Agent Whiskey Quotes

Next to the defeated politician, the writer is the most vocal and inventive griper on earth. He sees hardship and unfairness wherever he looks. His agent doesn’t love him (enough). The blank sheet of paper is an enemy. The publisher is a cheapskate. The critic is a philistine. The public doesn’t understand him. His wife doesn’t understand him. The bartender doesn’t understand him. These are only some of the common complaints of working writers, but I have yet to hear any of them bring up the most fundamental gripe of all: the lifelong, horrifying expense involved in getting out the words. This may come as a surprise to many of you who assume that a writer’s equipment is limited to paper and pencils and a bottle of whiskey, and maybe one tweed sports coat for interviews. It goes far beyond that. The problem from which all other problems spring is that writing takes up the time that could otherwise be spent earning a living. The most humble toiler on Wall Street makes more in a month than ninety percent of writers make in a year. A beggar on the street, seeing a writer shuffling toward him, will dig deep into his rags to see if he can spare a dime. . . .

Fuck. He was gone. So far gone. Past casual, past a crush, past simple attraction. This was Aidan, sans disguises, and Jamie wanted him more than he’d ever wanted anything. “Is

Don’t fuck him.” He had no right to ask yet he couldn’t stop from making the hopeless, helpless plea. “Don’t fuck him, and don’t let him fuck you.” “What?

It was desperate, it was messy, and it was the best kiss of Jamie’s life. He

Someone else had taken it over. Just like with his email. “Did you hack my phone?” “Hush, Irish.” Walker’s

Jamie licked his lips. “You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Aidan

How am I supposed to tell the difference when a week ago you were dating Nic, Casey, Scott, me and God knows who else?” “That wasn’t reality either. That was me running scared.” Aidan

It was the fifty-something woman behind the desk who had her office lights dimmed, a bottle of bourbon on her desk, and her eyes locked on Aidan’s hand on his back. Some emergency. A senior FBI agent caught in a cougar trap. Jamie

Jamie grabbed his wrist and slammed it back against the wall. “Hypocritical much?” he said, voice and body vibrating with anger. “I didn’t...” Aidan swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Since Gabe, it’s only been you. The others...

Because standing in front of him was his stylishly dressed partner, a messenger bag over one shoulder, a coat tossed over the other, and silver-rimmed aviators nestled in waves of auburn hair. More times than he could count, Jamie had imagined Aidan with his natural hair color, and damn if the reality didn’t surpass each and every one of his fantasies. Mouth

John Wren, the Ute agent, had recently spoken to Mollie’s priest, who said that she had stopped coming to church, which was unlike her, and that he had heard she was being forcibly kept away by family members. The priest was sufficiently alarmed that he had broken the tenet of parishioner confidentiality. Soon after, the priest reported that he had received a secret message from Mollie: she was afraid that someone was trying to poison her. Given that poisoned whiskey had been one of the killers’ preferred methods, the priest sent word back warning Mollie “not to drink any liquor of any kind under any circumstances.

Sitting Bill returned from the East with an enlarged worldview that not only made him more independent of the agent but also deepened his contempt of the white way of life. First, Sitting Bull set his people straight on the Great Father. The agents had lied: white men did not hold the Great Father sacred. On the contrary, Sitting Bull told them, “half the people in the hotels were always making fun of him and trying to get him out of his place and some other man into his place.” As for members of Congress, “they loved their whores more than their wives.” And like most white men, they drank too much. Indeed, Sitting Bull told friends, “the soul of a white man is so odored with whiskey that it will have to hang around here on earth for hundreds of years before the winds and storms will so purify it that the people in the other life can endure the smell of it there, and let them in.” Once he was back home at Standing Rock, Sitting Bull occasionally took up women’s work. When asked why, he would say, “I am trying to learn to be as we will all have to be when the white man gets us.

But that's fatalism." "The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that I am ready to accept it. I act as though I were a free agent. But when an action is performed it is clear that all the forces of the universe from all eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could have prevented it. It was inevitable. If it was good I can claim no merit; if it was bad I can accept no censure." "My brain reels," said Philip. "Have some whiskey," returned Cronshaw, passing over the bottle. "There's nothing like it for clearing the head. You must expect to be thick-witted if you insist upon drinking beer." Philip shook his head, and Cronshaw proceeded: "You're not a bad fellow, but you won't drink. Sobriety disturbs conversation. But when I speak of good and bad..." Philip saw he was taking up the thread of his discourse, "I speak conventionally. I attach no meaning to those words. I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions and ascribe worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. The terms vice and virtue have no signification for me. I do not confer praise or blame: I accept. I am the measure of all things. I am the centre of the world." "But there are one or two other people in the world," objected Philip. "I speak only for myself. I know them only as they limit my activities. Round each of them too the world turns, and each one for himself is the centre of the universe. My right over them extends only as far as my power. What I can do is the only limit of what I may do. Because we are gregarious we live in society, and society holds together by means of force, force of arms (that is the policeman) and force of public opinion (that is Mrs. Grundy). You have society on one hand and the individual on the other: each is an organism striving for self-preservation. It is might against might. I stand alone, bound to accept society and not unwilling, since in return for the taxes I pay it protects me, a weakling, against the tyranny of another stronger than I am; but I submit to its laws because I must; I do not acknowledge their justice: I do not know justice, I only know power. And when I have paid for the policeman who protects me and, if I live in a country where conscription is in force, served in the army which guards my house and land from the invader, I am quits with society: for the rest I counter its might with my wiliness. It makes laws for its self-preservation, and if I break them it imprisons or kills me: it has the might to do so and therefore the right. If I break the laws I will accept the vengeance of the state, but I will not regard it as punishment nor shall I feel myself convicted of wrong-doing. Society tempts me to its service by honours and riches and the good opinion of my fellows; but I am indifferent to their good opinion, I despise honours and I can do very well without riches." "But if everyone thought like you things would go to pieces at once." "I have nothing to do with others, I am only concerned with myself. I take advantage of the fact that the majority of mankind are led by certain rewards to do things which directly or indirectly tend to my convenience." "It seems to me an awfully selfish way of looking at things," said Philip. "But are you under the impression that men ever do anything except for selfish reasons?" (324)

Arthur’s ties to the powerful New York State Republican machine won him nomination as candidate for vice president. To near-universal dismay, he had entered the White House when President James A. Garfield died from an assassin’s bullet. A good storyteller and man about town, fond of whiskey, cigars, and expensive clothes, the dapper, sideburned Arthur is perhaps best remembered for saying, “I may be president of the United States, but my private life is nobody’s damned business.” On this trip to Florida, however, his private life fitted very nicely into someone else’s business. The owner of the Belair orange plantation was General Henry Shelton Sanford, the man who had helped Leopold recruit Stanley. Sanford did not bother to leave his home in Belgium to be in Florida for the president’s visit. With the self-assurance of the very rich, he played host in absentia. He made sure that the president and his party were greeted by his personal agent, and that they got the best rooms at the Sanford House hotel, which stood on a lakeshore fringed with palm trees in the town of Sanford. When the president and his guests were not out catching bass, trout, and catfish, or shooting alligators, or exploring the area by steamboat, the Sanford House was where they stayed for the better part of a week. There is no record of who paid the hotel bill, but most likely, as with the rail journey south, it was not the president. Ironically, the huge Sanford orange plantation the Washington visitors admired was proving as disastrous a venture as Sanford’s other investments. Some Swedish contract laborers found the working conditions too harsh and tried to leave as stowaways on a steamboat. A slaughterhouse Sanford invested in had a capacity fifty times larger than what the local market could consume and went bankrupt. A 540-foot wharf with a warehouse at the end of it that he ordered built was washed away by a flood. The manager of one of the hotels in Sanford absconded while owing him money. Foremen failed to put up fences, and wandering cattle nibbled at the orange trees. But if everything Sanford touched as a businessman turned to dust, as an accomplice of Leopold he was a grand success. Sanford was a long-time supporter of President Arthur’s Republican Party. For two years, he had been corresponding with Arthur and other high United States officials about Leopold’s plans for the Congo. Now, after the president’s trip to Florida, confident that Arthur would pay attention, he pressed his case with more letters. Seven months later, Leopold sent Sanford across the Atlantic to make use of his convenient connection to the White House. The man who had once been American minister to Belgium was now the Belgian king’s personal envoy to Washington. Sanford carried with him to Washington a special code for telegraphing news to Brussels: Constance meant “negotiations proceeding satisfactorily; success expected”; Achille referred to Stanley, Eugénie to France, Alice to the United States, Joseph to “sovereign rights,” and Émile to the key target, the president.

An honest Indian agent named T. M. Byrnes temporarily forced the brazen miners to shut down. The mining companies petitioned Congress to declare that more than seven thousand acres of gilsonite-rich Indian land should be reclassified as “public domain.” Since the property rights of Indian tribes weren’t a high priority, Congress approved the bill. The Utes were to be compensated with payments of twenty dollars per acre. Those tribe members who didn’t want to sell were plied with whiskey or otherwise tricked, and by 1888 the mining interests obtained control of all of the land they originally sought.

I think, I hope, for both our sakes, that it gets easier. The heart’s a resilient beast.

If I’m your home, you’re mine too.

I haven’t been drained that low in a long time. I shouldn’t have tried to take so much all at once,” I muttered, wanting to apologise but not quite finding the right words beyond that statement. “Well feel free to just steal all of mine then,” Darcy spat icily, clutching her neck tighter. I had the urge to heal her, but knew if I tried to touch her again, she’d only recoil. The ambulance pulled away and I glanced around, double checking Darius wasn’t here and I was glad to find he’d listened to me for once. That was something anyway. “Come on, I can drive you girls back in my car,” I offered. I’d left my Faerrari parked at the Acrux Hotel when I’d last visited Tucana, opting to stardust home because I’d been too drunk to drive. But I hadn’t had any magical drinks tonight, so I’d healed myself of the effects of the whiskey I’d consumed before coming to get Darius from the nightclub. Tory’s lip curled back as she glared at me with poison in her gaze. “We’re not going anywhere alone with you,” Darcy said bitterly, distrust in her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped, stepping forward to get hold of her. I’d protect her tonight whether she liked it or not. Tory moved to intercept me and Caleb joined her too like a prime asshole. “You don’t fucking touch her again,” Tory growled. I narrowed my eyes at her, about to object, but as my gaze slid to Darcy over her shoulder and I saw the wall in her eyes that told me to get fucked, I knew I wasn’t going to win this fight. “Bastard,” Darcy hissed at me, looking woozy. Shit, I needed to heal her. And I could get her a blood replenishing potion back at the academy. “Come on, girls. The bus is gonna leave soon,” Caleb said, tugging Tory after him but she dug her heels in, waiting for Darcy. I opened my mouth to try and find the words that would convince Blue to stay with me, but she walked straight past me with her cheek turned and Tory threw me one more filthy look before they all headed down the street to the bus stop where mountains of students were gathering. Professors were among them and I knew they were safe enough in numbers, but my feet were still rooted to the pavement as I watched Darcy leave. You drank way too much. You have to get a grip. How are you going to keep feeding from her if you act like a monster every time your teeth are in her? I’d never had this problem before. The only thing I could compare it to was when my magic had been Awakened and my Order had Emerged. That first feed had made me feel like a ravenous beast with a bottomless stomach, and yet it still didn’t have a pinch on what it was like to feed from Blue. Caleb led Tory and Darcy past the queue straight onto the bus and my hackles rose as they joined Max and Seth on the back seats. And as Seth pulled Darcy close to him and nuzzled against her cheek, that feral animal in me awoke once more. I took out my Atlas and shot an update to Francesca, anxiously scoring my fingers through my hair. Just as the bus pulled away and rounded a corner, the FIB appeared on the street and I was immediately surrounded by three agents with dark frowns on their faces. “Lance Orion, you need to come down to the station and make a statement,” Captain Hoskins said and I sighed, knowing it was going to be a long ass night. I agreed and as I was stardusted away to the precinct, my heart was tugged in another direction, nearly forcing the stars to guide me elsewhere. But the captain ensured I made it to where he wanted to take me and I made a silent prayer to the stars that Darcy wouldn’t end up in Seth Capella’s bed tonight. Because I wasn’t sure I could control the demon in me who’d want his head for that. (ORION POV)

In the late afternoon he was standing by a tent run by a trapper-merchant from Oregon, an Englishman named Haversham, the only man at the rendezvous in European dress, and Haversham asked, “Care for a cup of tea?” It had been a long time since McKeag had drunk tea and he said, “Don’t mind if I do.” The Englishman had two china cups and a small porcelain pot. Washing the cups with steaming water, he took down a square brown tin, opened the top carefully and placed a small portion of leaves in the pot. To McKeag they bore no visible difference from the tea leaves his mother had used, but when Haversham poured him a cup and he took his first sip, an aroma unlike any he had ever known greeted him. He sniffed it several times, then took a deep taste of the hot tea. It was better than anything he had previously tasted, better even than whiskey. What did it taste like? Well, at first it was tarry, as if the person making the tea had infused by mistake some stray ends of well-tarred rope. But it was penetrating too, and a wee bit salty, and very rich and lingering. McKeag noticed that its taste dwelled in the mouth long after that of an ordinary tea. It was a man’s tea, deep and subtle and blended in some rugged place. “What is it?” he asked. Haversham pointed to the brown canister, and McKeag said, “I can’t read.” Haversham indicated the lettering and the scene of tea-pickers in India. “Lapsang souchong,” he said. “Best tea in the world.” Impulsively McKeag asked, “You have some for sale?” “Of course. We’re the agents.” It was a tea, Haversham explained, blended in India especially for men who had known the sea. It was cured in a unique way which the makers kept secret. “But smoke and tar must obviously play a part,” he said. It came normally from India to London, but the English traders in Oregon imported theirs from China. “How long would a can like that last?” McKeag asked, cautiously again. “It’ll keep forever … with the top on.” “I mean, how many cups?” “I use it sparingly. It would last me a year.” “I’ll take two cans,” McKeag said, without asking the price. It was expensive, and as he tucked his small supply of coins back into his belt, Haversham explained, “The secret in making good lapsang souchong lies in heating the cup first. Heat it well. Then the flavor expands.” McKeag hid the canisters at the bottom of his gear, for he knew they were precious.

Sorry, it’s a G-man’s life for me.” “Well—

These past months have been hard, on all of us. We lost Gabe, and we almost lost you. I don’t know how any of us would have gone on after that, but you have. You’ve had the hardest road of all, and you’ve hung in there. I just wanted to say how proud I am of you.” The

Been here before?” “Once, on a date.” Aidan laughed, and Walker twisted, angling toward him. “Something funny?” “My first date was here,” he confessed, staring into his bourbon glass. “If you consider a quinceañera after-party with my family and hers a real date.” “So you’ve dated both, then—men and women?” Aidan’s

When I was younger.” He intended to leave it at that, then the bourbon got the better of him again. “And you?” Gaze steady, Walker answered, “Only men.” And

Relief, life, need, love. Terrifying love. Wrenching

I could have lost you today. My partner, my lover. Someone tried to kill you. Again. So yes, baby, for two seconds I lost focus because I care about you.” “You agreed—” “I’m changing the terms.” Walker’s gaze shone with love and determination. “I’m done fucking sharing. I want all the time I can get with you. Today just proved how short that could be.” Aidan

I wasn’t expecting this.” His eyes raked over Aidan again, taking it all in. Dressed in jeans and a navy V-neck sweater, the dark blues set off his pale skin, the freckles, his autumn eyes, that hair... “Fuck,” he muttered out loud. Aidan

Hypocritical much?” he said, voice and body vibrating with anger. “I didn’t...” Aidan swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Since Gabe, it’s only been you. The others... I didn’t.” Jamie

He crushed his lips against Jamie’s and set about finishing what they’d started last night. He’d leave no doubt who he wanted, in his life, his bed and his heart. Lips

You’re sacrificing your happiness for a man past his prime who comes with a hell of a lot of baggage.” Jamie

Fuck, he was gorgeous, stretched out and flushed beneath him.

Levering up, he stole another kiss and trailed his open mouth across Jamie’s cheek to his ear. “I need you.” Jamie

Jamie draped himself over his back and whispered in his ear. “You’re gorgeous like this, Irish. Skin so red I can barely see the freckles. A sheen of sweat coating you. I can smell you too, leaking from your cock.” And fuck if he wasn’t painfully hard and pearling moisture too. Jamie rubbed against his backside. “And I can smell me on you. I can smell us.” He bit the back of his shoulder and smoothed over it with his tongue. “Need

Talk to me, Irish,” Jamie said, lips against his shoulder, body draping his. “I love you,” Aidan gasped out and Jamie froze. He hesitated only a moment before repeating, “I love you.” Winding

When Aidan looked into his eyes, all the blue was gone, his pupils blown wide. “I love you too.” Hearing

Hearing the words, in that sex-roughened Southern drawl, sent another wave of desire crashing through Aidan. “Make love to me, Whiskey.” And

He hadn’t been so well worked over since Galveston. Judging by the muted morning light outside, they had just enough time to do it again before the real world intruded, if only he could find his wayward bedmate.

He could do this. He could find his partner and bring him home. Not could. Would. His heart and world depended on it.

This didn’t feel casual; this didn’t feel unattached. This felt like something a whole lot more. Closing his eyes, his stomach knotted, his chest clenched, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d told Aidan a lie. *

She’d lost her brother and a colleague, but Gabe had been his husband, and Tom Crane, his FBI partner for fifteen years. “If

At forty-two, he still had plenty of agent years left in him. “What’ve

Calm down. I’m partnering you with Walker.” “The Whiskey kid?” Mel

Light brown hair—short on the sides, long and wavy on top—piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones, a wide, easy smile. Ugly wasn’t a word anyone ever used to describe Jameson Walker, dubbed Whiskey by the national sports media given his first and last names.

As a married man, though, ugly was what Aidan had told himself anytime the sinfully handsome two-time NCAA champion crossed his path. “Fine.

Last Wednesday, though, he’d opened his mouth and before thinking better of it, revealed more about his interest in his new partner than he should have. Nothing like being misjudged and shot down by the man he’d lusted after for three years. How was he supposed to work with Aidan Talley? Jamie

His partner, though, wasn’t doing him any favors. Sauntering up the wooden walkway from the beach, towel slung over one shoulder, Aidan’s swim trunks were molded to his lower body in a way that left nothing to the imagination. Groaning, Jamie turned his back on Aidan and the ocean and adjusted his shorts. By

A laugh that died when Aidan gave him a wink, turned and walked, sans towel, across the living area to his room, his firm backside on display beneath those damp swim trunks. Partner, mentor, friend, Jamie repeated to himself. Nothing more. Good

I didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes.” “Working together?” “Sleeping together.” Aidan’s brows raced north. “Excuse me?” “I want to sleep with Jamie, but I didn’t know if you two were more than work partners.” He’d

I’m sorry for being a jealous prick.” “Operation Divide and Conquer. You were acting.” Walker closed the door behind him. Aidan tossed back the rest of his bourbon and whispered his truth to the night. “I said being, Jamie.

You’re more of a force than you realize.” “I don’t scare you,” Aidan said, once he found his voice again. Cobalt eyes clashed with his brown ones. “You scare me, Irish. More than you know.” *

Aidan gasped. “How did you get into my email?” “Not the point right now.” Jamie waved him off as his eyes tracked down the list, freezing halfway.

I’m sorry, Irish. It’s just you and me now.” This

You, Jamie,” he answered, with a slow, tortuous stroke down the impressive length. “All of you.” Rocking

Kept you alive.” He smiled softly—genuine—not his usual overly flirtatious self. “The world—his world—is a better place with you in it, Jamie. I wouldn’t risk you either. And he’s right; you’re far more valuable here.” Raw

I’d give a hundred bucks for a shot of rye whiskey, he thinks, and swallows hard. I’d give a million to blow her fucking brains out.

Clark handled it, and you know no one puts anything over on her. She said the money—in cash, if you can believe it—was already in an escrow account before the offer was even made.” The local real estate agent was indeed

Dedication For Cory, Because Die Hard is a fucking Christmas movie!