Bourbon on the Rocks (The Barrel House Series Book 2)

by Shari J. Ryan

  I took the cup—our fingers brushed together, causing a spark to shoot through the core of my body. “Th—thank you,” I stuttered.

  Brody glanced over my head at whatever scene was playing out behind me. I refused to turn around and give Adam the attention he must have wanted. “Why don’t you come with me to get another drink?”

  The drinks were in the opposite direction of Adam, so I agreed and followed Brody down a row of stacked barrels that contained aging bourbon. It was where we were hiding the keg. “So, what have you been up to? You haven’t shown up to the last couple of parties here with our families. I figured you moved away.”

  “I’ve been thinking about moving away. Right now, I’m working in the warehouse with my dad, smoking the barrels, but I haven’t made any firm decisions on my future yet.” He was a few years older, and I couldn’t imagine not having a plan. I still had five months left of high school, and I was obsessed with making sure my future plan was set.

  “What about you? You’re a senior this year, right?” he asked.

  I took a sip from the cup and forced a long pause in the conversation. “I’m going to UNH in the fall.”

  “Oh nice, only a couple hours away. That’s a good move.”

  Unlike California. “Yeah.”

  I led the way out of the row of barrels, watching a slew of people wrap around the back end of the basement near the storage closets. I hadn’t drunk enough to be ignorant of what people could be doing, and I had a sudden moment of remorse for taking advantage of Dad’s shop.

  “You okay?” Brody asked, following me.

  “Yeah, I just want to make sure there’s nothing shady going on over there.” I continued walking, listening to the rumbles of laughter grow. I was thinking the worst, but when I saw a group of ten people playing spin the bottle, I turned to walk away. We were too old for childish games, but some people would use any excuse possible to get a New Year’s kiss, I guess.

  I should have actually walked away. It’s my final thought before falling asleep.

  Like most nights, I slept for only four hours, ending up wide awake in the darkness of my apartment, but I’ll have some time to get through more edits before I’m scheduled to be at Polly’s Floral Arrangements to pre-shoot for a wedding I’m working next weekend. I love what I do, but I’m hoping to move away from weddings, showers, and baby portraits soon. My passion is with landscape and abstract stills, but most of my clientele in the area don’t have that need.

  I hit the light switch and turn my desktop monitor on before tending to my beloved Keurig. My coffee maker has a sticky note hanging from the spout.

  The note reads:

  I stole your last coffee k-cup. I-O-U.

  Sorry,

  Brody

  I tear open the drawer where I keep the k-cups in, knowing I only had one left. That bastard. What kind of sick game does he think this is? He’s just waiting for me to text him with a string of obscenities. Well, hopefully, he’s waiting for this text at four in the morning.

  After retrieving my phone from the nightstand, I see he responded to my text, telling him to watch porn last night.

  Brody: Can’t watch porn anymore. :(

  What? I’m not responding to that text. He wants me to ask why, and I can only imagine the answer he’d come up with.

  Me: You stole my coffee. What kind of person does that?

  Me: You should definitely be awake right now at four in the morning.

  Me: Hopefully you don’t put your phone on silent, or to sleep, or anything like because I’d be wasting my effort of waking you up.

  Me: You’re a jackass!

  I don’t feel better at all. Even more so because I didn’t wake him up or cause any damage to his life yet today, not like he’s done to mine at four a.m. He was so concerned about my lack of a smile yesterday, and he stole my coffee. He’s unstable. It’s obvious.

  Somehow, without being able to charge up on caffeine, I get through another third of the photos I owe Marco, and the wee hours of the morning morph into a foggy haze outside the window by seven when my phone buzzes beside my keyboard.

  Brody: Good morning, sunshine!

  He’s not getting a response.

  Brody: Thank you for the coffee, by the way.

  A photo pops up with a navy-blue mug, filled with steaming coffee. I drop my phone back to my desk. I need to clear him from my head and move on with the day. I don’t have time for these childish games, which should be the exact reason why I am no longer angry about having my coffee stolen.

  I lift my phone back up and thumb in a message.

  Me: Payback is a—

  No. No. I force myself to place the phone down without sending the message. But the blinking cursor is taunting me.

  6

  After the last couple of days, working non-stop between shoots and editing, I have other things to tend to today—something I’ve been putting off. I’ve waited long enough. Decisions should be black and white, but the one I’ve been losing sleep over is so many shades of gray, I will never know if I’m doing the right or wrong thing—the best thing.

  When Dad passed away, he left The Barrel House to Melody and me but told us both in person and in letters, as well as the will that he expected neither of us to fill his shoes or live out his passion by managing a distillery and shop. We could easily sell the shop and inherit the worth. However, the business has been in our family since it originated as a whiskey distillery in Dublin, Ireland. When our great-great-grandfather migrated to the United States, he re-opened The Barrel House in Kentucky; the home of bourbon. He then passed the business down to our grandfather. With the determination to hold on to the business, he was left with a choice between love and Kentucky. That’s when our grandfather followed his soon-to-be wife—my grandmother and moved the business up to Vermont, where her family lived. The legacy is unbelievable, which has made the weight of my decision unbearable. Do I help Melody run the business or sell my share? Dad supported either decision. He did not want me to give up my career as a photographer, but I couldn’t make this decision before he passed away. There was already too much to consider.

  Melody, however, doesn’t see another open path. She has a career as a screenwriting editor but is determined to pick up where Dad left off in the shop, even despite her lack of knowledge about bourbon. She’s been working her editing job at night after the shop closes. It’s a lot. I’ll give her credit; she’s trying.

  The guilt I have, watching her try, makes me feel like a terrible sister. I should be next to her, enduring the pain of seeing the reminders of Dad every second of the day, but I can’t. I can’t be there every day with the memories. It hurts too much. I fear if I took this opportunity with Melody, I would always be living in the past and never move forward.

  There were many summers I helped Dad in the shop and enjoyed spending time there with him, but without him, I don’t see a point in being there.

  Before he died, Dad told me Bill Pearson, Brett and Brody’s dad, the barrel distributor, would buy my share of the business and help keep the distillery running. Brett offered to step in and help Melody. Their family has been beyond gracious to us, and I’ve hardly had the energy to say thank you. Brett didn’t have to disrupt his life to help us, yet, he did.

  Watching how well Melody and Brett have been running the business has offered me clarity, and though it feels wrong, I think it’s time to hand over my part of The Barrel House to Mr. Pearson.

  Knowing today would be my only free day in the next couple of weeks, I scheduled an appointment with an attorney to discuss my options. I need to know I’m making the right decisions.

  I open my kitchen drawer and pull out my pair of scissors to trim a dead leaf off the arrangement Polly gave me yesterday after the photoshoot. I don’t think I’ve ever had flowers in my apartment, thanks to my everlasting single lifestyle and lack of friends. After Dad died, all flowers and foods were sent to Mom’s house for the three of us, which I understand. M
om tried to get me to take some of it back here, but those flowers were made for sympathy, and it’s all I would feel every time I saw them.

  With my copy of the will in a sealed envelope and the letter Dad left me in my shoulder bag, I grab my travel mug and head out. At least I have coffee this morning, thanks to the box of Keurig k-cups left in front of my door with a bow and a note that said:

  Sorry for stealing your coffee.

  I hope you’ll forgive me. :(

  - Brody

  After reading the note, the only word I could think of was: sociopath. I’m not sure I can describe him in another way. He hasn’t texted me again, and I didn’t bother to thank him for the coffee. I’m still debating if it’s a necessary thing to do after he stole what I had left for the week.

  I lock my door and head out back to the parking lot, finding a fresh layer of snow coating the world around me. I need a garage to park in. I think the same thought every time it snows, which is far too often in the winter.

  The attorney’s office is about an hour away, and the drive is made up of snow-covered maple trees and the open road—a canvas designed for a wandering mind.

  I turn up the music to drown my thoughts, losing myself in the poetic lyrics from Brent Smith, the lead singer of Shinedown, wondering the odds of satellite signals sending over the song, “State of My Head.” This song could have been written about my life.

  Driving by some of the open fields gives me the urge to pull over and take out my camera, but I’ll be late if I stop. I hate this damn snow, but it’s a beautiful anomaly; nothing so cold should be eye-catching.

  With a deep breath, I pull into the small parking lot of a once residential house that has been converted into a law office. I’m a few minutes early, but the lot is empty except for one SUV. I have to prepare myself to discuss this matter after being quiet about the topic for so long. Talking about losing Dad hurts, and if I don’t talk, I don’t hurt as much.

  The office smells like Yankee Candle, mostly vanilla and lemon. The floors are fake wood and bounce slightly beneath each step. I sound like an elephant walking in with my clunky boots on.

  “Ms. Quinn?” I hear before walking toward the open door on the left of the small waiting area.

  A woman steps out from the door to greet me. She’s dressed in a tailored gray suit with a white blouse and heels that clack louder than my steps. Her hair is pulled back into a tight low ponytail. “Hi, Ms. Whitman?” I didn’t know what she looked like, so I’m assuming this is the attorney.

  “Yes, it’s nice to meet you. Come on in,” she says with a friendly smile.

  “You have great reviews online,” I tell her. The last time I needed an attorney, there weren’t many reviews online for local professionals, which meant I had to take a shot in the dark at finding the right person. It’s not the best situation when trying to file for an annulment.

  “I’m glad to hear,” she says, motioning toward the royal blue leather chair in front of her oversized mahogany desk. She doesn’t seem surprised or flattered by my comment, and I’m hoping it’s just a sign of being humble rather than hiding the truth that she had the reviews planted there. “Your email was very detailed, so I think I understand most of your concerns. Were you able to bring a copy of the will with you?”

  “Yes, I have it right here.” I’m glad I don’t have to rehash my questions. I hand over the envelope with the will.

  “Perfect. Can I get you a cup of coffee or tea while I make a photocopy?” she asks.

  “Oh, no, thank you,” I tell her.

  “I’ll just be a minute.” She walks out of the office and closes me inside. It gives me a moment to breathe, but my stomach is twisting into a knot at the same time. I pull out the letter from my bag and unfold the soft paper, becoming worn from the number of times I have opened it and held it between my clenched hands.

  I re-read the words Dad wrote: “Your life is for you. Don’t live it for me.” I just needed a reminder.

  Ms. Whitman had clearly worked with people who are grieving. Her questions were emotionless and simple. She made everything very clear and easy for me to understand. The hour ride back home offered a sense of confidence with my final decision. Now, I have to share it with Mom and Melody. I don’t know what they are thinking regarding why I have been stalling for so long, but they have given me the time and space to decide.

  “Call Mom,” I say, holding down the button on the steering wheel.

  Mom has been checking on me daily, so she might get nervous that I’m calling her for a change, which speaks truly when she answers before the end of the first ring.

  “Journey, are you okay?”

  “Hi, Mom,” I reply, trying to sound amused rather than upset over her being so worried about me. “I’m fine. I’m not a ticking time bomb, you know.”

  I hear her release a lungful of air. “Oh, I know you’re not, honey. I just worry about you sometimes. You know this. I’m your mother. I’m allowed to worry.”

  “I know. I know. If I wasn’t okay, you would be the first to know,” I tell her, knowing I’m not being truthful. I haven’t been okay since Dad died, but I will not lay that on top of her burden and grief.

  “Well, that’s why I get nervous when you call me. I usually call you.”

  “I know. Well, I wanted to ask for a favor.”

  “Anything. You name it.” Mom loves to feel needed. It keeps her moving, especially as of late.

  “Can we have a small dinner party at your house?”

  I can imagine the smile on her face as she says, “Of course, we can.” Mom also loves to cook, incessantly, to the point where I think rats might be dying of obesity in the sewers by her house. “Who are we inviting, and what kind of food are you thinking? Oh, and what’s the occasion? Did you meet someone?”

  I clear my throat, trying not to respond with the first words that fill my head. “I’m not meeting anyone anytime soon,” I tell her. “It’s about The Barrel House. I’ve decided.”

  “Oh,” she says, sounding deflated. I’m not sure if I let her down about not meeting a man or if she’s concerned with The Barrel House. “Why don’t you come over and talk to me, sweetie.”

  I glance at the clock on my dash, realizing I kept the day clear aside from a few more edits I have to do on Marcos’ photos. “Okay, are you home now? I can be there in about twenty minutes.”

  “I will be here. I’ll start making lunch for us.” I’m not hungry but telling Mom this is like telling her she’s useless.

  “Thanks, I’ll see you in a few.”

  Did I meet someone? Melody must have said something to her about Brody. If Melody even sniffs a hint of a secret I might be hiding, she will have her nose everywhere until she finds out for sure. Mom, though, she wouldn’t normally ask me a question along those lines. Unfortunately, I’ve done a good job of scarring her from asking me about men.

  Speaking of which, I’m forced to drive the road I avoid like the plague. It’s the only way to get to Mom’s from this side of the town. Part of me debates driving another two exits to avoid “the road.” If today is going to be the start of a new chapter, I might as well try to get past my fifteen-year-old demon.

  It’s easy to say.

  My palms clam up as I grip the steering wheel while pulling off at the town exit. This direction used to be the scenic route out of the town.

  There are time gaps at parties, especially New Year’s Eve parties when the clock suddenly strikes midnight. Time was said to fly when there’s an excessive amount of fun, but the same applies when booze or beautiful distractions are involved, too. When they all happen at once, morals go out the window, and worries are forgotten. I can’t remember spinning the bottle. I can’t remember thinking the idea of spinning an empty bourbon bottle would lead to a fun time, but I drank a full Solo cup full of beer way too fast, then had a second cup a little faster. I don’t know if I was hoping the bottle would stop spinning right in front of Brody or if I would have been happy to
kiss a wall, but my judgment was impaired.

  Though I can’t remember any of the minor details leading up to the moment I saw Brody staring at me with a coy grin, I can recall my heart pounding in my chest, adrenaline pumping through my alcohol-ridden veins and a new sense of desire. There was definitely a desire to kiss the bad boy—the troublemaker with the cocky attitude and the devil twinkling in his coppery eyes. Being the center of attention wasn’t my thing, never had been. Somehow, Brody was aware of this and walked through the circle of drunken teens and took my hand without hesitation. “I thought you didn’t want to play this game?” he asked.

  “I didn’t,” I told him.

  I was focused solely on Brody’s face, blocking out the roaring cheers chanting, “Kiss her, kiss her …”

  “Come with me,” he said, pulling me away from the crowd toward one of the storage closets. “This game just became Seven Minutes in Heaven.” Brody wasn’t announcing his statement to me. He was riling up the crowd, disappointing them by stealing the show.

  The closet was close to pitch-black, with only the blinking green light on the smoke alarm above our heads. The cheers from outside the closet had continued, but the door muted some of the sounds. I didn’t know what I was doing at that moment, or why I walked into a closet with Brody to do God knows what, but he made my mind stop thinking in straight lines. Being around him was worse than consuming alcohol. I didn’t feel drunk at that moment; I felt winded by his existence.

  “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he whispered in my ear. “I didn’t want to put you on the spot out there. They can think what they want.”