Taking Risk Series Read online

  Taking Risk Series

  Toni Aleo

  Toni Aleo Books LLC

  Contents

  Whiskey Prince

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  The end

  Becoming the Whiskey Princess

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Tomas Albert Reilly

  Ciara Lynn Reilly

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  A note from Toni Aleo

  Also by Toni Aleo

  About the Author

  Whiskey Prince

  A Taking Risk Novel

  Toni Aleo

  Copyright © 2014 by Toni Aleo Books LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Created with Vellum

  What’s life without a little risk?

  -Sirius Black

  Chapter 1

  Amberlyn

  I’m an orphan.

  When I lost my father, I remember feeling like I would never breathe again. I was Daddy’s little girl. He made me feel like a princess, he loved me the way a father should, and he spoiled me in every way possible. He was a very handsome man, with dark brown hair, light green eyes, and dark stubble that he left a little longer than he should because it gave my mother a reason to fuss at him. He loved when she fussed at him; he said it meant she loved him. He had a low, tenor voice, one that could be used to do the commentary for movies or documentaries. He used to sing to me, an old song from his homeland. Even now, when I am nervous, I sing it. It helps. Somehow, it helps dull the pain of not having him.

  I was twelve when we lost him to a drunk driver.

  Somehow, my mother and I survived losing him, though. We learned to go on with him still deep in our hearts and souls. We helped each other to cope with the pain of losing him. She was not only the most amazing mother, but she was a great father too. Some days were hard. I’d wake up and say I was having a bad Dad day, and she would reply that she was, too. We would just cry, for hours, but then she would hug me tightly, tell me that the sun was shining and so shall we, and we did until the day she found out she had throat cancer.

  My favorite thing about my mother was her smile, but she soon stopped smiling and so did I. The day I found her at the table with tears dripping from her eyes, I asked if she was having a bad Dad day, and she shook her head and just kept apologizing. I didn’t understand, and when she told me what was going on, I didn’t want to believe it. It couldn’t be happening. I had already lost my dad and now my mom, too? It wasn’t fair.

  When you were eighteen, you were supposed to be excited for prom, boyfriends, going off to college, and starting a new, refreshing life. But not me. All that came to a halting stop. My dreams of learning the written word, and maybe meeting a boy to spend time with, went up in flames. Instead, I became a caregiver for my mother. I stayed home and studied online as I waited hand and foot on her. I watched for two years as my mother slowly died before my eyes, and to be honest, I don’t think I’d have it any other way. At least I know she went, knowing I loved her more than life itself, when she cupped my face and slowly took her last breath before joining my father in heaven.

  When the hospice nurses came after I tucked my mother in bed and had a good, long cry, they were surprised how strong I was and commended me on it. I said it was because of her, and how she raised me to be strong. They knew she begged me to put her in a home, but I’d be damned. She was my best friend. She cared for me my whole life, and I was going to care for her. Plus, I knew she felt more comfortable with me than some nurses she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if her parents could come and help. They had long passed before I was even born. All she had was her brother who lived in New York, and he couldn’t be bothered with her.

  Even now, as I watch him from across my mother’s casket, which is covered in beautiful, white roses, I can’t help but wonder why he came. He isn’t even crying. He is just standing there, with the same blue eyes as my mother, looking as if he’d rather be playing golf than acting as if he is mourning her. I choke back the tears as I look around at all the people who have come to pay their respects—neighbors, family friends, and coworkers. Even some of my old high school teachers are here, and I feel nothing. I want to jump into that casket with her and go to heaven too. I don’t want or know how to go on without her. Who is going to help me mourn her?

  Wiping away the tears rolling down my cheeks, I take in a deep breath as I softly start to sing my father’s song. In my head, I hear only my parents and not myself as they softly sing Liam Clancy’s, “The Parting Glass” to me. My mother couldn’t sing for anything, but none of us cared. We would all sing, and most of all, we were all happy. But now, my throat feels tight, my limbs are numb, and I just feel empty.

  When the song I am singing plays over the speakers, that’s when I squeeze my eyes tight because I know they are lowering her into the ground. I don’t want to see it. I hate knowing it is happening. Soon, it is over and everyone is hugging me, gently squeezing my hands, wishing me well, and saying that they are there for me if I need them. When my uncle is the last to come up to me, I want to scream at him, Why did you come? I hate that he wasn’t there for her because I know if I had a sibling, I would always be there for them. Especially someone like my mom—she was so sweet, so caring, so loving—and he couldn’t even be there at the end for her. Couldn’t be there for me. His only niece.

  I can tell he is uncomfortable, and I’m glad he is. As he runs his hands through his dark red hair, he lets out a breath before saying, “Amberlyn, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “It’s your loss, too,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. The dress I’m wearing scratches my ribs, and I want to pull at it, but I don’t. Instead, I hold his gaze as he slowly nods.

  “You’re right, our loss, and I want you to know that I am here if you need anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  He looks away. “Yeah, I know you won’t, but in case you do.”

  I don’t say anything, eve