The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “Seriously, are you okay?” Brody asks.

  “I had a food photoshoot at a restaurant, 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. 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 genuinely 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. I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that I didn’t mention the name of Marco’s restaurant. “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 slide into my Jeep, close the door, and hit the locks. Marco is walking back toward the restaurant, and I can only hope he’s embarrassed by his behavior.

  “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 Wrangler. “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, I’m just calling out a blunt fact that 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 will 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 helping our game,” he informs me. “Don’t forget about your threat to win.”

  “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,” he says. “Goodnight, fireball.”

  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 my phone’s dark screen, I toss the device onto the counter.

  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 and stars. “I miss you so much,” I utter. “It hurts. It hurts like it was yesterday. I hope you can hear me.”

  2

  When the dawn light used to leak into iron-framed window, I would pull my weighted blanket up over my head, blocking out life for a few extra minutes until the rush of adrenaline sparked my desire to grab my camera and seek a unique snowflake glimmering in the sun, or the moment when a cloud would bear the peak of a freshly coated mountain. There hadn’t been a day I could remember where I didn’t have the Christmas-morning-excitement to start snapping stills of the moving world around me.

  Until lately.

  It’s been just over a month since Dad passed away for the ugly c-word. Each morning when the subtle hints of sunlight glow across my closed eyelids, I’m pulled from a place where my heart feels intact. He’s alive in my dreams—his voice, his all-knowing life explanations—I can still hear him. Then, I question if my head is playing tricks on me.

  There’s a heaviness on my chest, one that holds me down like the weighted blanket I haven’t slept without this past month. It’s more comforting to stay in bed; easier than facing another day filled with a roller coaster of emotions, points where I forget, moments where I remember as if it happened five minutes ago, and flashing memories that bring me to my knees.

  I stretch my arms out across the sheets, feeling the familiar emptiness beside me—a blank space which has never bothered me before. After Dad died, thoughts of investing time into a loving relationship just to reach a point where one person has to say goodbye began to feel more pointless than any reason I’ve had to appreciate my independent lifestyle. Then, something changed.

  On the side of a dumpster behind my apartment building, I saw words spray-painted in white letters. At first, I wondered what derelict would take the time to obstruct a piece of property filled with trash just to write some random line, but the sight piqued my interest and I stopped to read what was written—a quote by Alfred Lord Tennyson: “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

  I’ve heard this quote many times throughout life but never gave it a second thought until now. Maybe the vandal was heartbroken and felt as if his or her heart was in the dumpster. It’s all I could muster. It was like a blatant messy sign. However, I began to wonder who gets to determine that it’s better to feel love than not? Did Alfred Lord Tennyson lose his love, or did he never love at all then eventually feel regret? What if he didn’t have an accurate portrayal of which pain is the lesser kind?

  I glance at my phone, displaying the time, knowing I have to shower and get downtown before eight. Melody and I are doing a photoshoot of the upcoming season’s bourbon bottles to display in the local Mountain Living magazine. Dad never advertised his shop, The Barrel House, because his clientele were loyal repeat customers. However, business has changed a bit since he passed away. I think some patrons are having a hard time returning to Dad’s favorite place. Maybe they assume it’s the honorable thing to do—not continue buying bourbon from a man who can no longer enjoy the taste. As unfortunate as it is for the business, I understand. I opted out of taking over the shop with my sister because the thought
of walking in Dad’s fading footprints every day is too overwhelming to consider.

  However, Melody has vowed her future to continue running our family business, feeling the opposite—feeling more connected to the man whose presence was ever so prevalent in this small town. She doesn’t know a thing about bourbon, but she has some help, and I will support her desire just as she understands my lack thereof.

  I drag around the heaviness of my hungry body, knowing I haven’t been feeding it enough to store energy. Some enjoy comfort food when in grief, others lose the urge to eat altogether. I’m feeling the consequences of my low-calorie routine—the soreness in my ribs, my exhaustion, and shortage of stamina. Therefore, I paint a layer of happiness across my face in the form of foundation, bronzer, and blush. A dark line above and my lash-lines and a coat of mascara offer me the false appearance of: I’m fine.

  “I am fine,” I tell myself, staring at the facade in the mirror.

  In less than forty minutes, I’m out the door, waiting for the seat warmer in my Jeep to light a fire under my ass. Best investment ever. Speaking of great investments, I appreciate our anti-chain shop town agreeing to a drive-thru Dunkin’, so I don’t have to get off my heated seat to acquire my daily intake of caffeine.

  I consider sending Melody a text, asking if she would like a coffee too. She would ask me, plus it would be the sisterly thing to do.

  At the stop sign out in front of my apartment building, I take my phone from the cup holder and thumb out a quick message to my sister.

  Me: Coffee?

  I sometimes think Melody has her phone adhered to her hand because she rarely leaves me hanging for more than ten seconds before responding.

  Melody: Sure! I’ll give you the cash if you can grab a few, though. Brett and Mr. Crawley are here too.

  Me: No problem. Be there soon.

  Melody: Are you texting and driving again?

  I drop my phone into my cup holder as I take a right onto the four-mile-long road where I won’t pass another moving vehicle for the next ten minutes. In the spring, I might get stuck behind a manure tractor, but not in December.

  The line at Dunkin’ takes more time than I’d like, and I can see a considerably shorter wait inside, but I’d rather sit behind six cars expelling exhaust from their tailpipes.

  Vermont is so green, yet there is so much diesel. The irony.

  Melody: It’s five after eight. Just making sure you didn’t text and drive yourself into a tree.

  If I texted and drove myself into a tree, it would be the punishment I deserve for what I’ve caused in the past.

  I receive her text as I’m pulling into the parking lot of The Barrel House; which used to be a firehouse from a hundred years ago. Every year older Melody gets, the more she becomes Mom—a worrywart. Sometimes, she’s worse than Mom, and that concerns me for when she has kids someday. I thought the type of worry Mom carries like a suit of armor was due to having children, but Melody is proving otherwise.

  After pulling the key from the ignition, I thumb back a quick text.

  Me: Come open the back door. My hands are full.

  Melody: If your hands are full, how are you texting me?

  I throw my head back against my seat, rolling my eyes at my darling younger sister, who I adore more than life, but who drives me bonkers more often than not. With the coffees in hand, I kick my door closed behind me just as Melody pushes through the oversized metal door, creating a screeching moan that echoes between the surrounding trees.

  “You look pretty this morning,” she says.

  “You look like you had sex last night,” I reply.

  Melody raises a brow and grabs two of the coffees from my overfilled hands. “Don’t be crass,” she groans.

  I follow my sister out to the front of the bourbon shop where she seems to have cleared off on the back counter, most likely for the photoshoot. “I think we need a different spot. This won’t be the best place to capture the proper lighting.”

  “Thanks for the coffee,” Brett calls out from across the shop, holding his cup up with a cheerful smile—far too perky for eight in the morning.

  “Yup, definitely had sex last night,” I reply, loud enough for him to hear.

  Melody and Brett have finally decided that their teenage crush wasn’t just a teenage hormone issue and have rekindled a pubescent relationship. It’s still fairly new, but Brett is distracting her from pain, which I support. Plus, he’s a good guy, even though I won’t outwardly admit to it. He’s related to Brody—the real problem.

  Our families have been friends for longer than we can remember, and we saw them a fair amount while growing up, but we all went our own ways these last ten to fifteen years, then all found our way back to the town we vowed never to live in forever.

  “Journey, it’s always such a pleasure having you around Parker,” Brett utters, walking toward me.

  Parker. I spin into the opposite direction in search of Brett’s seven-year-old-daughter, finding her leaning against the front counter, reading a book.

  “Oh, hey, Parker,” I say, acting as if I didn’t say something completely inappropriate for a child’s ears.

  Parker places her finger down on a word, holding her spot, before glancing up at me. “Hi, Journey!”

  “What are you reading today?”

  “Still Charlotte’s Web. It’s a long book.”

  I grin and squat down in front of her. “Have you convinced your dad to get you a piglet yet?”

  Parker huffs and places her head back against the wooden wall of the counter. “He said no,” she whispers, “but I’m not giving up that easily.”

  “That-a-girl,” I reply, squeezing her shoulder.

  “So, where are we doing the shoot?” Brett asks.

  “Well, I cleared some space on the counter,” Melody calls out from the back room.

  “I need a corner and a little space,” I tell him. I have wooden box props and smooth vinyl backgrounds, which will make the setup more manageable, and quicker.

  “I’ll move the display of bottles near the window so you can use that space. Sound good?” Brett asks.

  “Perfect,” I tell him.

  It takes about twenty minutes to set up the area with the lighting and backdrops before I can begin test shooting. Without the chance to set the exposure before the first photo, the shop door chimes. I came here an hour before the opening to get this done before customers started coming in. I glance at my watch, finding it’s only eight-twenty-five. Why is the door even unlocked?

  I lean back and crane my neck around the display that was concealing my view of the entrance.

  Oh God. Give me a break.

  “Uncle Brody is in the house,” he shouts. “Here for Miss Parker Pearson, the youngest of the Pearson clan. Come on down: you just won a round-trip ticket to school by the one and only.”

  I guess his cockiness isn’t just for my sake. Maybe if I stay in this little corner, I can avoid an unneeded morning rendezvous with the bearded-grizzly.

  “Uncle Brody,” Parker chirps, standing up with her book. “Look who’s here this morning.” Parker ousts me like a kid playing dodgeball with a neon statue. She’s even pointing at me, making it more convenient for Brody to spot me.

  “Well, well, I thought vampires only emerged at night,” he says, walking toward me.

  “A vampire?” I retort, trying to sound unaffected by his attempt at teasing.

  “Well, a blood-thirsty chick roaming around the streets at night—what else am I supposed to think?”

  “Do you even know what blood-thirsty means?” I ask him, pressing my eye against the viewer of my camera.

  “If that guy didn’t walk away last night, there would have been blood,” he continues.

  “What guy?” Melody asks from behind Brody.

  “It was nothing. Just a job, and a horny restaurant owner. I’m fine. We’re all fine. I have to take these photos before the shop opens to the actual public.”

  “You s
houldn’t be going to those jobs at night by yourself,” Melody continues. “I thought you hired an assistant?”

  “Fired her. She didn’t show up a few times, and I don’t have time for that shit.”

  As I’m setting up the first display of bottles, Brody squats down beside me. “Are we still on for tonight?”

  “Still?” I question. “Interesting. It’s almost like you’re insinuating I agreed to go out with you. We both know this didn’t happen, so I will go with my initial answer and say, no, again.”

  “Come on, throw me a bone,” he says.

  “If I had one, I would, so you’d move out of my lighting.”

  Brody stands up and dips his hands into his back pocket. “You’re making this hard, Journey.”

  As much as I’d like to believe he meant that sexually, I’ve come to learn that Brody still doesn’t think before he speaks. Therefore, I do him the favor of staring up at his package. “If that’s hard, then my no is even harder.”

  Brody laughs. “That’s cute, but I assure you there is no mistaking my excessively large pride for a measly dog bone.” He knows his comeback is below par, and he’s scratching his chin as if trying to think of something to follow up with, but he falls short. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he mutters beneath his breath.

  “Always have been, always will be.”

  “Ready, Parker?” Brody calls over to her, clapping his hands together.

  Parker gives Brett a hug and a kiss before walking to her uncle’s side. “Have a good day, kiddo,” Brett tells her.

  I get a couple of photos shot when Melody plops down beside me. “I knew it,” she says, her voice sinister and full of unnecessary excitement.

  “You knew what?”

  “You and Brody ... that’s happening again.”

  “No,” I tell her. “It’s not, and you’re dating his brother. That’s ridiculous and weird.”