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

by Shari J. Ryan

  Brody Pearson didn’t care about making a scene. I was trying to understand this because the Brody Pearson I thought I knew was the exact opposite and lived to be the center of attention. It was evident every time he entered a room.

  Then, I concluded that he didn’t want to be seen kissing someone like me. I recalled what he said earlier in the night about me being beautiful, and something ridiculous about my smile, but that didn’t mean he was planning to make a public display of his feelings. “I wasn’t worried,” I told him, unsure of what was going through his head.

  “You’re not worried about what?”

  “Doing something I don’t want to,” I continued.

  “Well, what do you want to do with the next six minutes?” Brody asked me.

  I couldn’t see the look in his eyes, his body language, or gauge the response he was expecting. “I shrugged, but you can’t see that,” I told him.

  My breaths were coming quicker, and I closed my eyes to forget about the intense darkness surrounding us. I was uncomfortably blind. Brody’s hand wrapped around my arm as he pulled me a few inches closer. I could feel the warmth of his body closing in on mine. “Are you okay?”

  I need to swallow the nerves, but he might hear them plummet to the bottom of my stomach. “I heard you have a reputation to uphold.” Maybe it wasn’t a great pickup line, but I was wondering about the rumors, curious about how many girls took a poll on the level of kissing capabilities.

  “A reputation?” he questioned.

  Maybe it was a rumor. There are plenty of those to go around between our two small towns.

  “That you’re the best kisser in the area,” I uttered.

  Brody let out a quiet laugh. “I haven’t heard that one, but we can go with it.”

  “Or …”

  “Or?” Brody asks.

  “I can be the deciding judge of your reputation.” It wasn’t like I had a ton of experience kissing different guys. Other than Adam, I had a couple of dates during my sophomore year, and those boys were all about shoving their tongue down my throat. I had to wipe my face down after.

  Brody’s hand disappeared from my arm and moved to my lower back, pulling me in, eliminating the remaining inches between us. I wondered if he could hear how hard my heart was beating. There was no other sound in the closet. I didn’t see his face dipping down toward mine. I didn’t see the way his eyes looked into mine, questioning my temptation. Instead, it was like being thrown into a hottub after standing in the middle of a snow-covered mountain. His lips; full and soft, cool, and gentle as they brushed against mine. How could he see where my mouth was if I couldn’t see him at all? Butterflies. There was no other way to describe the feeling, as cliché as it was. I could imagine them at the moment—monarchs breaking free from entrapment, excitedly flying in every direction to find a way closer to freedom.

  Brody’s hands cupped around my cheeks as the kiss deepened. He was experienced in how to use his tongue with subtle, quick movements that wouldn’t leave any trace but the taste of beer. Maybe I was comparing his lips to the inexperienced and the same set of lips I had kissed daily for two years, but I was positive Brody’s reputation was quite accurate. His body pressed against mine as he urged me to take a few steps back until I was up against the cement wall. He lifted me up to wrap my legs around his waist so he could pin me with his weight. I looped my arms around his neck and gave into the kiss—gave into him, pleaded for the moment to never end. I hadn’t felt that way before, and it wasn’t the beer or the fact that shouts of “Happy New Year” were echoing outside the door. Brody parted his lips from mine and touched his nose to the tip of my nose. “Happy New Year, Fireball.”

  “Happy New Year,” I whispered back.

  “To new beginnings,” was the last thing he said before leaning back into me and claiming my lips as if they held the last bit of oxygen in the small closet.

  It was unexpected when a light bled into the space, causing me to squint against the sudden brightness. I held my arm above my eyes to find the source of light—to see Adam standing in the doorway with a blur of others behind him, holding their mouths with shock.

  “I thought I knew you, Journey. I thought—dammit, do you have any idea how much I love you? You just broke my heart less than two weeks ago and here you are with Brody Pearson of all people—a quarterback—that’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it? Not some semi-talented musician running off to chase his dream to Berkley. I should have known the real reason you ended our relationship.”

  “Adam, stop,” I choked out. Brody released me from his hold, and I steadied myself on the ground. “Adam!”

  I hadn’t thought to apologize to Brody for causing a scene or for stealing his New Year’s kiss. I needed Adam to know I was sorry for being the person I would normally hate. I wanted to tell him I ran away from pain because it was easier than enduring the effects of heartbreak, which was inevitable with a country between us. I had a journal with our wedding planned out, one I would never show a soul because I swore off marriage since it was too common. I played with photographs and morphed them together to see what our children might look like someday. I wasn’t just messing around with Adam for two years. I loved him, and if we were the same people after college and found each other again, it would have been our fate speaking for us.

  I chased him out of The Barrel House, reaching the front walkway in time to see him drive off in his mother’s beat-up old Subaru. I fished around my back pocket, finding my car keys and ran to my car. I had to explain myself to him. He needed to know about the fate I planned on.

  “Journey!” Melody shouted from the front door as I shut my car door. “You’ve been drinking. What are you doing? Are you crazy?” I could hear her through my closed window, but I had to block her out. I followed Adam in the direction he was driving, speeding up to try to catch a view of his taillights.

  It was four miles.

  There was a bend in the road and a ditch filled with ice.

  A wall of rocks plunged into a ninety-degree angle off the side.

  My heart froze in my chest as I watched Adam’s car flip over the edge, landing upside down on a frozen brook, too shallow to cover the deadly fragments of several broken boulders.

  I could barely think fast enough to put my car in park before jumping out and across the same ice, stopping just before the ledge. Through blood-curdling screams, I stood pleading with Adam. “Please, Adam! Come back, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Are you okay? Adam! Please tell me you’re okay! I’m going to get help. I love you. Just hold on. Hold on. Okay?” I was trying to find a way to descend the rocks so I could reach him, but a passing car stopped. “Is everything okay? Do you need help?” the man asked. I stared back, silently for a long second, watching as the whites of his eyes grew larger when he spotted a set of tires below the cliff. “Oh my God. I have a cell phone. I’ll call 9-1-1. Are you okay?” The man jumped out of his car and grabbed my arm, pulling me away from the edge.

  “My boyfriend,” I said, pointing down at his silent car.

  “I understand. But, are you hurt?” the man repeated.

  I shook my head even though I was physically okay.

  Mentally, I was aware I would never be the same again because lust killed love.

  7

  Sweat is dripping down the back of my neck as I pull into Mom’s driveway. If she sees me like this, she’ll know something is up. I take in a few deep breaths and turn the air conditioner onto a mild setting. I focus on the front door—the same front door I’ve always known, except we usually have a wreath, decorated for the time of year. Mom didn’t put a new wreath up before the holidays or after the holidays. There’s something about a wreath that screams home, but now, this house is full of broken pieces, it’s hard to find that comfort.

  It doesn’t matter how many weeks or months have passed since Dad left us, I still walk in through the front door and peer into the family room on the left, looking to see if Dad is resting on the couch with hi
s slipper-clad feet resting on the coffee table.

  No one sits in his seat. The leather of the sofa memorized the indent from his body, and even though they are just wrinkles in the material, sometimes I tell myself he’s still there, listening and smiling.

  The clatter of plates draws my attention to the kitchen, remembering the mention of lunch. “Perfect timing,” Mom calls into the hall, leading to the foyer.

  I follow her voice while peeling my stare away from the family room. I don’t understand how Mom is walking around the house every day, surrounded by pain and memories. It’s like a fresh wound every time I step through the front door.

  The round kitchen table has two place settings. “You don’t have to prepare a full feast,” I tell Mom, meeting her by the sink for a kiss on the cheek.

  Mom stares at me for longer than a second, and her eyes narrow as if she’s trying to read something written within my eyes. She takes my wrist and pushes the sleeve of my coat up to my elbow. “Again?”

  I shake my hand free from her grip. “No. I’ve been busy, that’s all.”

  “It’s been a week since I’ve seen you and you look like you lost another five pounds. This has to stop.”

  I place my warm hands on my cheeks and close my eyes. “Mom, please. I’m not hurting myself. It’s stress-related, okay?”

  “You need to go back to the doctor.” Mom isn’t letting up on me, so unless I agree, the next hour of my life will be consumed with a million reasons why I should listen to her.

  “Okay, will you stop talking about my weight if I agree to see a doctor?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest and cocks her hip out to the side. “I won’t bring up the doctor again. You need to gain some weight back, though.”

  She’s been saying this for months, but once Dad passed, my stomach felt better hollow than full, and it became a cycle with easy upkeep.

  “I’ve been eating, just so you know.” Not lunch or breakfast, but dinner is a must. Mom isn’t buying into my words.

  “Eat,” she says, her voice stern as if I was twelve again.

  She brushes by me to pull her chair out and sit down in front of the oversized sandwich she prepared.

  I follow and take the seat across from her, watching her right eyebrow perch in its corner of annoyance. It’s always her right brow that proves the worth of her anger.

  “So, about the dinner party,” I say, trying to change the subject.

  “I just lost your father, Journey. I won’t make it through another loss. Do you understand me?”

  I inhale slowly and puff my cheeks out as I exhale even slower. “I’m not going to die.”

  “Bulimia can lead to death,” she says, whispering as if the walls were listening to the secret stories of my hidden past.

  “I’m not—I’m not sick like that, Mom.”

  “Right after Adam died—it was the last time you ‘weren’t sick like that.’ Then I was sitting in the hospital with you for days while doctors refueled your body with IV fluids. I took a leave of absence from work to take you to psychiatrist appointments three times a week and then home to monitor you and the bathroom every other minute of the day. All so I could keep you out of the hospital.”

  I hate this reminder. I hate that my past is like the ink of a permanent tattoo—one I should never have gotten and deeply regret. It fades, but I see it every time I look in the mirror.

  “I have been fine since,” I remind her.

  “You are prone to future bouts. You heard the doctor.”

  I wish she would believe me. “I’d like to have a dinner party to discuss my decision about The Barrel House.”

  It’s easy to see that the change of discussion isn’t acceptable. She takes a few minutes before responding. “Who needs to be at this party, Journey?”

  “Melody and the Pearsons.”

  “You’re selling your share?” Mom is trying to stay neutral as she questions me. I know she would never ask me to hold on to my share and take on a new career doing something I’m not passionate about, but at the same time, she’s terrified to lose the family business.

  “Yes and no. I have found a loophole to protect our family assets, and I’m having paperwork drawn up as we speak.”

  “Wow,” Mom says, taking another bite from her sandwich. “I’m glad to hear you spoke to an attorney about this. Thank you for doing so.”

  “It’s my family business too. I haven’t gone a day without debating this decision.”

  “I know,” Mom says. “I didn’t want you to give up your life for something that wouldn’t make you happy. I just couldn’t think of a solution to the issue either.” She smiles and places her hand on top of mine. “I’m proud of you.”

  “I’ll have more details by tomorrow afternoon when I get the paperwork.”

  “Okay. Then, how about tomorrow night? I can call Elizabeth and Bill to see if they’re free for dinner.”

  “That would be great. Brett should be here too,” I tell her, knowing Brett has been investing so much of his time into The Barrel House.

  “Absolutely. I’ll just invite them all over.”

  A piece of lettuce falls from my lips as I’m surprised by her kind gesture to invite the entire Pearson clan. “I don’t think it needs to be more than Brett and his parents.”

  “Nonsense,” Mom argues. “You can’t invite a family over without one person.” It would be two since Brody has a daughter. “Speaking of Brody.” Her voice becomes quizzical, almost lyrical, in fact.

  “No,” I tell her.

  “Journey, don’t snap at me. And keep eating.”

  “I heard Brody has his eye on you. Maybe he’s jealous of what his brother and Melody have and realizes what kind of catch you would be.”

  “No,” I tell her again, this time with more enthusiasm.

  “He’s turned his life around, Journey. You don’t have to be so closed off to the idea.”

  “Our siblings are pretty much in a serious relationship. It’s weird, and he’s Brody Pearson, and no.”

  Mom holds her hands up in defense before grabbing her glass of lemon water. “Fine. He makes a good income helping his father, you know.”

  “I make a good income, working alone,” I remind her. “You fairy-god-mothered your way into the love connection between Melody and Brett. It’s time to hang up the wand.”

  “I did no such thing,” she argues. I know she’s right. God, do I know. I am the one who had to deal with the earlier years and Melody’s incessant crush on him. I might have had a hand in forcing them to rekindle their short-lived past after they reconnected, but it was just once, and I stepped away after. Mom kept twirling her wand, waiting for sparks to ignite. “I simply assisted with what was already there.”

  “Okay, well, there is nothing between Brody and me, nor will there ever be,” I tell her.

  “Well, there was that one time.”

  Mom doesn’t know about the one time. No one knows about the one time.

  “No, there wasn’t a one time,” I hold firm to my story.

  Mom rolls her eyes. “Okay, I guess we’re not at a point in our lives where we can laugh about the past yet.”

  I don’t think she knows the truth based on her statement. If she did, she’d know there was nothing about my past worth any amount of laughter.

  The silence gives me a good reason to finish shoving the sandwich into my mouth, chewing slowly, taking sips of water even slower until enough time has passed where I can once again change the subject. “I’ll buy all the food and bring it over tomorrow, assuming the Pearsons are free.”

  “I’ll call them in a bit and will let you know as soon as I have an answer.”

  We’re in a stare-off, and I hate it. Mom never meddled as much before Dad passed away. She’s taken the world onto her shoulders and will run herself ragged before taking a breath for herself.

  I didn’t intend to drop the planning of this dinner party on Mom, but rather hold the dinner at her house since
I don’t have enough space in my apartment. However, the attorney told me I had to come back to her office to pick up the paperwork, and though it could wait another day or so, I want the papers in hand tonight when I propose to offload my share for The Barrel House. Mom told me to go, and she’d take care of the cooking and preparations, which I appreciate.

  I’m glad everyone can attend tonight, but this includes Brody, which is the last thing I need to focus on when trying to break the news of my decision.

  I’m almost back to Mom’s house when my phone buzzes in the cupholder. Since I took the long way back to her house, avoiding the exit of doom, I hit a bit of traffic in the middle of town, giving me a moment to see who’s messaging me.

  Brody: Who would have thought I’d be lucky enough to see you again this week?

  The stress-filled constriction within my chest increases. I’m just going to ignore him, pretend he’s not there. If I can put some distance between us, everything will be fine.

  I make it to Mom’s house with little time to spare before the Pearsons are due to arrive. Melody is home too, helping Mom in the kitchen. The look I get from her is one of anger. I haven’t talked to her about the struggle of weighing my options. She probably thinks I put the thought of the business on the back burner for the last few months and pretended it wasn’t a pressing matter. I needed to make this decision on my own without her influence. I know how she feels about keeping The Barrel House in our family’s name.

  The Pearson family arrives promptly and almost all at once. The house fills with their party of six, adding to our party of three.

  I’m helping in the kitchen, avoiding Brody, but it doesn’t take long before he finds me. “Fireball,” he sings. “It’s been so long.”

  It’s just the two of us in the kitchen, somehow. Mom and Melody were here no less than a minute ago.

  “Yup,” I tell him.

  “Did I go too far with the coffee?” he asks, nudging me in the arm.