Whiskey Kisses Read Free Page A

refuse to tell anything but the truth.” My mother legally changed her name from Roberta to Bobbie when she was eighteen. Her father used to call her Bobbie, and she refused to answer to anything but. I guess we have that in common—our father’s giving us pet names we prefer over the ones they originally gifted us with. Although if I called myself Little Bit, I wouldn’t run the risk of being mistaken as a man like my mother so often is, I’d be mistaken for a less-than-amply-endowed pole dancer.
    “The truth, huh?” I’m blinded momentarily by my mother and her stab-you-in-the-heart brand of candor. I love her to death, but she’s honest as an assault rifle all day long. “Yeah, well, sometimes the truth feels a lot like a two-by-four.”
    Jemma slinks down in her seat, examining me with a slight look of pity. I know what she’s thinking. About a decade ago I made the mistake of letting her in on my darkest hour. Sometimes I think the memory of it eats at her as much as it does me. But that’s one truth Jemma will never espouse because I made it clear as the crystal meth her husband smokes that it’s not her place to do so—it’s mine. And I never will. Some things are best forgotten. And as soon as I can figure out how to forget it I’ll be golden.
    Jem picks at her food. “Rumor has it Greasy D is back in town—sniffing around old stomping grounds.”
    Greasy D—Don, is my mother’s ex-fiancé who just so happened to remember our address last week and planted his drunk self on our couch.
    “That he is.” I blow out an exasperated breath because I’m not ready to go there. My mother has had a string of ex-boyfriends, husbands, significant other pretenders. You name the scoundrel, my mother has already teased him out from under a rock and brought him home. Most of my mother’s suitors think they can make their way into my pants when she’s not looking—one of them did. I shake the past out of my head easy as clearing an Etch A Sketch.
    Jemma raps her knuckles over the table pulling me from my momentary trance. “Never mind all this bullshit. We need to get back to the topic at hand—you and Mr. Comfortable.” She snatches the pickle from her plate and holds its long, bulbous body up for display. “Now—I know his type—things are going to move quickly. He’s going to flick his zipper and expect you to know what comes next. You’re gonna want to pay careful attention, sweetie, because this is one pop quiz you’re not going to want to fail.” She plunges the poor defenseless pickled veggie into her mouth and proceeds to pull it in and out.
    “Would you stop?” I do a quick sweep of the facility to see exactly how mortified I should be.
    “No teeth,” she barks over at me as if I were getting intimate with a cucumber myself.
    “You can quit the tutorial. I won’t be pleasuring vegetables anytime soon.”
    “You’re not pleasuring anyone.” She takes a hard bite. “Tell me this—you pleasing yourself?”
    “I’m not doing this with you.” I sink lower in my seat and clamp my hands over my ears.
    “Come over some time. I’ve got a closet full of peckers that are guaranteed to make you blush for weeks. Of course, you’ll have to get your own batteries. I wouldn’t trust—”
    “Jemma, I’m blushing now . Can we end this? I’m no more in the market for one of your closet peckers than I am for pickle tutorial. But, trust me, the next time I’m in a relationship with mildly-processed produce you’ll be the first to know.”
    “No teeth.” She bites the air. “One day you’ll find yourself playing with Holt Edwards’ pickle, and you’ll remember this very conversation.”
    “God.” I lean in hard. “You just said his name and the word pickle in the same sentence.” I glance over at him still ten skanks deep as he shakes a martini mixer over his head. “Do you know people are able to hear their names at freakishly low decibels? He’s going to think we’re