"Who's that?" Brody asks, his eyebrows arched with concern.
"The restaurant owner who won't give up."
Brody looks confused, but it's because I didn't tell him I have a shoot today, which is because we aren't dating, or friends, for that matter. Brody and I grew up together, kind of. Our parents are friends, but we only saw each other a few times a year when our families attended the same parties. Then, he ran away, I got busy, and our families became a bit distanced—perfect reason not to see someone for twelve years. But, yay for me, I ran into him last week. Now, it's like we're best friends who FaceTime each other. I've already informed him: A. I don't have best friends for a reason. B. I don't FaceTime for a reason.
However, I keep answering his call, which is a reason I'm not exactly sure about yet.
"A restaurant owner?" Brody questions.
"I had a job today. A shoot. I use those big devices, called cameras, and there's something called a lens, which you aim at an object and then click a button, and poof! A copy of the image is burnt into a digital chip. Magic, right?"
Brody's eyes drift to the ceiling of his apartment. I only know it's his apartment because I recognize the ceiling fan from when he gave me a virtual tour the first time he Facetime'd me. That was special. "I wasn't sure if you were talking about a weapon or a camera there for a minute, carrot-top."
I once had red hair, more than ten years ago, but he thinks I find it funny to call me carrot-top even though my hair is a dark shade of auburn.
"Journey, wait a minute, will ya?" Marco is diligently following me down the dark sidewalk. If I weren't talking to Brody, I might have pulled out my car key and shoved it between my fingers to make it look like a knife—one that would only give the dickhead an injury as mild as a paper cut.
"Seriously, are you okay?" Brody asks.
"I had a food photo-shoot at Chez Tru, but the owner wanted more than just the photos, so I'm walking away." I'm also out of breath from walking at the pace I'm moving.
"Stay on the phone with me until you get into your Jeep," Brody says, standing up from his couch.
"I'll be fine," I tell him.
"Is that him behind you?" Brody asks, tilting his head from side to side as if he can get a better view of what's behind me.
"Yeah, I'll handle it," I tell him, feeling less than confident about my statement.
My hands are trembling as I hit the button on my key-fob, thankfully seeing my headlights flash in front of me. Still, I'm not fast enough because Marco's burning hand is back on my shoulder.
"Hey!" Brody shouts through the phone. "Want to get your hand off my girl?"
My girl? In his dreams.
As if my shoulder is truly on fire, Marco rips his hands away, holding them up in defense. "I didn't realize—I just wanted to apologize."
"Apologize for what, bro?" Technically, this would be a good time to disconnect the FaceTime call, but I continue holding my phone up for Marco to see.
"He's got a wife, and a beard—can you believe that?" I counter with a scoff.
Brody closes his eyes for a quick second as if feeling defeated about his awful facial hair that I've commented on more times than he has called me.
"I'll make sure to let everyone know how fantastic your new restaurant is," Brody calls out. "Get in the Jeep, Journey." I narrow my eyes at Brody, lacking appreciation for the way he's speaking to me.
Despite my irritation, I jump into my Jeep, close the door, and hit the locks. Marco is walking back toward the restaurant with his hands in his pockets and his head hanging from what I can only hope to be an embarrassment.
"What are you doing walking around a dark street at night with a piece of equipment that probably costs more than a normal week's paycheck?"
I drop the phone down onto the passenger seat, leaving FaceTime on so he can stare at the ceiling of my Jeep. "I don't recall agreeing to be your concern, Brody," I tell him, starting the ignition.
"Well, I didn't ask," he counters. "As a human being with a brain in my head, I'm calling out the blunt fact—a beautiful woman like yourself shouldn't be walking down a dark street alone with expensive equipment."
"I can take care of myself. I've been doing so for quite some time now."
"Is it that you can take care of yourself, or do you tiptoe through life thinking you're tougher than shit?"
"Shit isn't very tough, bright one. It's actually pretty—"
"Okay, enough. I'm serious. Do you even lock your doors at night?"
I roll my eyes, though he can't see me anymore. "Sure," I tell him.
"You better."
"Okay, I'm in my locked car, driving down the street where I can run someone over if need be. I think we can end our call now, but it was a pleasure."
"This conversation isn't over," Brody says.
"All I have to do is push the 'end' button, and it will be."
"Meet me at Peak Pub tomorrow at eight," he says.
"No, thanks," I sigh.
"How many times do I have to ask you to meet me for a drink before you agree?"
I smile, feeling the warm sense of sin flare through my cheeks. "So many, you won't be able to count high enough."
"This isn't part of the game," he informs me. The game. A game we started when we were seventeen. A game that ended when we were nineteen. A game without any name or rules—just two people playing each other. For some reason, he thinks this so-called-game has restarted after all this time.
"What game?" I stick my tongue between my teeth, feeling like I'm holding power in this conversation that needs to end.
"Fine. You get the first point," Brody says. "Goodnight, carrot-top."
I grab my phone and hit 'end' button without saying goodbye.
It's a long fifteen-minute drive filled with racing thoughts before I'm pulling into the parking lot of the old-stone-mill that houses my studio apartment.
I find myself peeking over my shoulder while clutching my phone in one hand and my keys in the other, wishing the landlord would add a couple of lights to this parking lot. It isn't until I'm inside my eight-hundred square-foot open space that my shoulders relax and my pulse slows. With another peek at the dark screen of my phone, I toss the device onto the counter. Encircling my small kitchen and hang my bag off the back of the bar-stool.
The quiet hits me as I stare out the dark windows, knowing there is nothing out there but the view of cloud covered mountaintops that can't be deciphered at this time of night.
I drop down onto my sofa and toss my head back, staring through the window, upside down, toward the slight blur of the hidden moon. "I miss you so much," I utter. "It hurts. It hurts like it was yesterday. I hope you can hear me."
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Bourbon on the Rocks
BOOK TWO - JOURNEY
Prologue
It all started fifteen years ago or something like that, but I’m not the type to keep track of dates, years, or how much time has passed since a guy made me breathless in the dark. But that night, I had to run away and couldn’t allow myself to wonder what might have been. I could never look back.
I held firm to my self-made promise.
He left our small town for bigger things, but I heard he had come back, and I had counted my blessings each day I hadn’t run into him.
My luck had run out when my sister, Melody, fell into the arms of this guy’s brother, Brett. Our siblings are now working together, running my dad’s bourbon shop. I figured if I didn’t ask about him, I could go on believing he was a caveman hiding from society.
Then, last week, my false sense of hope was crushed.
I was trying to do a good deed and help my sister and her new lover, who needed to tend to a scheduling conflict at the shop. Something came over me, and I volunteered to help Brett by bringing his daughter, Parker, to a bake sale she had plans to take part in at her school. It was only for two hours. Plus, there would be cookies.
I didn’t see trouble coming, but when it did, it was like a train w
reck.
Over the gray linoleum floor and beneath the fluorescent lights of the school’s foyer, I watched a gaggle of women swoon over a grizzly-bearded PTA dad while I set up a table full of cookies. The other tables had been set up and ready, so as usual, I must have been late at being on time.
Once the bake sale started, we sold a lot of cookies, and I believe I ate as many as we sold, but who is counting? After the first half-hour, the fundraiser turned into a socializing event. That’s when my boredom kicked in. Thank God for phones with endless strings of social drama to read.
“You’re new around here,” a voice bellows from in front of the table. I glance up, finding the grizzly-bearded dad, no longer surrounded by his bosom-posse. Instead, he was studying me as if I was a mystery he needed to solve.
“Yeah, just helping Brett Pearson tonight,” I told him, dropping my gaze back to my phone to highlight my disinterest. Sorry, bud, you’ve got a beard, so that’s a hard no for me.
“A volunteer?” he continued.
“Sure,” I told him with a shrug.
“I’m glad Brett found someone to help him out tonight. Yeah, he said he was bummed he couldn’t make it.” The guy knew Brett. Small town problems.
I looked to the chair beside me in search of Brett’s daughter, discovering Parker had disappeared.
It was a wonderful “oh shit” moment.
“Yeah, he—uh—wanted to be here,” I told the guy, trying to sound distracted as I searched the area for Parker.
“Do you have a kid in this school too, or did Brett just hire you to babysit?” The guy wouldn’t quit. Question after question when I was doing my best to hide the fact that I lost Brett’s daughter.
“Uh yeah, my kid is here—somewhere,” I lied, thinking it would shut him up. “She’s old enough to do her own thing, so I offered to help with Parker.”
“Oh, nice. Which kid is yours?” Again, with the small-town problem. I was backing myself into a corner while tugging at the tablecloth, hoping my little friend might be playing hide-and-seek.
She wasn’t there either.
“Uh,” I stumbled. I needed a common name to get him out of my hair. “Amy.” I avoided eye-contact since I’m a firm believer in eyes are a tell-all when lying.
“Amy, huh?” the guy continued.
“Yup, fifth grade—tough year,” I said as I rolled up to my toes to scan the area above the taller heads.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the guy grit his teeth and smile awkwardly before leaning in toward me. “This school only goes up to fourth grade,” he whispered.
The color might have drained from my face. “Oh, crap. What am I saying? I meant fourth grade. I’m already thinking ahead to next year. Amy is all excited for middle school.”
The grizzly-beard’s lips pressed together as if he was lost in thought. “They don’t start middle school until seventh grade. I’m sure you know there’s an intermediate school.”
All I could think was: when the hell did this happen? I attended school in the same damn town.
“That’s what I meant,” I told him, obviously losing the battle.
“What’s your name again?” he asked.
I gave him a look to let him know my name was none of his business, but I was in a school, and I was aware of the rules and security must be a little different now. “I’m Journey Milan.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Journey Milan.”
“Yup, that’s me.” I was almost positive there was no Amy Milan enrolled at the school, but I could be divorced. I am divorced. It wasn’t too far off from the truth.
“I once knew a Journey. It’s not a common name.”
I shrugged, wondering why I felt concerned that he might have known me at some point in my life. “Maybe, the name is more common than you think.”
“Did you ever have red hair?” Shit. He knew me. Did we graduate together or something?
In response, I ran my fingers through my hair. “No, I’m a brunette. So, I guess there is more than one person named Journey.”
“Is Milan your maiden name or married name?”
“Married name.”
“What’s your maiden name, Journey?”
“Why does it matter?” I asked.
“Why do you seem nervous?” he pressed.
Other than preferring to be incognito, I didn’t recognize the guy and preferred to know who I was talking to before spilling private information.
“Because I need to watch Parker, and she has disappeared,” I told him. I began making my way through the crowd of chatting parents, trying to spot a cute little girl wearing a magenta tutu. The color was bright enough to stand out, but I didn’t see a child with a tutu or pigtail buns. I walked down the hall toward the bathroom signs, hoping to find her there. I didn’t get far without hearing footsteps follow from behind.
“Did you seriously lose Parker?” Grizzly-beard asked. I don’t think it’s something I’d be joking about.
“She was with me one second and gone the next. I didn’t think she’d run off during the bake sale.”
The man groaned. “Maybe if you weren’t so concerned with your phone or sneaking cookies, you would have seen where she went.”
I spun around to face the guy. “Are you kidding me right now?”
He smirks. “Maybe.”
“This isn’t funny. I need to find her,” I told him.
“Okay, well, it’s a little funny because Parker is at my table with my daughter since you sold out of cookies. I heard you ate them all, but no judgment,” he coughed out the last few words. “Anyway, that’s how I discovered Parker has some random ‘mom’ sitting with her. So, I came to see who you are.”
“And who are you to be so concerned?” I retaliated.
The guy folded his muscle-clad arms over his chest as if he were trying to pull off the appearance of the Brawny paper-towel dude. The fleece shirt he was wearing wasn’t helping. “I’m Brody Pearson, Parker’s uncle.”
Brody Pearson. The Brody Pearson, who assisted me in the process of disrupting my life, as well as others. I knew he looked familiar. That beard, though—so deceiving.
That was the best “oh shit” moment of the night, in the worst way.
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t realize you would be here.” Why the hell didn’t Brett tell his brother to bring Parker to the bake sale? Dammit. I was aware his brother—Brody had a daughter. I should have assumed he’d be here. The thought didn’t cross my mind.
“I’m head of the PTA, so yeah, I’m here.” Brody Pearson, head of the PTA. It sounded like a joke.
“Head of the PTA?” I laughed. “You?”
Brody glanced from side to side as if I was joking. I was, but my laughter was at his expense.
“Is there a problem with me being a part of the PTA?”
“Nope,” I said, popping my p. “I better collect Parker from your table.”
“She’s fine,” he told me. “Are you always this friendly?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t really have a kid that goes to this school, do you?”
I touched my finger to my lips. “I just—I don’t think I owe you any more answers.”
“I’m sure Brett will give me all the answers I need,” he said, threatening my incognito-ness. “I’ll just give him a call.”
Brody turned away, heading back to the line of linen-covered tables. “Uh, wait, don’t call him. He’s in an important meeting. That’s why I’m here, helping.”
As if he didn’t hear me, Brody continued walking, searching through his phone. “The things I have to do around here,” he muttered.
“Seriously, what is your problem?” I asked him.
He twisted his head and peered over his shoulder. “You’re the one who lost my niece, remember?”
“I didn’t lose her. She walked away.”
“She walks away a lot. Were you aware?” he quizzed me.
“No, I did not know, but it might have been helpful in
formation.”
“Probably,” Brody said, continuing his pace down the line of tables. He stopped abruptly in front of a table where I found Parker and, who I assumed to be Brody’s daughter, sitting.
“Parker, why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” I asked her.
“I did,” she said, keeping her eyes locked on the stack of napkins she was straightening.
“Well, I didn’t hear you.”
“Dude, call me back when you’re free,” Brody spoke into his phone.
I tug at Brody’s arm. “You’re going to rat me out? Do you have nothing better to do?”
“My dad likes to be in charge at all times,” Brody’s daughter said, smirking at me.
“Clearly.” I rolled my eyes because it happened as naturally as breathing. “Parker, we should get back to our table and start cleaning up.”
Parker stands up and presses her shoulders back. “Okay.”
“Hey, Park,” Brody addressed her. “Does Miss Journey have a daughter in this school?”
Parker gave me an off-putting expression. “You have a daughter?” she asked. “Why didn’t she come with us tonight?”
I took Parker’s hand and guided her away from the table, hoping Brody wouldn’t follow. “Is your uncle always such a pain in the butt?”
“Mmm, pretty much,” Parker confirmed with a giggle.
For the following thirty minutes I agreed to be there, I stayed safe from Brody’s watchful eyes as I noticed a line of moms searching for a reason to chat him up off in the corner. Thankfully, I could get Parker and me out of the school without another encounter with the grizzly-beard.
The parking lot was lit up well, and parents were shuttling their kids into cars. We parked farther away, so we were still walking by the time some cars began pulling out of the lot. “Why did we park so far away?” Parker asked.
“I don’t like to park close to other cars.”
“Why?” she continued.
The truth—there were so many reasons. Dings on doors, awkward conversations, and so on. “I don’t really know,” I told her.
“My uncle Brody does the same thing. It’s because he’s in love with his truck and doesn’t want anyone to park too close.”
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 25
