The Morning After – Chapter 1 – The Worst Whiskey Money Can Buy
There are three things I hate about business conferences.
Name tags.
People who introduce themselves with a job title longer than their actual name.
And networking.
Especially networking.
I’ve been in sales long enough to know that half the people who tell you, “We should definitely connect,” have absolutely no intention of connecting.
The other half will connect.
Usually on LinkedIn.
At eleven at night.
With a sales pitch.
But conferences are part of my job, and I’m good at my job. So there I was, on a Friday evening, wearing a black dress, uncomfortable heels, and the same professional smile I’d been using since eight in the morning.
The conference was about energy.
Oil, gas, technology, investment, innovation, sustainability.
Basically, a room full of people discussing the future of energy while running entirely on caffeine, alcohol, and bullshit.
By seven, I’d collected fourteen business cards, had three genuinely useful conversations, and listened to one man explain my own industry to me for twenty minutes.
I deserved a drink.
The whiskey was free.
That should’ve been my first warning.
I took a sip.
Jesus Christ.
I checked the label on the bottle behind the bar.
Never heard of it.
And I drink whiskey.
Not professionally, obviously.
Although after today, I was considering adding it to my résumé.
I finished the glass anyway.
I’m not proud of that.
But I’m also not going to lie to you.
By my second drink, I was seriously considering going home.
Instead, I decided I needed a cigarette.
Here’s the thing.
I’m not a smoker.
I’m a drinking smoker.
Completely different medical condition.
I can go months without touching a cigarette. But give me two glasses of whiskey and suddenly I’m standing outside, desperately wanting nicotine like I’ve been smoking since I was twelve.
Naturally, I didn’t have any cigarettes.
I stepped onto the hotel terrace.
The October air was cold enough to make me reconsider my life choices. There were a few people outside, talking in little groups.
And one man standing alone near the railing.
Tall. Dark hair. White shirt, sleeves rolled up. No jacket.
He had a cigarette in one hand and a glass in the other.
Perfect.
I walked over.
“Excuse me. Can I steal a cigarette?”
He looked at me.
“Steal?”
“Borrow sounds weird. I’m definitely not giving it back.”
He laughed.
Then pulled a pack from his pocket and offered it to me.
“Thank you.”
“Need a light?”
“Unless you want to watch me rub two sticks together.”
He handed me his lighter.
I lit the cigarette, took a drag, and immediately remembered why I only smoked when I drank.
Disgusting.
Wonderful.
He watched me for a second.
“You don’t smoke much, do you?”
“Only when I’m making excellent decisions.”
He smiled.
“That explains the whiskey.”
I looked at his glass.
“Please tell me you’re not drinking that shit too.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Not a fan?”
“Of whiskey? Absolutely. Of whatever they’re serving inside? I think it’s a personal insult.”
He laughed again.
“That bad?”
“I’ve had better whiskey at a wedding where the groom was arrested before dessert.”
He turned toward me.
“Seriously?”
“No. But you believed me for a second, didn’t you?”
“Almost.”
“That’s what sales does to a person.”
He took a sip from his glass.
“Well, you should probably complain to the sponsors.”
“Who is sponsoring this circus, anyway?”
He told me the company name.
I recognized it immediately.
Big company. Serious money. The kind of name that appeared on buildings, trucks, and enormous conference banners.
I glanced through the glass doors at the reception.
“Wait. They sponsored this?”
“Apparently.”
“All that money and they’re too fucking cheap to buy decent whiskey?”
He made a small sound.
“Hmm.”
That was it.
No defence.
No explanation.
Just hmm.
I took another drag.
“Honestly, it’s embarrassing. If you’re going to spend a fortune convincing people you’re successful, at least serve something that doesn’t taste like paint thinner.”
He looked at me for a moment.
Then smiled.
“Wait here.”
“Why?”
“I’ll be back.”
And he walked inside.
Just like that.
I watched him disappear through the doors.
Well.
That was a strange conversation.
I finished my cigarette, checked my phone, and considered leaving.
Five minutes later, he returned.
With two clean glasses and a bottle of whiskey I recognized immediately.
Oh.
Oh, hello.
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“Inside.”
“Inside where? Because I’ve been inside, and I can assure you this wasn’t there.”
He opened the bottle.
“Different bar.”
“Of course. The rich people bar.”
He poured us each a glass.
I took a sip.
Smooth.
Warm.
Beautiful.
I closed my eyes for a second.
“Okay. That’s better.”
“Better?”
“Don’t fish for compliments. It’s unattractive.”
He grinned.
I held out my hand.
“By the way, I’m -“
I told him my name.
He shook my hand.
“Liam.”
“Nice to meet you, Liam.”
“Likewise.”
I raised my glass.
“To whoever decided to hide the good whiskey from the paying guests.”
“Technically, you didn’t pay for the other whiskey.”
“Technically, it was still overpriced.”
He laughed.
We clinked glasses.
And I made my second excellent decision of the evening.
I stayed for another drink.
Which, as it turned out, was not going to be my last.