts her car. She answers my questioning look without taking her eyes off the road and all the traffic.

I’ll drive you back to your place and make you some lunch while you get cleaned up. Then I’ll bring you back here to collect your car, ok? I only nod. I still feel like I’m stuck in high school, despite my partnership at one of the city’s biggest accounting firms. This isn’t the first time I’ve been drenched during a lunch break. It used to happen on the regular in school. So much so, that I started keeping everything I’d need to be presentable in my gym locker – new clothes, makeup, and whatever was needed to fix my hair before my next class. Sometimes it was an accidental spill, sometimes not. I never reported either because why make waves? That would only make things worse.

Isa pulls into the valet station at my apartment building about twenty minutes later thanks to the traffic gods smiling on us with all green lights along the route. She tells the valet to keep her car handy since we won’t be here long.

Afternoon, Ms. Davis, Ms. Rossi, my doorman, Fred, greets us. Normally I love chatting with the older gentleman, but not today. Today I need to get cleaned up and forget about the embarrassment from the café. Then I need to get back to my office to remind myself I’m no longer the girl I was in high school.

We walk down the hall to my tenth-floor condo and Isa uses her spare key to let us in. My keys are still in my purse. I think my purse is still in Isa’s car. I don’t remember grabbing it when we left the cafe, so I’m hoping that she did. Isn’t that what best friends are for? Remembering things when you are too embarrassed to remember them yourself?

Go get cleaned up while I make us something to eat.

I walk back the hall towards my bedroom to change still in a bit of a daze. There is noise coming from my room. Apparently, I left the TV on when I’d left for work in a rush after oversleeping this morning. I usually listen to the news while I shower and do my hair and make-up and get dressed. Instead of the news, now all I hear are the horrible sounds of daytime TV-some soap opera or sex talk show-filling the hall and getting louder as I approach my bedroom. Dammit! I bet my neighbors loved listening to that all day!

I open the door and turn into my closet which is just inside the door. I kick off my sensible, two-inch heels and start pulling my soaking wet blouse from my skirt, unbuttoning it to keep it from sticking to my skin. The sex sounds are loud enough to wake the dead. I go in search of the remote to silence the horrible sex sounds coming from my TV.

Harder Colt! Fuck me, harder!

Like that baby?

Then the crack of a hand across an ass followed by a groan and another smack and groan. I stand utterly still, taking in the scene in front of me. I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think. I can only watch in stunned disbelief and absolute horror as my boyfriend of nine months fucks another woman...in my bed.

Do you want a BLT or...? Isa asks, letting her question trail off as she takes in the scene. She whips out her phone and holds it up to the scene for several seconds before she lets her lawyer’s side emerge.

Hey Colt! she calls. Yoo-hoo! Colt! You have company dirtbag.

Colt is obviously not hearing my friend’s calls, because he is too busy with the woman he has bent over my bed. He pistons into her so hard that I fear he’s going to break my bed or smash the headboard through the wall.

Fuck me harder Colt! I love the way you always make me come so hard! the blonde bimbo screams.

Colt grabs her hair and yanks her back off her knees and groans loudly as he empties himself into the moaning woman.

Well, I’d say she gets an Oscar for that performance, Isa says loud enough that the two lovers’ heads finally turn in our direction. Though, Colt, your performance needs some work.

Harlee? What the fuck babe? Colt growls at me, releasing the bimbo and pulling out of her still semi-erect. He pulls up his boxers and pants that are bunched around his ankles and tucks himself back in still wearing the used condom. What the hell are you doing here?

"What am I doing here? This is my apartment. This is my bed. You are my boyfriend. What is she doing here, Colt? What are you doing here fucking another woman?" I scream at him, having finally found my voice.

"Ah, so you’re the frigid bitch? Blondie asks in a singsong, knowing voice. She climbs from the bed and looks me over, head to toe. Her look screams sympathy and so do her next words. No wonder he needs to blow off steam with me. The way you look, you couldn’t get a rise out of a man with a Viagra and a whole library of porn."

Blondie walks towards me slipping back into her clothes piece by piece, her hips swaying and her huge boobs bouncing as she moves easily in her sky-high stilettos. She pulls on a skimpy skirt and a tiny tank top that barely covers her boobs. No bra and no panties. I don’t know if she doesn’t care about finding them, or just wasn’t wearing them, to begin with. She looks back at Colt and blows him a kiss before walking out of my apartment.

Get out.

Baby, you don’t mean that. Cindi is just a piece of ass to blow off some steam when I’m stressed. You know you’re the one I love, right?

Get out.

Baby, I just use her for sex because you don’t like it. I know you don’t like sex because it’s too messy. And a man has needs baby and-

Don’t. Call. Me. Baby. Get out of my apartment and leave your key on the counter and don’t ever come back, I say through gritted teeth and a haze of tears. I force as much venom and hate into my words as I possibly can. I blink rapidly to push back the sting of tears, refusing to allow myself to cry in front of this asshole. He doesn’t deserve my tears.

C’mon Harlee. You know you don’t mean it, Colt slips his hands around my waist, trying to bring me close to him. Our hips meet and I can feel the semi he is still sporting from his romp with Blondie pressing against my stomach. My stomach roils and my hands begin to shake as I fight my body’s urge to vomit.

The woman asked you to leave. I suggest you listen, Isa demands. I’d forgotten she was here. When I glance at her, she still has her phone up, recording the entire awful scene.

Is that your professional advice, counselor?

It is. I’ll send you a bill for my services.

Get the fuck out of my house! I scream so loudly my throat burns from it. My outburst draws their attention back to me. I am hanging on by a very thin and fraying thread. If he doesn’t get out of here soon, I may do something I will regret. I mean it, Colt. Get out and stay out. We’re through!

Colt is silent for a few moments, looking at me like he’s never seen me before, or like I’m some new specimen under a microscope. I can only imagine the image he’s taking in... my hair is drenched and makeup runny from the incident at the café, my blouse unbuttoned and hanging open, revealing my plain white utilitarian bra and my sensible shoes are lying on the floor next to me.

You’ll regret this baby. You know I’m the only man that will ever have you, and even I don’t want to fuck a cold fish like you.

He grabs his shirt and pulls it on, making sure to brush his erection against me as he passes me in the tight confines of the doorway. Moments later, I hear the front door slam closed and it’s my release to allow myself to cry. My knees collapsed and my sobs fill the air. Isabella’s arms wrap around me, and she holds me, rocking back and forth while I weep uncontrollably for interminable minutes. She gently caresses my hair and offers words of solidarity that I barely hear through my grief.

Go get into the shower. Make the water as hot as you can stand it. Wash everything. I’ll take care of everything else, Isa directs me, pulling me to my feet and pushing me towards my bathroom. She turns on the water and helps me out of my wet blouse and skirt. Then she motions for me to finish striping while she takes care of everything else.

I stand under the water, but I don’t feel it hitting my skin. I wash my hair and body like I was told to do, but it doesn’t feel any different. Even when the scalding water suddenly turns icy cold, I don’t feel it. Suddenly it’s gone and I’m being pulled from the shower and a towel is wrapped around me.

C’mon Leelee, help me out. Dry yourself off and I’ll help you get dressed, ok?

I stare back at her with blank eyes but do as I’m told, drying my numb body. She helps me step into my white cotton briefs, another white cotton bra, a baggy Stanford t-shirt, and a pair of yoga shorts and flip-flops.

I can’t go back to work in this, Isa, I say numbly. Even to my ears, my voice sounds empty, hollow.

Well, then it’s a good thing you aren’t going back to work. I’ve already called your mom and explained that you’ll be out a few days. They aren’t expecting you back until next week.

You told my mom? I ask, the first bite of panic starting to seep into my voice. Everyone will know. They’ll know that my boyfriend cheated because I’m a terrible lover. That I’m a cold fish in bed and no one wants me.

Yes, but only the basics and she’s sworn to secrecy. She promised she wouldn’t even tell your dad. Ok? I nod and trudge from my bathroom, stopping to stare at my bed where I just witnessed my boyfriend and another woman having sex. Crazy porno sex. He’s never even tried to have sex like that with me. I guess that’s because I’m so bad at it.

Isabella has stripped all the bedding from it and stuffed it into a large garbage bag that is sitting by my closet door. Only the large bare mattress remains, but even that is laughing at me.

Isa stoops to pick up a duffle from the floor, slings it over her shoulder, and then directs me out of my apartment and down to her car.

Where are we going? I ask softly as she pulls into LA traffic.

We’re going back to my place for some celebratory day drinking.

What are we celebrating? My broken heart?

We are celebrating the demise of the cocksucker.

Chapter 2

Harlee

C ome on Harlee, time to stop moping and face the world.

Bright light floods the room and I grimace and pull the covers over my head. The world sucks. I’m gonna stay here in bed with my friend Jack, I slur and clutch the nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels to my chest. He’s the only man that’s good to me in bed. Everyone else leaves, but Jack. He’s a man. He stays with me till the bitter end.

This is the bitter end. It’s time to get up. At least take a shower for crying out loud. You’ve been here a week and haven’t showered once. I’m gonna have to burn those sheets!

Good. You can burn them with the ones from my bed that cocksucker Colt defiled with that big-boobed, blonde bimbo. I take a long drink of whiskey straight from the bottle. Cocksucker Colt and his big-boobed blonde bimbo, I slur again and giggle at my words and repeat them, then keep giggling.

Only you would use alliteration during a post-break-up drinking binge, Isa sighs. "Come on babes, go take a shower. You’ll feel better and smell better. Then we’ll go get some lunch and sit on the beach. The food and sun will help you detox from the whiskey."

I don’t wanna detox, I whine. Isa’s hands literally pull me out of bed, landing my ass with a thump on the hardwood floor of her guest room. I scowl and stumble to my feet before I stagger into the bathroom still whining but doing as I’m told. I wanna forget.

DON’T YOU FEEL SO MUCH better? Isa shifts on her beach towel, so she is lying on her stomach. She slides her sunglasses to the top of her head and watches me with the assessing gaze only a best friend can manage.

I guess, I grudgingly admit with a shrug. Physically, I do feel better than I did while I lay in bed with my bottle of whiskey. But my heart is still in shock, and the sight of my boyfriend screwing another woman in my bed plays on an endless loop in my brain. My ears keep hearing Colt’s words to me like a record on repeat.

You know I’m the only man that will ever have you, and even I don’t want to fuck a cold fish like you.

Isabella and I are soaking in the last rays of the day, watching the sun sink beneath waves of the Pacific. I’ve always found such peace sitting at the edge of the ocean, but today, my insides are churning as much as the waves in front of me. I’m not sure if the churning is from the whiskey, the huge meal of pasta and garlic bread after a week of nothing but alcohol, or the leftover effects of my breakup.

Get out of your head. Right now, Isa demands. You can’t keep doing this to yourself Harlee. Nothing he said was true and you know it.

The problem is, I don’t know it.

"He’s right. I am a cold fish in bed. I’ve never even had an orgasm that I didn’t give myself, and even they were lackluster and