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

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “Journey,” I reply.

  Her eyes squint as if she’s trying to figure out what words to say next, but she doesn’t have to say a thing when her gaze skates across my lips. I have twenty seconds to take a hint or become kneed in the balls.

  I throw my arm around her waist and pull her into me, kissing her the way I kissed her that New Year’s Eve, with heat, need, desire, lust, and whatever else there is making me want to kiss her far longer than the fifteen seconds that are almost up. Journey loops her arms around my neck, and I lift her up, feeling a current of electricity spike down the center of my body when her legs wrap around my waist. I feel like whining when the machine beeps at the one-minute mark. I walk backward with her still attached to me, her lips still pressed into mine, and I slap the button several times before the damn thing turns off.

  I’m holding her tightly, like I can’t let go because I don’t want to. It feels like the connection I had with her fifteen years ago is back except twenty times stronger now, and yet, we don’t know each other like we used to. Can people change so much that emotions disconnect and become irreparable? We never admitted having feelings for each other. It was never supposed to happen. There wasn’t supposed to be a kiss. It just happened. Then, I wanted it to happen again, but she left and never came back.

  I’m afraid of the same thing happening again. I pull away, feeling like I can’t breathe. I lift her off me until she is standing on the floor. “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  She stares at me with wonder or question—maybe a little of both. “I don’t know,” she says.

  “Not much ever feels right to me, but—”

  “But, what?” I ask.

  Her gaze falls to the ground between us. “I’m not one of those people meant to fall into place inside someone else’s life.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t care enough about myself to have the ability to care about someone else, Brody.”

  8

  “I have to get going. I have a gig,” Journey says, peeling the coveralls off her shoulders. All I want to do is ask her when I can see her again, but she’s making things clear that whatever happens from here on out will be under her jurisdiction and control. Even if I play hard-to-get, she’ll drop me like a bad habit.

  “Where’s the gig?” I ask.

  “Texas or something. Can’t remember the city.”

  I tilt my head to the side, giving her a questioning look. “Texas,” I state rather than ask.

  Journey grins. “Don’t you ever just run off and forget about the rest of the world?”

  I shake my head. “No, can’t say I’ve done that.”

  “Bull,” she says. “You disappeared all those times when we were younger. I heard from someone that you ran away, and from someone else that you were in juvie.”

  I rest my hands on my hips, shifting my weight around in discomfort from listening to her mention the rumors she heard. I’ve heard them all. “Hopefully, you don’t believe everything you hear.” I try to extend the same courtesy to others, remembering all too well the rumors I’ve heard about her. I do know one rumor to be true though, due to the change of her last name. Still, I’m in no position to judge.

  “I believe only what I see,” she says. “But I do wonder if you’re the troublemaker everyone made you to be.”

  My gaze floats past her shoulder toward the back wall. “It depends on what you classify as trouble.”

  Journey takes a few steps closer to me, curiosity lighting up her eyes. “You must have been about sixteen when this so-called-trouble began. What happened?”

  A burning pit swells in my gut. “It’s a long story,” I say.

  She checks her watch and glances back up. “I have time.”

  “You just said you have a gig in Texas,” I remind her.

  “I can be late.”

  I wasn’t prepared to recall occurrences in my past today, nor do I have the desire to dive into the story. I appreciate her curiosity, but it’s too much. “I have to char at least fifty more barrels today,” I say, pointing over my shoulder.

  Journey drops her hands into her pocket and rolls back onto her heels. “There’s something dark and deeply rooted in that brain of yours, isn’t there?”

  “Speaking from experience?” I retort.

  “Definitely.”

  “Maybe we can chat about it over dinner,” I offer. Again. I’m doing my best to stifle the smirk pinching into my cheek. I know she’ll reject the offer again, but I keep trying to play fairly.

  She pinches at her bottom lip as if lost in thought. “Tonight?”

  Didn’t see that one coming. “Sure, I can make myself available tonight.” I think. I’ll see if someone can watch Hannah, but it shouldn’t be too hard.

  “I’m busy tonight,” she says.

  I run my hand down the side of my face. “You—” I then want to say something I’ll regret, so I stop myself.

  “How about Breaker Grill at seven?”

  “Tonight?” I question, confused since she just said she’s busy tonight.

  “Yes, I just said I was busy tonight, didn’t I?”

  My God. “Busy having dinner with me. I get it now. You’re slick, Fireball.”

  I haven’t called her Fireball since we were kids. It just came out as if it was the most natural response in the world.

  Journey runs her fingers through her hair as if remembering the bright, gingery color her hair used to be. She pulls at the coarse ends of my beard. “Shave.”

  “I don’t take kindly to demands,” I say.

  “It isn’t a demand. It’s a proposition.”

  With a light slap against my cheek, she smiles. “See you tonight, Brody.” With that, she turns on her heels and as if she were four hundred pounds, storms out of the warehouse, leaving an echo of her steps behind. She is like one of those tornadoes that appear out of nowhere, without warning, leaving a trail of damage behind and disappearing as fast as it arrived.

  A proposition. What is that supposed to mean?

  She’s expecting a story over dinner tonight, wondering about the reason for my disappearing act between the age of sixteen and eighteen. It isn’t a story I want to tell. It’s always been a coverup I haven’t shared with anyone. Every excuse I’ve told has been a fictional account of the truth. I’m the reason for the rumors, but sometimes crappy lies are better than ugly truths.

  There’s a chance that having my license before most of my friends isn’t as exciting as I thought it would be. I’ve turned into a glorified taxi driver of sorts, and I’m certain Mom and Dad aren’t happy about how many miles I’ve been putting on this old beater. That and I tend to bend the rules when I shouldn’t be playing with them at all. I’m lucky they let me use the car.

  Tonight, is the first night I’ve been in bed before midnight all week, and I’m staring at my damn pager buzzing on my nightstand with 9-1-1. I think I need to have a chat with Pete about using 9-1-1. This is the second time in two weeks and my curfew ended two hours ago.

  There’s no way I’m getting out of this house tonight. Dad doesn’t go to bed until one most nights and he’s probably sitting in the living room watching some criminal documentary.

  I could try to sneak out the window, but the last time I did that, I broke my leg after missing the ladder. All the signs point to staying put.

  But the messages keep coming with 9-1-1.

  I tear the covers off my bed and drop my feet to the comfort of the plush carpet covering the floor. I don’t even want to go anywhere, but something must be seriously wrong with Pete. I feel around for my phone and grab the receiver, punching in the number to Pete’s pager. I send him a page with the number one, telling him I’m on my way. Somehow.

  Sure enough, Dad is sitting up, wide awake, watching Dateline. “What are you doing up still? I thought you went to bed a couple hours ago.”

  “I was in bed, but—”

  He spots the pager in my hand. “Is someone d
rinking at a party?” he asks.

  “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

  “What’s wrong?” Dad continues.

  “It’s Pete. This is the second time he’s paged me with 9-1-1 in the last couple of weeks. Last time, he was having trouble with his folks. I guess they’re going through a divorce or something, but it seemed like something else was going on too.”

  Dad scratches at the scruff on his chin, staring past me. “Hmm.”

  “I will not be able to sleep unless I know what’s going on,” I say.

  “Did you try calling his house?”

  “It’s after midnight,” I remind him. Not that it matters to Pete, obviously, but his parents might not agree.

  Dad glances down at his watch. “Brody, you’re not legally supposed to be driving at this hour. You just got your license.”

  “What if he’s hurt?”

  Dad presses his hands into his armchair and groans as he stands up. “I’m following you. I’ll stay far enough behind to give you space. But, if this isn’t something important, you need to set some ground rules with him.”

  “I was planning too,” I tell Dad.

  “Give me a minute,” he says.

  I walk out the front door and hop in my car, waiting for Dad to grab whatever he needed so he can follow me. As I’m waiting, the pager goes off again. This time the message is: 44 55 73 22

  Shit. This will not go over well.

  Dad walks out the door and unlocks his truck. I crank my window down and pop my head out. “You’re not going to like this,” I say.

  “What now?” Dad says.

  “He’s at this place near the bay. It’s a place kids from school go.” The fewer details about Razor’s Edge, the better.

  Dad runs his fingers over his bottom lip. I can see he’s becoming frustrated. “So, he has been partying. That’s what it sounds like.”

  “I don’t know.” Pete doesn’t party too much or at all, really. “It’s not like him to go to a party without mentioning it to me.”

  Dad shakes his head and sits down in his truck. This is great. Parents shouldn’t know about this spot and I’m voluntarily taking my dad to the parking area. Who knows if he’ll insist on following me into the woods too. I’m bigger than Dad is so I don’t think there’s much of an argument of him protecting me from whatever the hell might be going on in the woods except for a bunch of drunken teens.

  Thankfully, it doesn’t take long to get there since I live closer to Razor’s Edge than Pete does. I don’t know how he got here because there aren’t any other cars, which means there isn’t a party.

  I step out of the car, praying Dad stays put. I hold my hand up to him, signaling to give me a minute. I can’t see much because of his headlights, but his truck door opens.

  “Razor’s Edge, huh?” Dad says, knowingly.

  “You know this place?”

  “Brodes, I grew up here, son. I may be an old man now, but I was a teen once too. That’s a long walk in the dark,” he says.

  “I’m fine,” I reply.

  “Take this flashlight, please,” he says. He blinks the light on and off, so I see he’s holding it behind the glare of his headlights. I don’t know why Dad is being so understanding tonight, but I owe him big time for this.

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll be back in a few.”

  With the help of the flashlight, I’m able to run down the paths toward the inlet. It takes me a minute to see Pete sitting on top of the tower, a place he’d never dare go alone. Maybe he had some girl up there and now he’s panicking about coming down.

  I flash my light at him. “I’m coming up,” I shout.

  He doesn’t respond.

  It takes all the energy I have to storm up hundreds of steps, reaching him without an ounce of oxygen left in my lungs. “Dude, what’s going on?”

  Pete doesn’t seem fazed that I just broke the law, irritated my dad, hiked through the dark woods and climbed almost three hundred steps at around one in the morning because he sent me an emergency message.

  “You’re a good friend, Brody,” Pete says.

  “Whatever, it’s fine, but why are you up here?”

  “You know how everyone in life seems to have a purpose?”

  I don’t understand the depth of his question. We’re sixteen. Who the heck knows what ‘purpose’ even means right now? “Sure, I guess.”

  “Mine is to be mentally abused by my parents while they take their shitty anger out on me, night after night. That’s my purpose, Brody.”

  I take a seat beside him, watching his legs swing back and forth. “Where are your shoes?”

  “Don’t need them,” he says.

  It’s like forty-five degrees right now, and the water is probably thirty. “Why don’t you need your shoes, man?”

  “What’s the purpose of being a beating bag?” he continues. “To take the punches so someone else doesn’t have to?”

  His voice has a robotic sound, like his brain isn’t contributing to the words he’s speaking. “This is your parents’ deal, not yours, bro. You can’t take this all on your shoulders.”

  “You don’t understand,” Pete says.

  He’s right. My parents have a good marriage. They hardly ever argue, but it isn’t like Pete needs to be a prisoner in their home forever. We’re going to college in a couple of years. “I’m sure I don’t, but this crap is temporary. You know that right?”

  “Yeah, Pete says, it is temporary.” He pulls himself up to his bare feet, holding the wooden bearing to his left. His knees are shaking.

  “Dude, back away from the edge. It’s dark and you’re too close.”

  “Brody, I can’t do this anymore, bro. I’m sorry.” The words don’t resonate fast enough in my brain for me to comprehend what he is saying until he takes one step forward.

  9

  It’s seven and I’m parked at Breaker Grill, but I don’t see Journey’s Jeep. I’m questioning if she told me to meet her or pick her up, but I’m quite sure I would have made a better mental note of it if she told me to pick her up.

  Maybe she’s the type who likes to make an entrance—it wouldn’t surprise me.

  I lean back into my chair and reach for my phone to see if I have any missed messages or calls. One text from the last person I want to hear from.

  Shithead Ex-Wife: Don’t forget Hannah’s backpack this time.

  The last time was Thanksgiving break, and she didn’t need her damn backpack. I love when Kristy acts like the mother of the year after leaving her daughter in another state so she could go be with her pubescent boyfriend.

  Tomorrow will be a half day of driving back and forth to Connecticut, and I’m not looking forward to it, just as I dread the weekend trips once every three weeks. Thankfully, I only have to drive halfway, but Kristy is the one who should make the trek the entire way back and forth since she’s the one who moved away.

  It’s seven-ten. Come, Journey. Don’t stand me up. I compose a text to send her, hoping she doesn’t fly into the parking lot the second the message goes through.

  Me: You said seven at Breaker Grill, right?

  It only takes a second to see the message was delivered and read.

  Journey: Oh shit.

  Funny.

  Me: You didn’t forget.

  Journey: You didn’t shave.

  I look in the rearview mirror and run my hand down the side of my beard. How does she know?

  Me: You wouldn’t know.

  Journey: That’s what you think.

  I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and shove the gear in reverse. If she doesn’t want to come to me, I will go to her. This is the game we’re playing, and I will not let her win every move.

  A thick fog fills the back roads to her apartment. It’s warm and muggy for this time of year.

  My phone has been buzzing on the seat but if I take my eyes off the road, I’ll end up wrapped around a tree and since I have a daughter to take care of, I will ignore whatever words J
ourney is likely throwing at me.

  It takes about twenty minutes before I pull into the parking lot behind her building, finding an empty spot next to her Jeep. At least I know she’s here, not that makes me feel that much better since she blew off our date.

  Just as I take the turn into the open space, my headlights frame her body. I slam on the brakes as she pulls her arm up across her forehead from the blinding light. What the—?

  I lift the gear into park and hop out. “What are you doing on the ground next to your Jeep?” I could have observed the scene for an additional two seconds before asking a stupid question, but I don’t think before I speak.

  “I must have hit a nail today,” she says.

  She didn’t stand me up. Who would have thought?

  “Damn. It looks like you ran over a butcher knife. The tire is gone, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she says as she cranks the jack she has in place. A woman who can change a flat. I like.

  “Want me to get the spare off the back while you get the flat off?”

  Journey glances up at me and stares for a long second. I made sure not to ask her to step aside because I’m learning quickly, she is capable of handling most things on her own and she finds a man’s offer to help offensive rather than kind. She reaches down below her knee and hands me the lug-nut wrench. “Thanks,” she says.

  I know this is probably obnoxious, but I’m enjoying watching her sweat as she works her ass off changing the flat. Kristy couldn’t even pump her own damn gas because the scent of gasoline made her gaggy. This is a pleasant change.

  “Want to make sure the nuts are tight?” Journey asks, pointing at the tire.