Speakeasy

Golf and alcohol typically end in one thing for me—a poor score. However, on a fun-filled Thursday in 2019, something incredible resulted. The mixture had my friends and me discussing my story for the GCLS Writing Academy and a Sierra Foothills speakeasy. By the turn, I thought what if I combined the two topics? What if The L Word and Boardwalk Empire had a baby? By the end of the round, I had the makings of a book.

 Two years later, I dove in. I was stumped for a setting until I remembered the West Coast main highway for illegal liquor coming from Canadian ships during Prohibition was an hour from my California childhood home. A road trip was essential. That day in Half Moon Bay, walking up Devil’s Slide and visiting the marina shops and eateries, spawned more stories and gave birth to the Speakeasy Series.

 I hope you enjoy the first leg of Rose and Dax’s journey and fall in love with the cast of characters, as I have.

The concept for the Speakeasy series started with the question: What if a group of lesbians operated the poshest speakeasy on the West Coast during Prohibition? That era was a man’s world, wrought by greed and violence, so I had to create female characters willing and able to go toe to toe with the greediest and most vicious of the lot. That responsibility fell to Dax Xander and Grace Parsons—the two characters who would do anything to protect the woman they loved. And in this story, they face the danger without hesitation.

 While researching the series, I found an article about the Queens of the Speakeasies. While many women penetrated that dark world, where illegal liquor flowed like water by working as servers and entertainers, few had the fortitude to run the establishments and do whatever it took to stay in business.

 Thee women stood out in New York City, where speakeasies were the Starbucks of their time with over 3,200 in the city at its peak. Texas Guinan, Helen Morgan, and Belle Livingstone ran stylish nightclub-type speakeasies for the affluent, the model I used for the Beacon Club in the book. So, in honor of these three trailblazers, I dedicate Whiskey War.

I hope you enjoy reading about the group of sapphic women I’ve created, their rise to power, and the hurdles Dax and Rose face to keep their love alive.

Last Barrel picks up Dax and Rose’s journey, navigating the illegal speakeasy business and the fractured relationship between Dax and her best friend, Charlie, three years after Whiskey War. This bittersweet book dives deeper into the supporting cast, testing each one’s quiet inner strength.

 Grace Parsons fans will love this story. I remember falling madly in love with Grace while writing the first book in the series, Devil’s Slide, and I knew then that she deserved a deeper storyline. In this book, Grace faces her greatest challenge and comes out the other side stronger. Others around her will learn what they’re made of by the time they crack open the last barrel of illegal whiskey.

 It’s been a pleasure bringing the Speakeasy world to you. On behalf of Dax, Rose, May, Hank, Grace, Clive, Charlie, Jules, and Brutus, I thank you for reading and witnessing their journey. This book…this series…is a testament to an undeniable set of facts: women are resilient and can accomplish anything when they band together.

In Chapter Twenty-Four of Whiskey War, Logan attempts to assault Rose, but Dax intervenes and beats him badly before he can. By Chapter Twenty-Six, we learn that while Logan was still recovering from his injuries, May heard a gunshot from her room off the kitchen and discovered him collapsed in the restaurant doorway with a bullet wound to the abdomen.

I originally drafted a scene from Logan’s point of view depicting the moments leading up to his fatal shooting, but it ultimately didn’t make the final cut of the novel.

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Deleted Scene:

Logan stepped across the stage gingerly, holding his arm close to his midsection. The pain radiating from his flank made him suspect that freak had cracked several ribs. The first step off the stage confirmed it. The pain spiked and felt like a knife twisting through his backside. He considered the effort it would take to ascend the stairs to get medical attention and decided he’d need to be drunker to make the trek.

He plodded to the bar, groaning every other step. Snatching the half-empty bottle from the counter with the hand not holding his innards together, he sloshed the glass full of whiskey, not caring that most missed his target. He brought the tumbler to his mouth and gulped until it was gone. The harsh whiskey burn had long lost its sting on Logan. Months of overindulging had made him immune to it. He poured again and repeated the process.

Ten minutes, he thought. Then he’d be sufficiently numbed to make the trek upstairs and deal with his grand mistake of coming to Half Moon Bay. He’d been at the end of his rope in San Francisco, so when Dax showed up with her truck and enough money to pay a crew to haul away May’s piano, his father’s hometown looked like his only option at survival. But now that he’d had his ass handed to him by a woman, the bruised body and ego weren’t worth the money. He figured he could sell this place and take his nest egg to make a go of it in Los Angeles or maybe Seattle.

The first step off the barstool established one thing: Logan was drunk enough to head upstairs. The walls spun, and he was sure his stride zigzagged across the room, but at least he was pain-free. He paused at the door with a gold star affixed to at the center at eyelevel. It was twice the size of his fist, and the words “Rose Hamilton” were stenciled below in red paint. Another giant mistake.

He’d lusted after Rose the first day he saw her. What warm-blooded man wouldn’t? he’d convinced himself. After all, he had a dud for a wife—barren and lame—and she hadn’t given him a decent blow job in years. At least she would lie in bed like a dead fish a few times a month long enough to meet his needs. If not for her ability to keep his home running after the accident, he would have divorced her long ago. Now, his lusting had ended in humiliation and likely weeks of recuperation.

Logan ascended the stairs leading to the kitchen, pulling himself up one step at a time by the handrailing. The pain in his side had dulled but hadn’t disappeared. By the time he reached the top landing, he was sweating like one of the young boys he used to hire to mow his lawn before Dax arrived. He snickered. Now that lawn belonged to the bank.

He flew the door open, bouncing it against the wall without caring what damage he might have caused. Why spend money to fix it when he could just let Grace Parsons buy him out. The way she fawned over Rose and Dax made him sure she’d pay nearly any price.

Logan needed to pee and wash the nasty taste from his mouth. He pushed the swinging door into the dining room and hobbled toward the bathrooms, bouncing twice off the wall in the corridor. Slamming his hand against the wall switch, the light flickered on in the men’s room. He unzipped his pants, wobbled a few times, and let a copious amount of urine flow into the toilet. Looking down, he discovered a red tinge to it. He likely had kidney damage from Dax’s beating.

“Fucking great,” he slurred. He’d have to see a doctor soon.

Finished and zipped, he went to the sink and sipped from water from a cupped hand. Two swigs and spits finally cleared the taste of bile from his mouth. He then inspected himself in the mirror. The disheveled, unshaven man staring back at him was a stranger, broken from months of failure. He’d failed as a businessman. Failed as a son. And failed as a family man. As a result, Logan had become worthless to everyone around him, spending months drowning his sorrows in liquor instead of facing his shortcomings.

Tonight, he realized he didn’t care about his failures because his people had failed him. His employer shouldn’t have let him go in the first wave of firings. His father shouldn’t have saddled him with a failing restaurant in a Podunk town. And his wife shouldn’t have shackled him with taking in her freak of a sister. He was done with them. His only concern was appeasing Grace Parsons so she wouldn’t take him out.

He returned to the corridor and nearly doubled over in pain again. Seeing a doctor had become next on his agenda. He slowly maneuvered through the tables to the cash register. He picked up the candlestick phone, grimacing at the amount of pain that simple task created. Lifting the earpiece, he moved the mouthpiece closer to his sore jaw, clicked the holder several times to wake the operator, and raised the earpiece to his uninjured side. He heard a buzz.

“Operator. How may I direct your call,” a woman’s voice said.

“I need—” Someone pounded on the front door, rattling the glass in the window frame. Then again. And again. Logan suspected the new cook had arrived to prepare for the breakfast service. Clearly, she wouldn’t stop until someone answered the door. “Wait a minute, I’ll call you back.”

Logan returned the phone to the reception counter. “Wait a damn second. I’ll be right there!” he yelled before stepping toward the door. Releasing the deadbolt, he twisted the knob and pulled the door open. He expected the mousey cook bundled in her coat and hair net but was surprised by a bright flash.

A loud bang.

Logan’s belly burned in searing pain. He dropped to his knees, hands reaching for the source of the fire. It was wet. Blood oozed between his fingers like a tapped whiskey barrel. Strength was leaving him rapidly. He collapsed in the doorway when his surroundings went black.